Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I cannot even fathom sleeping. Not when I know what the day brings. Prim up for reaping again, a President set on punishing Peeta and I, it doesn’t take a genius to know that the odds are not in Prim’s favor.

She was only in once last year, and they pulled her name all the same. That’s what started all of this after all. But this year, she’s in there twice and I cannot volunteer for her if the worst should happen again. It makes sense that they’d take her, make me mentor her. They’d done it before. I remember when I was a kid, two siblings won the Games back to back. I think they were from District 1, maybe, definitely one of the career districts.

Making me mentor Prim, would be my absolute worst nightmare, a clear, direct reminder I am entirely beholden to Snow, that he can and will punish me and anyone I love for stepping out of line.

It would certainly make great viewing for the sycophants in the Capitol. They’d love the great tragedy of it all. The dark twist of fate, the sister I volunteered for, the sister I fought and survived for. After all that, I still couldn't save her from the Games. What a message to Panem. What a message to me.

It makes me wonder what the brother from District 1 did to piss Snow off enough to send his sister in after him. I’ve noticed over the years that Victor’s children are reaped at a much higher rate than seems probable. It's why I don’t want children, even if Peeta and I haven’t spoken about it, I know I’ll hold off as long as I can. Though I’m sure that’s just one more choice Snow will take from me.

How long will he let us live in supposed newlywed bliss before he pressures us into children, or just forcing us to have them through some cruel Capitol Medicine or by another threat to our families? The idea immediately sends me into a panic.

The only thing that pulls me out of it is Prim shifting in her sleep in the bed next to me. I’ve done everything I can in the last year subtly to prepare her. I convinced her to join the track team at school, taken her out into the woods with me to identify as many safe plants as I can and show her how to set snares, the latter of which she hated every second of and was in tears upon the first discovery of a caught squirrel. She is too good, too gentle for this. They can’t take her! They just can’t!

So instead of getting a good night’s rest, I lay awake in bed, Prim tucked safely into my side as I stare out the open window. Watching with rising dread as the sky changes from black to dark blue to lilac to pink to Peeta’s favorite shade of orange before that light familiar blue appears and we have no option left but to rise.

I dress in the clothes Cinna sent along. A pair of black trousers, a white long-sleeve collared shirt with a slight flare to the sleeves, a simple black vest, and a pair of surprisingly comfortable heeled black boots. Gone are the little girl dresses, the bright colors, the flowy materials, the glitter and embroidery, and in their place something that feels much more me and much more powerful. Someone influential, someone in charge, a Mentor.

I attempt to apply the very minimal makeup my prep team trusts me with on my own. It doesn’t do much but the dark circles under my eyes are slightly less noticeable and the mascara draws the attention to my “best feature” as they always describe my eyes.

I let my mother pull the front pieces of my hair back, leaving half of my waves flowing down my back. She uses the cream my prep team had sent along after the Victory Tour that kept my hair sleek and neat in the humidity of Eleven and Four. On a day like today; it is certainly needed.

When I first laid my eyes on the clothes I had been worried about the summer heat. But now that they were on, I’m surprised to find that the material is a lot lighter than it looks. I’ll be warm in full pants and sleeves but I won’t overheat. No, if I fall faint under the summer sun today it can only be blamed on my sister’s inevitable name drawing.

As my mother tucks the last strand of hair into its place, I hear a knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” She states, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Help your sister, please?”

I nod once and follow her out of my room, turning down to Prim’s at the end of the hall. Cinna had sent her a simple pink dress along with my clothes. She had told him how much she loved the color when I wore it in District 1. Apparently he had ordered extra fabric and made her something of her own. The pale pink complemented her fair complexion and blonde locks better than it ever had my olive skin and dark waves. I make sure to tell her exactly this as I worked her comb through her hair, using a dash of the Capitol hair cream in hers as well. As I finish, she meets my eyes in the looking glass of her vanity, “Do you have your pin?” She asks.

“Of course.” I tell her, setting her brush down to lift the fabric of my vest, revealing where I’ve hidden the token under it. The Capitol may not want to be reminded of my rebellious actions in last year's Games and the way the symbol has become associated with them, but I couldn’t go back there without it.

“Good. It will bring you favor, keep you safe.” Prim declares smiling proudly at me. I do everything I can to choke down the rising grief and anxiety that’s quickly closing around my throat. I can’t let her see me scared, see my fear for her. It will only make her worry. Unfortunately, I must be just as bad of an actor as I was last year because she’s suddenly rising to her feet and wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug. “It’s going to be ok, Katniss.” She promises me, sounding so sure and so much wiser than her thirteen years.

The quiet voices of my mother and our guest break our moment of shared comfort. “Peeta’s here.” Prim realizes, recognizing the smooth timbre of his deep voice as it echoes up the stairs. “Come on, your fiancé is waiting.” She teases me, slipping her hand in mine and pulling me out into the hall and all the way down the stairs. Her hand grips mine until she deposits me in front of Peeta before slipping away into the kitchen.

He’s smiling, a wide kind smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. In our months together, I’ve learned to parse which of his smiles are genuine and which are for show. This one is for show. There’s a sadness behind the sapphire of his eyes, the same anticipatory grief that characterized my own when I looked in the mirror this morning. “Good Morning Katniss.” He speaks in that soft, soothing, voice he seems to reserve for so few. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you. So do you.” I answer back stiffly. It’s the truth though, Portia has dressed him in black trousers that fit him well, with a wide enough leg to hang comfortably around his prosthetic. A boxy black jacket lays over a simple white button up, emphasizing his broad shoulders. He has left the top two buttons of the shirt undone, leaving just a peak at his sturdy chest under the light material. He stands tall, several inches taller than he was a year ago, his curls falling casually over his forehead. As usual, he wears the clothes better than me. I feel good in what Cinna has put me in. But Peeta, in our stylist’s clothes, is always something else. He looks confident, powerful, commanding, like a Victor.

“I brought Cheese Buns.” He states, breaking my careful examination of him in our entryway.

“You know me very well!” I answer, feeling the nerves ease just slightly at the offer.

“I try.” He jests. “I thought you’d be hunting this morning.”

“I thought about it.” I admit. “But with all the peacekeepers and Capitol folks around, and us being under somewhat considerable observation right now, I thought it best to stay in this morning.”

“Probably for the best.” He agrees. “I’d hate for my fiancée to be dragged to the stocks on the morning we’re supposed to be heading back to the Capitol.”

Immediately, the air between us becomes tense at the reminder of what today is about. In only a few hours the lives of two terrified young people, one of them likely my sister, will be thrust into our hands. We will be forced to bring them far from the only home they’ve ever known to the Snake’s Nest that is the Capitol and prepare them for the single most traumatizing experience either of us have ever been through, one both of us only barely survived.

Suddenly, I have the insurmountable urge to be wrapped in his arms, always so strong and steady as they pull me from my nightmares. I wish more than anything that this was just another one of those. So I do what I always do when I have nightmares and he’s this close, I step forward and wrap my arms tightly around his waist, pressing my cheek against his chest. Unfortunately, the feel of him against me is all too real and I have to confront the fact that I won’t be waking up in my bed from this horror soon.

He stumbles back a touch at the momentum of my embrace before instinctively wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “It’s going to be ok, Katniss.” He attempts to soothe, resting his cheek on the brow of my head.

“How has Haymitch done this alone for 20 years?” I whisper against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I…I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “Luckily, we won’t ever have to find out.” He pulls me tighter to his chest, his heartbeat sounding rhythmically against my ear. “We’ll always have each other Katniss. That’s the one bit of solace we have, we never have to do this alone.”

“We’ll just have to hold on to it tight then.” I murmur.

“Yes, we’ll have just have to hold on to it and each other as tight as we can.” He agrees, and I can feel him smile against my head. “We have each other. It’s going to be ok.”

“Kids?” My mother’s voice calls from the kitchen. “These buns are getting cold!”

We separate at the sound of her voice and walk wordlessly into the kitchen, taking our usual seats at the counter as my mother places a bun on each of our plates. I pick lightly at it, only barely managing to finish one where usually I eat no less than two. I can tell Peeta notices but I am grateful when he doesn’t mention it. He knows it wouldn’t help things, only make me upset with him and that's the last thing either of us want today.

We watch the clock. They want Peeta and I at the Justice Building earlier than the rest so when the clock shows 12:30; we rise solemnly from our chairs. “We have to head out now.” I state to my mother and sister. “Are you going to come with us or head over soon?”

My mother makes to answer but is beaten to it by Prim. “We’ll go with you.” She states assuredly, sliding off her own chair to run up the stairs and grab her shoes.

The three of us sit in silence, waiting for her to return.

“Katniss?” My mother's speaks up, the quiet pleading in her voice revealing that she has come to the same conclusion as me about Prim’s chances today.

“It's going to be ok Asterid.” Peeta attempts to reassure. It feels weird to hear him call her by her first name but since we had gotten engaged, she has made a real effort to be more accepting and friendly towards him, including encouraging him to stop with the Mrs. Everdeen.

The rhythmic sound of Prim’s shoes on the stairs, another gift from Cinna, breaks the tense air. As beautiful as ever, she’s dressed much nicer than anything we could have dreamed to possess a year ago, we all are. Even my mother is wearing a simple blue dress she made with fabric we could only have been able to afford with my winnings.

On our way out, Peeta attempts to knock on Haymitch’s door, intending to invite him to join us on the mile walk to the square. Apparently, he was only just beginning to get ready, but if the muffled argument I could have hear through the screen door it seems more likely our Mentor is only just now pulling himself from his hungover stupor.

So instead, as a group of four we begin the long walk to the Justice Building. When we arrive, I give Prim one last hug, and a kiss to her brow, before her and my mother leave to get in line to sign in. To my surprise, Prim gives Peeta a quick hug too before they head off. It leaves Peeta and I truly alone for the first time all morning. I grip his hand tightly in mine and pull him into the hidden alley that caught my eye on our walk up to the back entrance.

“It’s going to be Prim.” My words frantically tumble out as soon as we’re out of earshot of anyone in view.

“What do you mean?” He asks me, voice steady in that calming, soothing, tone he falls into when he can tell I’m panicked.

“Prim. They are going to reap Prim! To punish me for everything that’s happened.” I repeat, my breath beginning to become ragged.

He watches me, silently. His free hand comes up gently cupping my cheek, thinking carefully over his words. “If that happens, Katniss, we will do everything we can to save her. All of us, me, Haymitch, Effie, Cinna, Portia, everyone! I swear it!” He promises. “But its also very possible it won’t be her! I hate to say this but they might not reap her because it means they have one more person to hold over us. That is a very bold hand to play and remember what he said at the end of the tour. We have helped ease things, a bit. We have continued to play their game, we are continuing the Star-Crossed Lovers narrative, we’ve gotten engaged. I don’t see him playing that hand right now. I won’t rule it out as a possibility someday but I don’t think that will be today.”

I throw myself into his arms once more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today, I’m never this touchy with him. I’ll have to blame it on the heightened anxiety of the day. But I am grateful to him for not brushing it off as a possibility, we both know it is, and he knows me well enough to know my anxiety won’t be eased by him denying it.

“Hello lovebirds!” A high Capitol accent calls.

“Effie.” I murmur in his neck, before pulling back.

“Good morning, Effie.” Peeta acknowledges first, turning to our escort at the end of the alley. Today, our escort is dressed in a bright lavender wig and matching magenta jacket and skirt. Not as audacious as she wore while on the Victory Tour but still overwhelmingly Capitol.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but we are all needed inside.” She speaks, seemingly genuinely apologetic to cut into the apparently romantic moment.

“Ok Effie.” I finally speak, choking down the rising tears. “We’ll be right in.”

We watch Effie hurry off back towards the Justice Building. My eyes catch his once more and too my surprise he leans forward and places a soft kiss to my cheek.

“I’m here Katniss.” He whispers, squeezing my hand in his, his thumb fiddling with the large engagement ring on my finger. “Always.”

All I can do is nod once as I get choked up once more. I can’t help but cling to his faith in the day, in Prim’s safety, in me. No matter what happens today we’re going to do it together.

An hour later after several less-than-subtle comments from Effie about the still visible dark circles under my eyes, we are marched onto the stage and guided to a pair of seats next to Mayor Undersee and a more sober than normal Haymitch. I grip Peeta’s hand in mine, resting our intertwined fingers on my lap. It will be good for the cameras in the Capitol, sure, but it's also keeping me from drowning in my panic.

The mayor rises as soon as the clock strikes two. As always, he reads the History of Panem, then the list of District 12 Victors, twice as long as it was this time last year. I see the cameras settle on Peeta and I. I manage to offer a tight smile and he leans over to place a quick kiss to my head for the people watching at home, when they read off our names.

Then Effie rises from her seat and makes her way to the microphone. My heart leaps into my throat and I squeeze Peeta’s hand in my lap impossibly tighter.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Her voice echoes across the square. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.” She begins her standard spiel, going on and on about how honored she is to be there, then it's time for the drawing. “As always, ladies first.” She calls. Crossing the stage her hand dips into the bowl and she makes a point of digging around through the names before plucking one free. With that too-white smile she seals a child’s fate, “And the female tribute from District 12 is…Mira Belle!”

I let out a sharp gasp. It’s not Prim. She’s safe for another year. It’s not Prim. I repeat in my mind, trying to convince myself it's real.

“See. Not Prim.” Peeta whispers against my hair.

I’m able to bask in the relief of her safety for only a few moments because that’s when I see who this Mira Belle is. A small, clearly young girl, no older than 13 or 14, approaches the stage. The square falls silent, an added weight falling over us all as it always does when a tribute so young is reaped. She has dark hair and wide brown eyes, likely from the Seam. She manages to keep herself from crying, her face falling stoic, but her eyes remain distant and glassy. She climbs the steps on, soft, delicate, feet and her eyes meet mine for just a moment. I can read the desperate pleading in them, the fear. I can’t stop myself from giving her a small half-smile and as most reassuring of a nod as I can.

“Congratulations!” Effie calls and my stomach twists. “And now the boys!”

The panic shoots back up in my throat as I look out across the boy's half of the square. Gale has aged out this year but the second eldest, Rory, is still very much eligible and he’s taken the tesserae necessary for his family, meaning he’s in there at least 9 times. I can’t find him in the sea of dark hair and gray seam eyes but I know he’s there. Peeta’s brothers have both aged out of the reaping so I know they’ll be safe and watching from the crowd with his parents.

Effie repeats the same movements as she did with the girls, digging around until she finds the perfect name, plucking it from deep within. Returning to the microphone, it's Peeta who squeezes my hand first this time. Perhaps remembering this exact moment last year when it was his name they called.

“The male tribute from District 12 is…Owen Sparrow.” Effie announces across the silent square. For a moment no one moves and then a mop of dark curls begins to shove itself through the crowd. The first thing I notice about him are those piercing gray seam eyes. He is young, but they all are young. Maybe 15 or even 16 like Peeta and I were. He’s tall and appears just as malnourished as all the children of the seam but not starved like the worst of them. He’s angry but carries himself with a quiet, almost defiant, power as he marches his way up the stairs to the stage in sturdy, well-worn, black boots.

We listen to the Mayor read off the Treaty of Treason; they play the anthem, and then the Peacekeepers usher our charges past us and into the Justice Building. The girl looks at us desperate, pleading, as the tears finally spill down her cheeks. The boy, well, he just looks betrayed, angry, like we personally put him in this position.

Peeta, Haymitch, and I are guided off the stage and into the Justice Building as well. Effie flouncing up behind us to guide us to the car ready to take us to the train. No hour of goodbyes this time from heartbroken and desperate friends and family, not for us. Instead, just a swift pace to the back exit and into the truck. Technically, we’re guaranteed to return to Twelve when this is all finished. The question that remains is really how many coffins will be making the return with us.

Chapter Text

Everyone in Panem knows who Katniss Everdeen is. The infamous Girl on Fire. One half of the so-called Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12. The brilliant archer, an underdog from an underfed district who volunteered for the Games to protect her sister and emerged against the odds as the Valiant Victor.

Even before she volunteered for her sister last year, Katniss Everdeen was a known entity in District 12, especially to the kids from the Seam. The girl who snuck into the woods with that Hawthorne kid every week to hunt and collect fruit and herbs. At least, half of the Seam had eaten one of her trades and catches over the last few years.

But she never came by the Community House, we had nothing to trade for her catches, so I never got to meet her. Not before the Games and certainly not after. She played the Capitol like a fiddle, got to keep her life, her sister, her lover and now she gets to live a life of luxury and riches and leave us all in the Seam behind. I can’t blame her, I wouldn’t go back, and after today, well, it seems I never will.

When the cameras at the platform finally have their pictures, the Capitol woman, Effie Trinket gently shoves us onto the sleek silver train. The moment our feet hit the carpeted floor, the doors close behind us and we are moving away from Twelve. Away from the Seam, from the Community House, from the witches that run it, the poverty, and starvation, the senseless beatings, and the dead-end future where I inevitably die in the mines.

No. Instead, I’ll die in whatever cruel arena the Gamemakers have crafted for us this year. How will it end for me? The blood bath? A knife thrown by some career with perfect aim? An expert archer like my new mentor? Or something worse, a horrific muttation? Starvation? Dehydration? I can feel myself getting angrier by the minute as this clueless Capitol woman raves about the luxury of the train, how we all get our own rooms and bathrooms, and the showers finally have this fragrant water feature that’s all the rage in the Capitol. Cause that’s really what I care about right now, lady, whether I want to smell like roses or peppermint.

She drops us off at our rooms and tells us to take a few moments for ourselves. Apparently, we have an hour until dinner, but are welcome to head down to the end of the train whenever we’re ready. With that declaration she leaves me alone, only a choking cloud of lavender left in her wake.

Well, if I’m going to die in the forthcoming weeks I might as well take advantage of the amenities. Wouldn’t want to offend their sensitive Capitol refinement with my brutish savage District 12 ways. So I take a shower, my first ever, and just enjoy the ease of the hot water. On my very luckiest of days, the best I could get at the community house was a temperate, unused bath in the basin I outgrew at 10. So this…this is new. I do, however, decide to steer far clear of the scented options when they pop up on the screen for selection; I don’t need to sell myself out completely just yet.

When I finally step out of the seemingly never-ending hot water, the entire bathroom is full of steam and even through the fogged glass I can see my skin is red from the heat. I grasp blindly until I find a towel through the haze and return to the bedroom. I discover a large closet at one end of the space, packed full of clothes, finer than anything I’ve ever owned. A part of me wants to put my reaping clothes back on, the worn trousers and ill-fitting shirt passed down to me from several previous boys of the home. But then again, as I run my fingers over the material in the closet I can’t help but pull out a few items just to look at closer. What’s the harm in trying them on?

Much to my surprise they fit. Or at least fit better than most of the clothes I left behind in my trunk at the Community Home. How long will it take them to fill that bed? How quick until the other boys in the room lay claim to the few belongings that are truly mine.

I mourn the only two photos of my mother in existence. One a portrait, with her long dark waves, the silver eyes she passed on to me, crinkled at the edges as she smiles wide enough to show all her teeth. The other, taken on a different day, that same smile, proud as she wraps her arms around her swelling bump. The only photo of my mother and I ever taken. The person behind the lens is as much a mystery as everything else surrounding my mother and my birth. A mystery that is certainly serving as kindling at this very moment.

Suddenly, the thought of putting my dirty old clothes back on is inconceivable. If I’m finally going to meet the legendary Katniss Everdeen, I might as well look my best.

I select a pair of dark trousers and a simple white button up, the fabric impossibly soft. Fighting my curls into a somewhat presentable manner I emerge from the room to find my mentors. As Effie suggested, I move all the way to the back of the train. Hearing muffled, bickering, voices behind the door I decide I’ve found the place, sliding the heavy metal door open to reveal the three living Victors of District 12.

Haymitch Abernathy is reclining on a couch in the corner, seemingly arguing across the large space with Peeta Mellark sat at the central dining table, one arm casually thrown over the empty chair to his left.

However, it’s Katniss Everdeen who is the first to notice my arrival. She leans against a bar cart against the wall, arms crossed over her chest as if she’s bored by the entire day. When suddenly, those now infamous silver eyes descend on me. The color isn’t necessarily rare amongst the gray and brown of the Seam, but there’s something more fascinating in the particular shade of her irises. Their sharpness holds an extra ferocity that is entirely unique, how fitting for the so-called "Girl on Fire”. I can see now why the Capitol hosts fawned over this feature throughout last year's Games.

“Hello, Owen.” Her voice speaks, silencing Peeta and Haymitch’s row as they respectively turn their attention to me as well.

“Um…hi.” I squeak out under the weight of their shared gaze.

Peeta rises from the table then, crossing the room to greet me. “Hello, Owen.” He begins. “I’m Peeta Mellark, I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” He introduces himself, offering me a small, almost pitying, smile and his hand. I take it in mine and shake it once.

“I’m Katniss Everdeen.” His fiancée declares as she steps up, reaching out to shake my hand as well. “And that’s Haymitch Abernathy.” She introduces the older victor on the couch with a dismissive hand in his direction.

All the old drunk offers in acknowledgement is a raise of his glass and a simple “Owen.”

“Are you hungry?” Peeta asks. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes. Effie had to call ahead to the Capitol about something and she was planning to collect you both on her way back.”

“Oh, well, I’ve spared her a stop.” I comment flatly.

“She won’t mind.” Peeta casually brushes off. “Please, take a seat.”

“Have a drink!” Haymitch calls.

“Haymitch.” Katniss scolds. “He’s a kid.”

“He stopped being a kid the moment they pulled his name. This may be your first year but its not mine!” Haymitch taunts.

I watch with first confusion and then impressed awe as Katniss Everdeen marches determinedly across the room to the older mentor. Without a lick of hesitation, she wrenches the full amber glass from his hand and hits a button on the wall, making one of the wide rear windows open.. Before Haymitch can offer much more than a shocked, indignant “Hey!” Katniss throws his drink clear from the car, the loud roar of the wind whipping by the speeding train drowning out the sound of its inevitable shatter on the tracks behind us.

“See, this is why no one likes you.” Haymitch snaps incredulously once she’s resealed the windows and he no longer has to yell over the din.

“Peeta does.” She answers with a smirk marching back to her fiancé’s chair, her hands resting on his shoulders in emphasis of her point.

“Peeta’s blinded by your pretty eyes and ability to keep him alive.” The older man spits back from his place on the couch.

“Enough.” Peeta chastises. “Both of you behave. We have a guest.”

“Apologies…Owen.” Katniss offers with a harmless eye roll Peeta cannot see. “Please take a seat.” She requests gesturing to one of the open chairs at the ornate dining table. I shuffle myself to take the chair she’s indicated as the room falls into silence.

“Will you tell us about yourself?” She asks, settling herself in the chair directly across from me, which her fiance has pulled out for her.

“Um…ok. My…my…name is Owen Sparrow.” I stutter out.

“Are you a Seam kid? You look it but I don’t think I know any Sparrows?” Katniss interrupts, her fingers fiddling, absentmindedly, with the large engagement ring on her finger.

“I’m the only one.” I admit, my eyes drawn to the huge gemstones on her hand. Even one of those stones could feed half the Seam for years, and here three are just resting casually on her hand. “I…my mother passed when I was a newborn, complications with the birth I think. I grew up in the community home.”

“I see.” She answers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” Is the only thought I can muster in response. I resist the urge to draw attention to the tarnished silver chain around my neck, upon which sits the last token of Madeline Sparrow I still have in my possession. I have no clue who my father was, I have nothing of his. Not his name, not his features, not some token of remembrance, or hazy memory of his voice, nothing. As far as I’m aware the man doesn’t exist. I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

“And how old are you Owen?” Peeta interjects, tripping up my racing thoughts and breaking through the awkward grief-laden tension rapidly filling the space

“15.” I reply, flatly. Something about the earnestness in his blue eyes ticks me off. I can’t pinpoint why, maybe the pity-filled smile he offered upon my arrival has turned my stomach to him already. Maybe it’s years of high-and-mighty merchant kids jabs and insults scratching away in the back of my mind. I’m not given the chance to ponder it fully before the too chipper voice of our Capitol escort echoes through the opening door.

“Ahhh, here you are!” Effie Trinket calls upon seeing me at the table, my District partner slipping silently through the door behind her. “Perfect! Just in time for supper. Haymitch, will you be joining us or will you be keeping to a strictly liquid diet this trip?”

“He’ll be joining us.” Katniss answers for him. “Won’t you, Haymitch.”

“Whatever you say, Girl on Fire.” He snarks but rises to his feet from the couch regardless, meandering his way first to the bar cart for a fresh spirit and then to the empty chair to my right. Effie guides Mira to my left, across from Peeta who offers her the same faux-sympathetic smile he gave me upon my arrival.

“Ahem…” Effie clears her throat, lifting her glass in a toast. “I’d like us to all cheers to this thrilling experience we’re embarking on.”

I catch Katniss scoff at our escorts words; her face twisting in anger as she prepares to voice this fury. I’m sure Effie would be thankful then that Peeta speaks first, his hand instinctively shifting from the back of Katniss’ chair, fingertips reaching around to brush her shoulder. Her fire visibly quenches in response, her eyes softening as she sinks back into her chair and his light touch. That scowl though, that doesn’t seem to have any intentions of slipping away soon.

“Why don’t we all get something to eat in us first Effie, before we start with the toasts. I’m sure the kids are hungry after such a long day.” Peeta suggests.

Katniss having calmed enough of her ire adds, “Besides why don’t we give them the full rundown of everything that they can expect and then let them decide how thrilling it all sounds for themselves, yeah?”

“So let’s go over what the next few days will be.” Peeta broaches before Effie has the chance to respond. As he does, the first course arrives, a large bowl of some kind of thick orange soup. “Tomorrow we’ll arrive in the Capitol, there you will meet your prep teams. They will run you through a barrage of rather unnecessary beauty treatments…”

“They are not unnecessary!” Effie argues. “The people of the Capitol would pay quite a bit of money to get to have the full prep team experience.”

“Then once they’re done, the District 12 stylists, Cinna and Portia…” Peeta continues, a fond smile crossing his face as he ignores Effies warbling.

“Who are lovely!” Katniss interjects, lifting a spoonful of the steaming liquid to her lips. I watch her as she does and finally choke down enough of my panic to do the same.

Mira seems to enjoy the food though, taking small spoonfuls over and over again into her mouth. She’s already half emptied her bowl by the time I’ve even gotten a taste. It’s rich and smooth as it slides down my throat and so so warm. I can feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in my soul burning away at a cavernous cold buried deep within, unshakeable after fourteen freezing winters and just as many years of malnutrition.

“Do you like the soup?” Katniss asks softly, looking us both over with a soft optimism, having noticed our clear wonderment at the dish.

“It’s very good.” Mira speaks for the first time, her voice quiet and shy as she answers our mentor. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh please, I am certainly not ma’am.” Katniss responds with a laugh and an easy smile. “Please, call me Katniss.”

“Squash is usually a winter food.” Effie cuts in. “But, I’ve been told that it's a staple of the land of District 12 so I requested it for us. I wanted you all to have a bit of home.”

“Thank you Effie.” Peeta answers. “That was very thoughtful.”

I’m loathed to admit it but Peeta is right. Even if I’ve never had something like squash soup before. Never even seen whatever a squash is in my life, truth be told. I guess it is, somewhat, kind of her to try. I resign myself to not hate her to the very core of her being, at least for now.

“And Peeta where is this bread from?” Katniss asks with a teasing lilt.

“Ah, I should ask you that.” He tosses back, clearly an inside joke between them. “I distinctly remember telling you.”

“I was a little distracted.” She answers, leaning into his space just a touch and it takes another two large spoonfuls of soup to stop myself from verbalizing the gagging that's threatening to emerge from my throat.

“Well then, I’ll just have to teach you again.” He responds with a wink, earning an eye roll from his partner, and a loud gag from Haymitch.

“You two disgust me.” The older man spits out, reaching across the table to pluck a slice of bread from the basket on the table.

“The bread is from District 9. It’s a simple sourdough, very good for beginners who are just learning to bake.” He explains, passing Katniss the piece he had been buttering, before grabbing one for himself. “Now, Where was I?” Peeta asks, looking to Mira with a conspiratorial smile. The smaller girl blushing under his gaze.

“Cinna and Portia.” Katniss answers him, her own playful smirk crossing her face. “After the prep teams, Cinna and Portia will introduce themselves.”

“Yes, the District 12 stylists, Cinna and Portia are great. I’m not yet sure who you will each be working with specifically, Cinna worked with Katniss and Portia worked with to me. But they work together regardless to present you both so it doesn’t really make a difference in terms of the looks they’ll present you in.” Peeta explains.

“Yes, they will have your parade outfits ready and get you prepared as best they can for the Tribute Parade to present you to the Capitol and Panem.” Katniss adds.

“Then, after the parade we’ll all get settled in the Tribute Center. Then, there will be three days of trainings with your private sessions in the latter half of the third day. We’ll have an additional full day of prep for your interviews and your interviews the evening after. And then…” Peeta continues.

“Then the Games.” I speak, hating the way my voice cracks just slightly, like a child.

“Yes. Then the Games formally begin.” Katniss acknowledges.

“Truth be told, the Games have already begun, in a way.” Peeta admits, all mirth and lightness disappearing from his tone. “From the moment your names were called you were in the Games. Everything you do from now on needs to be about helping yourself to survive this entire experience, as long as you can.”

“How…how do you do that?” Mira probes, voice shaky. Her eyes focused entirely on the nearly empty soup bowl before her.

“You get mindful about how to present yourself, what story you want us to tell about you.” Katniss turns to the baby bird-like girl. “And you find something to fight for. For me that was my sister. I knew I needed to fight for her, to get back to her.”

“And for me it was Katniss.” Peeta adds, his hand finding his fiancée's on the table, a sickeningly lovelorn expression in his sapphire eyes as they bore into her, even if her silver seem lost in thought into the distance over my shoulder. “I…I had cared for her for a long time so when I was reaped, I knew I was going to fight to save her. That if I would not make it home, she would have to, whatever I needed to do. She was meant to be the Victor, she needed to be, and I needed to get her as far as I could to that goal. Then, when the rule change came down, it became about surviving long enough to get her out and hopefully survive long enough to make a life with her.”

“That’s what we’re still fighting for.” Katniss breathes out, face blushing as she finally turns to meet her partner’s eyes.

“Yes.” Peeta agrees. “Our priorities remain, even now.” I notice the edges of Katniss’ smile twitch just a touch at his words. Her mask of placid romance remains but something in her eyes twists in a flash of pain or something else I can’t quite place. Though, It disappears almost as quickly as it showed up. Perhaps I’m seeing things.

When the next round of our dinner arrives, a small piece of meat served with potatoes. It’s definitely butcher's meat, thick and dripping juices onto the crisp white plate. The cut would cost a fortune in Twelve. My stomach twists at the thought, the twinge only made worse when an attendant sets a bowl of bright leafy greens before me as well.

What would the children of the home be eating for dinner, tonight? A meager serving of broth, perhaps? Maybe a slice of few bites of stale bread, from tesserae grain of course, nothing like the hearty loaf being shared around this table. The Matrons never spared the expense to purchase real bread like this. The kind they sell in the bakery. My new mentor’s family trade of course. I can’t help myself from saying it…

“So Mentor…” The boy drawls, sharp silver eyes falling on me as the attendants set down my main course. “What do you recommend? Should I dive in and start fattening myself up for the slaughter? Or eat slow in anticipation of a lot of inevitable nights of starvation?”

His comment brings on a wide range of responses. Katniss drops her spoon into her soup bowl, causing the last of her appetizer to splatter across the white tablecloth. Effie gasps out an offended and scolding, “Young Man!” in Owen’s direction. Mira’s knuckles turn white as she grips her silverware tighter between her small fingers, a few tears begin to spill silently down her cheeks. Haymitch just bursts out in mocking surprised laughter.

“I’d recommend you eat something to build up your strength and because you have clearly not had enough food in quite some time.” I answer, forcing myself to keep my voice as calm as I can manage.

“What would you know about it townie!” The boy spits in my direction, his demeanor flipping like a coin.

“Owen…” Katniss attempts to warn.

“No! You’re no better! I don’t need the Baker’s Boy to lecture me about starving.” He rants, his voice rising in rage as it echoes off the walls. Kicking out his chair and jumping to his feet he points an accusing finger at Katniss. “And I certainly don’t need you trying to relate to me and my situation! Not when you’re wearing enough jewels to feed the entire district for years!”

“Enough!” I leap to my feet, nearly knocking my own chair to the floor.

“Fuck you!” Owen shouts, stabbing the dinner knife clutched in his hand through the tablecloth in a hauntingly familiar way.

“OH!” Our escort shouts in surprise. Haymitch seems to find the entire scene hysterical, rocking back in his chair as he cackles. He’s surely recalling a very similar incident from last year’s early meals around a very similar table.

“Effie?” I suggest, maintaining my silent standoff with the kid the entire time. “Why don’t you take Mira back to her room, let her enjoy her dinner in peace? Haymitch will follow with a tray in a few minutes with the rest of her courses.”

“Yes.” Effie agrees. “I think that will be best. Come Miss Mira, let’s go enjoy our meal. Ill manners always turn my stomach after all.” She rises to her feet from the table and offers a hand to the young lady. As they pass, I see Haymitch offer her a handkerchief, hopefully clean, from his jacket.

“Haymitch…” I broach, looking to my mentor. “Will you speak to the kitchen about that tray for Mira? It’s been a long day, and I’d hate for her to go hungry just because her partner has made her upset.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Haymitch answers sarcastically, rising to his feet and brushing out of the room, muttering expletives under his breath all the way.

“I understand that this is probably the worst day of your entire life but you need to take a breath. We want to help you.” Katniss attempts to soothe.

“You don’t know shit about what I’ve been through!” The kid whips around and screams at her.

While Katniss’ face remains placid and unbothered, I can’t help but bristle at the way he’s speaking to her. “You do not get to speak to her that way!” I declare, voice stern and so cold that I nearly don’t recognize it. “Be pissed, rant and rave about how all of this is unfair, about how much your life sucks, but you don’t get to take it out on her and you don’t get to speak to her like that! Do you understand me?!”

“Fuck off! Lover boy!” He spits in response.

I’m preparing my next argument and debating whether it's worth it to impersonate Haymitch and vault the table, when I hear a light, melodious, laugh to my left. It’s a laugh I’d recognize anywhere because I’ve spent the last year so desperately trying to pull it from her every chance I get.

“Hmmm…” Katniss muses, her hand finding my arm, grounding me back to myself. My eyes meet silver as she looks up at me with that smirk. “Now this one has potential.”

“What?” The kid coughs out.

“You’ve got potential.” Katniss compliments. “We might just be able to get you out of this, ensure you see the month of August. But you’re going to need to sit down, get your shit together, and let us help you.”

The boy just glares at her, but falters when he realizes she will not shudder under his gaze. Giving up, he rights his seat and sits himself back down.

“Good.” Katniss remarks. “First things first, anything else you can stab beside tables with a knife like that?”

“What do you mean?”

I watch with fascination as Katniss reaches forward, plucking the knife out of the wood of the table. She spins it in her fingers once to get a surer grip and then whips it at the wall, where it sinks itself with a vibrant thrum into the gauche embroidered wallpaper. That's my girl.

The boy's gray eyes look like they are ready to leap out of his head at the act, even more so when Katniss leans forward to retrieve Mira’s unused knife and offers it to him. “Go ahead.”

His hand is shaky as he takes the handle, all bravado lost when presented with the sheen of the blade.

“Stand if you need to.” I advise, returning to my seat. “Plant your feet.”

Katniss leans forward in her seat as the boy rises to his feet, thankfully without nearly shattering the wood of his chair this time, and takes a step away from the table. He takes a single steadying breath before drawing the blade back and flinging it toward the wall. The handle hits the wallpaper panel with a disappointing thud before tumbling down to the floor. The boy's shoulders immediately slump and his arms cross over his chest, closing himself off from the embarrassment.

“Well, that's a place to start.” Katniss dismisses the failure with nonchalance. “Your form wasn’t bad. Now sit down, finish your dinner.”

The boy throws a very irate look at Katniss, which she pointedly ignores. “Sit.” She tells him again, earning herself an annoyed huff as he overdramatically falls back into his chair. His frustration is rolling off of him in waves, as he continues to stew looking off into the distance instead of returning to his meal.

“Believe me, I of all people know how hard it can be to accept help.” Katniss speaks up, placing Haymitch’s knife on Owen’s napkin to replace his own.

I can’t help the small laugh I let out at the truth of that statement, and she lightly smacks my chest in offense as she continues. “But we can help. Or at least it can’t be worse than what we had with Haymitch.”

“True, if we were him last year, we’d already be wasted and barefoot right now.” I add.

“And hey we didn’t fall of the stage at your reaping so there’s that.” Katniss adds with a light laugh, pushing his plate closer to him in another encouragement to get him to keep eating.

“Oh! I forgot about that!” Owen recalls with a laugh at the memory, finally giving in to Katniss’ requests by picking up his fork once more.

“We didn’t.” I scoff. “Nor will I ever forget having to throw him in a shower to wash the vomit off of him and sober him up enough to help us.”

The memory makes Katniss’ face twist in disgust in a particularly endearing way. She shakes herself from it after only a moment. “You are allowed to be angry about all of this, but you can’t take that out on us. We want to help you, let us help you.” Katniss reiterates, leaning forward on her elbows towards the boy, a familiar fire of challenge in her eyes. “But to do that you need to take our advice, even if it seems ridiculous. For example, you’re holding your fork incorrectly.”

“My fork?” His face makes it clear he thinks her comment is ridiculous, but he immediately freezes his hand nonetheless.

“Yes, the panicked grip you have on it, like you’re waiting for someone to rip it and the food on your plate away from you at any moment.” She points one narrow finger at his white knuckles.

“No one is going to take it away from you. A silver lining of the next week is that you will certainly not go hungry.” I add.

“What does a merchant kid know about hunger?” He spits at me, repeating his earlier sentiment.

“More than you’d think.” I answer, flatly.

“He’s right, Owen.” Katniss attests, leaving no room for further argument. “Loosen your grip and adjust your fingers. Like this…” She lifts her own fork, holding it delicately. With careful study, the boy shifts the utensil in his hand until he mimics her form.

Once satisfied with his adjustment, Katniss speaks again. “You need to make them see you as a person, acknowledge you matter. Unfortunately, the people of the Capitol have a very specific idea for what that means.”

“Why should I care about the people of the Capitol? They certainly have done nothing for me.” He asks snidely.

“You should start caring and fast, because they are the people who sponsor gifts in the arena. We’ll do everything we can to convince them to sponsor you and Mira but it’ll help if you give them something to root for.” I explain.

“Like?”

“Well, there’s an interesting story we can tell here. The Seam Orphan who’s had to fight and scrap every day of his life. That means your strong, have survival instincts, are smart enough to keep yourself alive this long. That is someone they can bet on, someone they can root for.” I suggest to him. I can practically feel the defensive wall he throws up in response, refusing to meet my eyes. “It doesn’t have to be the perfect truth, not if it’ll keep you alive.” I add belatedly, feeling a second wall go up in the room, this time from Katniss to my left.

“On top of that you've clearly got some fire in you and we might just be able to hone into something charming or ‘roguish.’” I press on.

“Roguish?” He scoffs.

“Yes. You’re angry, but you seem to be quick-witted under that, if the various snide comments you’ve made are any indication. Use that anger you have and let it drive you. You just need to learn when to let it out and when to direct it into something a bit more subtle. Turn a few of those sneers into a charming smirk, perhaps.” I explain, met only with an aggravated eye-roll in response.

“What did the Matrons at the community house think of you?” Katniss tries, voice tight.

“Not much. I always got in trouble for small stuff but I didn’t get into too many fights so they mostly ignored me. The older kids usually pushed around the younger, smaller ones, so I learned pretty young how to talk myself out of tense situations.” He supplies.

“Ok that’s a skill you can use.” Katniss declares. “You just need to learn how to talk your way around this situation.”

“I don’t think there’s any getting out of this situation.” The boy speaks, softer than before.

“No, but you can make it easier for yourself, like in your interview with Caesar.” I remind him.

“Yeah sorry, Mira seems like a lovely girl but I’m not planning to declare my undying love and affection for her in front of the entire nation.” He snarks.

“If you’ll recall, I didn’t declare my undying love and affection, just admitted to harboring a bit of a crush. The hosts and Haymitch ran with the rest.”

“And that little confession changed the Games themselves, last year.” Katniss states. “Don’t underestimate the power of a few choice words.”

“And Mira?” The boy finally gives in, slightly more willing to engage with the work at hand than even a few minutes ago. Good. We’re getting through to him. Unfortunately, the mention of our female tribute’s name causes Katniss to further stiffen at my side, pulling her hands from where they rest on the table to fall into her lap.

“I have a feeling Mira is quick and agile, like a dancer, and smarter than she appears. We’ll get a few pounds on her with some good food over this week and show her how to use her speed and agility. If I remember correctly, she’s got a family to fight for back home and we can certainly sell that story.” I speak up, reaching out for one of Katniss’ hands under the table in a silent show of support and apology for my earlier comment about lying for the story.

“So what are you going to fight for?” Katniss asks, squeezing my hand in thanks and hopefully acceptance of said apology.

“I’ve got nothing to fight for.” He spits out.

“I don’t believe that.” Katniss comments.

“I’ve got no family, no future beyond the mines, no girl, nothing.”

“What about friends?” I suggest.

“A few guys from my class and the community home will miss me, sure, but not many. No one will be left devastated at my imminent demise.”

“Well, spite is a perfectly valid thing to live for.” Katniss declares.

“What?” Owen questions.

“Clearly your pissed at the world, at the cruel life fate has handed you. I mean one can assume, right? Harsh carers, cold nights, never enough food. You’re angry at the House Mothers, you’re angry at the Merchant Families, probably even angry at your mother and father for up and dying on you, yeah?” Katniss suggests, the return of the boy’s defensive face enough to confirm every one of her assumptions. “So fight to survive these Games, live a life of wealth and say, ‘fuck’em all!’ They’ve handed you every hardship they could in Twelve and you survived it. Fight to survive this and prove that they couldn’t destroy you then and they can’t destroy you now. Spite is a very powerful and, for you, perhaps very useful emotion.”

“That’s certainly an option.” He mutters, more to himself than either of us.

“We’ll fight for you, in every way we can, so if you have enough spite in you to help us in that fight we’d appreciate it.” Katniss urges. The boy’s gray Seam eyes remain fixed on Katniss’ own, clearly still unsure whether to trust her. It’s such a familiar expression. It’s the same one Katniss had for most of the lead up to our own Games, no wonder she thinks this boy has potential, the similarities between them are already making themselves very obvious.

The sound of the door, and arrival of the last course, finally breaks the boy’s attention from Katniss. His view shifting to the small individual round of dessert set before each of us. It’s the same dark chocolate cake I remember from last year.

“Did Mira get dessert too?” I hear the boy ask, his eyes not leaving the decadent food before him.

“We told Haymitch and Effie to make sure she got all her courses.” Katniss reminds him. “So yes she’ll get dessert too. But if it makes you feel better, we can double check.”

“Ok.” He breathes out, sinking back into his chair. His hand has a slight tremor to it as he reaches for his fork again. Katniss clears her throat drawing his attention back to her. She gives him a soft shake of her head and directs his attention for the smaller dessert fork. He understands and with a pointed eye roll grabs that one instead.

Katniss’ eyes find mine and I can read the silent pleading in them. “I’ll go check right now.” I confirm her silent request. I give her a quick kiss on the temple as I rise from my seat and move towards the kitchen to speak with the chef.

Chapter Text

“The ring wasn’t either of out top choices.” I speak up into the awkward silence left behind by Peeta’s suggested exit. “We both would have been perfectly happy with something much simpler.”

“Sure you would have. That’s why it sits there so humbly on your finger.” Owen answers, incredulously.

“When we decided to get engaged, we knew there was an expectation that the ring be up to Capitol standards. He found something that would fulfill that but still be as close to my taste as we could get.” I defend Peeta. I know Owen is right, I agree with him. But it's not Peeta’s fault the ring is so gauche, and it matters to me that this kid understands that fact. He needs to trust Peeta, and the two of them butting heads all week won’t help anyone. “Believe me, I am well aware of the weight it carries.”

The door slides open once more and Peeta re-enters the dining car. “Just checked on Mira, she is enjoying her dessert as we speak.” He announces.

“Good!” I answer, attempting a placating smile. “I was just telling Owen about the beautiful ring you gave me.”

“Yeah?” He asks, a miniscule blush crossing his surprised cheeks. “I wanted to get you something a little simpler, but I knew whatever I presented you with needed to at least match even half your beauty.”

I roll my eyes but the heat that crosses my cheeks at the compliment surely betrays me.

Peeta chuckles lightly at my expense, confirming my suspicions, “Forgive my sappiness Owen, but I like to check occasionally if I can still make her blush.”

“What happens after dinner?” The boy asks, shifting the subject, clearly uncomfortable by Peeta’s romance laced teasing.

“We’ll all gather back together and watch the recap of the Reapings.” Peeta answers, already friendlier with the boy.

“Really?” Owen questions.

“Yes. It will be good to get a first sense of what we’re up against and to hear how Caesar and Claudius are spinning each tribute’s story and chances.” Peeta explains.

“Eat your dessert, Owen.” I advise. His fork has frozen hovering over his plate. His gray eyes are distant, lost in thought.

“You’ll need every bit of fortitude you can muster when you apologize to Effie.” Peeta adds.

“Seriously?” The boy groans, shaken from his stupor.

“Yes. She’s…a lot…but we’ll need her. She knows people in the Capitol and she’ll be very helpful in talking you both up to sponsors.” Peeta notes. “And…she means well.”

“Fine.” The boy dives into his dessert, finishing it in just a handful of quick bites before tossing the delicate fork onto his plate and sinking back, visibly annoyed, in his chair.

Peeta takes his time finishing his own, almost reveling in the boy's clear frustration at his slowness. I won’t begrudge him the pettiness, just this once. Owen has certainly been rude to us both, Peeta more than I, and it's going to be a long week, let him express his frustration in a seemingly harmless way like that. But they’ll have to bury the hatchet by the time the train pulls into the Capitol.

Once he’s done, Peeta rises from his seat. “I’ll go check on Mira and everyone. I have to grab something from my room anyway before we watch the recaps.”

“Ok.” I answer. If I ask him to, Peeta will probably brush aside any residual tension between them, but how do I get this boy to trust Peeta? Owen seems willing to work with me but Peeta will have good advice. He literally got them to change the rules of the Games last year with just his wits. Even if that wasn’t his original intention, in the end everything that followed with the rule changes stems from his interview.

When Peeta clears the room, Owen’s eyes finally drift back to me. “What?” He asks, when he realizes I’m staring.

“Just trying to figure you out, kid.” I admit.

“Well, Kat, let me know if you figure anything out.” He snarks back.

“Hmph.” I scoff. “Don’t call me Kat.”

“Why not?” He taunts. “Don’t like that nickname?”

“You haven’t earned the right to call me a nickname.” I declare. I already suffer through Sweetheart from Haymitch, Catnip from Gale. I’m the Girl on Fire to the Capitol. I don’t need anymore nicknames.

“Well then, what do I have to do? To earn the right to call the great Katniss Everdeen by something less sycophantic.”

“Win.” I answer, his cocky smirk immediately disappearing. “Win the Games and you can call me Kat or whatever you’d like.”

Pushing myself away from the table I leave the boy to stew alone. It’s harsh. I know it’s harsh. He’s living a nightmare. A nightmare I vividly remember, the numbness, the fear. This is the worst day of his life. And his days are only going to get worse and worse until he hears Claudius Templesmith count him down to the gong.

I do recall one silver lining from the train last year. Speaking to the kitchen staff, I order us a small treat for watching the recaps. Once the drinks are prepared, I carry the tray of six mugs back into the main suite. I find the rest of our team has returned, and someone’s pulled the large television out from the wall in front of the grand couch. Setting the drinks on the table, I see Peeta perk up out of the corner of my eye when he realizes what I disappeared to retrieve.

“Hot Chocolate?” He asks, blue eyes filled with mirth and fondness as they seek my silver.

“Of course.” I answer, handing him a cup. I pass a mug to each of our tributes sat side by side on the grand couch. “Here, try this.”

“Hot chocolate, Effie?” Peeta asks our escort, the pleased smile on her face suggesting that Owen has already followed our directions and offered some semblance of an apology.

“Haymitch?” I ask, tauntingly wafting the rich concoction in his face. He rolls his eyes but accepts it, anyway. To no one’s surprise, he immediately pulls out a flask to add a little extra something to the treat.

I take my seat at Peeta’s side just as the Anthem of Panem begins blaring from the TV Speakers. We all sit in silence, our focus on the screen before us as Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith’s too bright smiles appear, welcoming us to the special coverage of the reapings.

One by one they walk through each districts reaping coverage. As each tribute is called, I notice Peeta out of the corner of my eye frantically writing in a small notebook. Over his shoulder I can see that with every new tribute he begins a fresh page. Writing each one’s name, age, and a quick description or initial gut reaction to them. Occasionally, he even adds a few words about how the hosts are presenting them.

I’m only half paying attention, finding easier entertainment in Peeta’s written commentary than whatever Caesar and Claudius have to say. All that changes though when the coverage reaches District 4. Something about the male tribute catches my ear. “Kai Murray?” I murmur. “Why does that name sound familiar?” I ask Haymitch.

“The Mayor of Four.” He notes, face solemn. “Caspian Murray.”

“We met him on our tour.” Peeta recalls, leaning forward on alert.

“I remember him, he was nice.” The Mayor’s face immediately fills my mind, he had this wide friendly smile and strong smile lines framing his light green eyes. “He said he liked the song I sang for Rue.”

“Do you think it's a relative, Haymitch?” Peeta asks.

“It's very possible.” Our mentor answers. “I believe he has a son around that age.”

My heart immediately breaks for poor Caspian Murray. Just hours earlier I had evaded my greatest fear, Prim being taken to the Games. If that sandy-haired boy from Four really was the mayor’s son, then he was not even remotely as lucky as I was today.

The rest of the districts pass by with little commentary from our group. Occasionally Effie attempts to offer a comment, but most of them are superficial, remarking on the dress of the other escorts or pointing out one of the District’s Victors sat in a place of honor on the stage as we were.

As usual, District 12 is the last to be shown. Caesar gives a whole spiel about this being Peeta and I’s first Games as mentors, how exciting it all is. He draws attention to my engagement ring sat prominently on my finger for all of Panem to see once more. Crooning over how Peeta and I seemed to cling to each other throughout the entire ceremony. Of course, he blames such closeness on how “deeply in-love” we are, because it certainly couldn’t be anything else. We are so very honored to be Mentors and continue to serve the Games and the Capitol, after all. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at his fawning and Peeta’s exasperated sigh tells me he feels much the same.

Finally, they get to the drawing of our tributes. Mira averts her eyes, refusing to watch. But Owen? He leans in, eyes boring into the screen before him in rapt attention.

We hear Effie call Mira’s name once more and watch as she moves her way through the crowd to take her place on the stage. Caesar and Claudius both comment on her small stature and age but also remind the audience that those aren’t necessarily bad things. She could be quite a hard tribute to find should she take off in the arena, many tributes have made it quite far by staying hidden or evading capture.

Then they present the final tribute for the night. “Now this one, I’m particularly intrigued by.” I hear Caesar comment as Owen appears on screen for the first time. “He may not be as obviously strong as some of the older, larger, tributes but never underestimate an underdog from one of these outer districts!” He argues.

“There’s something fiery in his eyes I like!” Claudius adds. They end the broadcast with a quick breakdown of what the next few day's coverage will be before signing off for the night. The flag of Panem returning to the screen and the anthem blaring through the speakers once more.

Haymitch, thankfully, cuts it off a few moments later, settling back against his chair he speaks into the heavy silence. “So…initial thoughts?”

“24 is a lot more people than I thought.” Mira admits, her eyes filling with tears. Clearly overwhelmed by being confronted by the breadth of competitors they have and the reality of what she is facing weighing even heavier upon her too slim shoulders.

“22.” Owen corrects.

“Hmmm?” Mira murmurs, pulling her knees to her chest.

“There’s only 22 Tributes you need to worry about. You’re the 23rd and I’m the 24th.” Owen explains his thought. “I’m not going to hurt you, we can even be allies if things work out.”

“22.” Mira mumbles to herself, clearly thinking the prospect over.

“Well, its been a long day.” Effie declares. “Perhaps we should all ready ourselves for bed.”

“Yes.” Peeta agrees to my left. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

One by one our group rises. Effie first, then our tributes finish their hot chocolates and follow only a few moments later.

When it's just Peeta, Haymitch, and I left, our mentor speaks up. “They aren’t a total lost cause.” He offers, rising to his feet to make his exit. Stopping on the way to the door to grab an amber filled decanter.

Peeta doesn’t speak again until he hears the latch of the door behind Haymitch. “Ready for bed?” He asks me.

“I’m ready for this to be over.” I answer, slipping my hand into his.

With a reassuring squeeze of my fingers, he stands, pulling me to my feet after him and together we begin the walk back to our rooms.

They’ve placed our rooms next to each other this time, like on the Victory Tour, rather than on opposing ends of the hall like they had this time last year. I’d have walked her to her door regardless but the proximity certainly makes the walk a little shorter.

She slides open her door but pauses before entering, her hand refusing to drop mine. “Will you stay with me tonight?” She asks, her eyes peering up shyly as we stand in her doorway.

“Always.” I respond. As if any part of me could deny her anything, but especially not the chance to sleep at her side. It really does helps my nightmares, and I know it helps hers. With the day we’re going to have tomorrow, with the few weeks we have waiting for us at the end of this train, we certainly could do well with a few nights of halfway decent sleep. “I need to take a shower though first.” I remark. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be back, yeah?”

“Ok.” She agrees. “Yeah. I’ll see you in ten.”

I squeeze her hand once before stepping away from her room and into my own. I hurry through my shower. But I allow myself the simple pleasure of five minutes to just stand in the hot water, letting it wash the stress of the day away and soothe the tense muscles it's all brought on. Though, I know there is a much better stress-relief waiting for me outside of this shower stall. Once done, I throw the first pair of pajamas I can find on, made of that silky material I’ve only ever worn on the train and in the Capitol, then slip back into her room. Closing the door behind me, I notice her shower is still running.

Her room is nearly identical to my own: A large bed piled high with pillows and blankets, two bedside tables, her engagement ring set reverently on her side, an ornate vanity, a few decorative armchairs, even a large mirror that she’s hung a canvas dress bag from. The clothes Cinna sent for tomorrow I’d guess.

My leg is aching from the day so I settle myself on the mattress, removing my prosthetic and setting it down on the floor at my side. Laying down against the pillows I’m pulled towards sleep faster than I have in weeks.

But, before I’m totally lost to the world the sound of the bathroom door spurs me alert again. Katniss emerges, dressed in similarly silky pajamas and running her fingers through the wet tangles in her hair.

“Hey.” She murmurs to me, sleepiness invading her movements.

“Hey.” I answer, pulling the covers down on her side to let her climb into bed.

“Can I ask you something horrible?” Katniss asks, as she settles against my chest.

“You can ask.” I answer, my arm slipping around her back as it always does.

“Can you help Mira and I help Owen? We can still kind of work with both of them but I…I don’t think I can get too close to her. She’s…she’s too much like Prim.”

My heart seizes at the request. No, No, No. Please don’t leave me to bear that burden alone, Katniss. She has to know she’s not the only one who cares about Prim, who sees the similarities between her sister and this Mira Belle. She can’t believe that she’s the only one who will feel hurt if our young tribute doesn’t survive this. I take a few steadying breaths before I make my first attempt at any response.

“Don’t write her off just yet Katniss.” I request. “You can’t do that, don’t shut down and don’t shut her out. You know better than most that even when they’re that young, kids are very observant. She’ll be able to sense that you think she has no chance…”

“She does have no chance. No one that young has ever survived.” She argues, tucking her face into my shirt to avoid meeting my eyes.

“And until you and I, there had only ever been one victor.” I remind her, my hand coming up to brush her cheek and bring her gaze back to mine. “Both of us survived. We don’t know what’s going to happen in there, what they will face or what she can do.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I continue. “But you can’t write her off as a lost cause just yet, she’ll be able to tell and it’ll just make her give up before she even has a chance to fight.”

“Ok.” I feel her muscles relax as she sinks into me. Her silver eyes fluttering closed.

“And…and its not fair to me to bear that burden entirely on my own. I care about Prim too, I see the similarities too. If Mira doesn’t survive this, I would grieve her too.” I add, needing her to know the hurt her request causes.

“I know you would.” She speaks, against my chest, her breath warm where it slips through the weave of my t-shirt. “I’m sorry. You’re right, it was wrong of me to even ask you that.”

“I forgive you Katniss.” I answer, meaning it. “I think you and Owen will work well together though, he seemed much more willing to listen to you than to me. So when we do work one-on-one with them you can take Owen first and I’ll take Mira, but not exclusively, and we will each work one-on-one with both of them at points and we’ll work with them both together, deal?”

“Deal.” She agrees. “I think Mira will respond better to your gentle nature than to my brusqueness, though.”

“Oh, believe me you have a lot more gentleness in your nature than you are even remotely willing to admit to yourself. I’ve seen it.” I suggest, pressing my cheek against the crown of her dark locks.

“Sure. I’m a real softie over here.” She answers sarcastically.

“You are.” I attest. “And I’m just a brusque and blunt as you, I just hide it better.”

“That’s for sure. They all think you're the nice one between us but I just had to stop you from nearly leaping a dining table to tackle a fifteen-year-old kid for calling you ‘Loverboy.’” She teases.

“I wasn’t considering leaping the table because he called me ‘Loverboy.’ I got frustrated with him because he yelled at you. He was being disrespectful, and I didn’t like it.” I explain.

“Well, he stopped, and he’s just been thrust into a waking nightmare so I’ll forgive him.” She defends the boy.

“How very gentle of you.” I tease.

“Haha.” She answers sarcastically, pressing onward. “No more of that though. If we’re going to be working with both of them you need to trust each other.”

“You’re right. I was maybe a little harsh. It won’t happen again.” I agree.

“Well then, I’ll forgive you too.”

“Like I said, so gentle.” I can’t stop myself from adding.

“So do you think Mira would do well with Portia as her stylist? Because I think Owen would respond well to Cinna’s kind of quiet strength.” She changes the subject.

“Yeah. I think those pairs would work. Portia will be good at drawing her out of her shyness and making her feel more comfortable.” I add. “When we see them tomorrow, we can suggest it.”

We sit in pleasant silence, the only sound is the dependable movement of the train as it carries us to the Capitol once again.

“I can’t believe we’re going back there.” She admits into the darkness.

“I know.” I agree. “If I could, I’d turn this train around right now and we’d be back home in Twelve in our own beds before you knew it.”

“But I’d be all alone in my bed.” She nuzzles against the fabric of my t-shirt as she gets more comfortable and I think my heart actually stops at her words.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” I stutter out, pulling her tighter to my chest, as I feel her breath even out in sleep.

Chapter Text

I should’ve known that sleep wasn’t even an option. The bed is too big, too soft. The room too open. The train too loud and unsteady. My mind too set on imagining every horrific scenario that awaits me at the end of this train track. So instead, I lie awake, tucked between far too luxurious sheets until the sun finally makes its first appearance over the horizon.

Oh well, I think upon seeing the dawn. I guess now my escorts will be less concerned if they find me up and moving. I take my time preparing for the day. Dragging out another boiling shower, enjoying the feeling of being truly clean for the first time in a very long time, maybe in as long as I can remember. Then standing in my too soft towel, I dig through the closet again, trying to figure out how to best “present myself” to the Capitol.

My new mentors explained, quite forcefully, that the true Games have already begun, everything I do from now on has to be for that. Katniss said I need to force them to see me as a person, someone worthy of their attention and their money. It makes me feel sick, the idea of selling myself like that. How do I make them see me as a person through clothes? They’re just clothes. I guess that's what a stylist is for, cause how is some kid with maybe ten items of dress that belong to himself meant to have any idea?

Shoving my way through the hangers, I find a pair of black trousers that look like the pair Peeta wore to the reaping yesterday, simple and sleek. Clearly they viewed Peeta as a person, or at least a piece in their favorite romance story. I had no romance to sell but my mentors made me promise to let them help me. I guess this is how. My eyes catch on another white button-up shirt, this one a different material than last night’s, falling looser on my frame. What had Peeta said? That they could sell me as scrappy? A survivor? Charming and roguish? I don’t know if it's going to read like that but it's better than nothing. I find a stiff pair of black shoes on the floor of the closet and slip into them, instantly hating the way they pinch and squeeze my feet. Immediately, I want them off, wishing for my worn perfectly broken-in boots. But no, I agreed to play this game, and these shoes are just the first in a long string of small sacrifices I’m sure I’ll be required to make.

My movements are stilted slightly by the uncomfortable shoes but I reach the door and slip it open as softly as I can. It is still very early in the morning and I don’t want to wake anyone who had better luck than I in finding sleep last night. However, I hear quiet voices down the hall, and poke my head out just enough to catch the blonde head of my male mentor in the doorway of another room further down, speaking softly to its resident.

He’s clearly still in his sleep clothes and his curls are mussed from sleep or…maybe something else. I see an arm give him a gentle shove before he leans back into the room and appears to kiss whoever is behind the door. Thankfully, I don’t need to panic about some weird cheating subplot to my week with Peeta sleeping with Effie or something equally unhinged, as Katniss appears in the hall, revealing herself to be the owner of the arm, playfully pushing him again.

I tuck my head back into my room and wait until I hear two clear clicks of doors closing. Cautiously, I peer back into the hall. Finding it empty, I hurriedly move my way back to the dining room. Relieved to be alone in the ornate space, I settle myself upon the couch near the grand windows while I wait for the rest of our team to dress and arrive.

My mind drifts to my mentors. They were…odd. I keep having to remind myself that they were only seventeen, just two years older than me. They seem simultaneously more mature and more innocent than most of the teens I know.

They don’t take every opportunity to touch each other or spend half their time attempting to sneak off to be alone, like the older kids in the home did with their romantic conquests. There seems to be a genuine affection there. An easy calm and familiarity. But I don’t know if that's what I expected from the so called “Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12.”

It certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of love that you’d intentionally eat poisonous berries and die for. The kind of love you’d rather die than live without. I don’t know how to connect the three ideas. The reality of how they behave in person. The story the Capitol sells, that my mentors and our team all seem to lean into, and the story that’s spread about the Seam.

Supposedly, they weren’t seen together in District 12 for months after their Games. She spent her time hunting in the woods beyond the fence and he spent his in the bakery with his family, hiding away from his newfound fame and attention in the back over the ovens. Perhaps they were sneaking into each other's homes or having quaint family dinners in Victors Village or something. If so, none of that information ever made it to the Seam.

But then again, maybe they were just more subtle than most of the wildly hormonal teens I know. Maybe the Games do that to you, matures you faster than one can imagine, or makes you want to keep close the most intimate personal details of one’s self after having to give up any semblance of privacy in the arena.

I mean, he’s always looking at her. He’s brushing his hand against her shoulder to calm her at dinner when Effie makes an indecent comment. She’s soothing his anger at me with a single hand on his arm. I can’t deny my own eyes. He clearly spent the night in her room, doing who-knows-what in her too large bed.

I feel myself bristle at the thought, my anger rising dangerously close to the surface. Here I am trying to figure out how to survive long enough to make it to August and all the while they’re taking a tumble in the sheets.

“Good morning Owen.” Peeta speaks, interrupting my internal investigation into his love life as he emerges from the door into the dining car.

“Good Morning.” I cough out, sitting up taller on the couch.

“Did you sleep at all?” He asks, dropping into a too plush chair positioned facing me. He sinks into it, leaning his head back on the cushions, his own exhaustion clear in the circles that seem to have appeared beneath his eyes.

“Not really.” I admit, sure my appearance gives it away just as much as his does.

“I didn’t sleep much on the train to the Capitol easier, last year.” Peeta confesses. “The bed was too big, too soft, right?”

“Yeah.” I confirm. “I’m used to a bale of hay in the corner.” I joke.

The young man lets out a loud, barking, laugh like I’ve really caught him off guard. Once he comes back to himself he speaks, “Save that joke for Effie! She’ll get all bug-eyed and begin muttering to herself about the barbarism of the districts. It’s hysterical.”

“Is it?” I ask, finding it difficult to understand why this guy thinks Effie’s apparent belief that all District folk are barely above savages is a laughing matter and not in actuality incredibly offensive.

“Oh, she’s not so bad. She’s been raised with very specific ideas and beliefs that she just needs to unlearn. She’s working on it.” He defends our supercilious escort. “We all have things to unlearn.”

“Maybe.” I answer, noncommittally.

“Peeta?” Katniss calls as she opens the door, eyes searching for him. “Oh! Good morning, Owen.”

“Yes, dear?” The blonde asks before I can answer her. He sits up and turns to catch sight of her in the doorway.

“Can you help me with this?” She asks, gesturing to her top with one hand, the other seemingly holding it in place, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks. “It needs to be laced and I can’t do it on my own.”

“I can try.” He offers, rising to his feet to meet her in the middle of the room.

“If not, I’ll go ask Effie.” She states. “But I’d hate to interrupt her perfectly timed out prep routine.”

“Yeah lets not set her off this early if we can avoid it.” I watch as Peeta approaches her, indicating with his pointer finger for her to spin to turn her back to him. My eyes go wide at just how much of her back is exposed by the unlaced fabric. It seems Peeta notices at the same time I do and his face is bright red as he looks to me with a softly possessive smirk. “Turn around, Mr. Sparrow.” he commands.

Maybe it's the acceptance of the high-probability of my imminent death or maybe I am more of a romantic than I thought, unlikely, but I find my anger at my mentors faltering. If they spent the night having sex, well then, good for them. At least someone was getting something good from this whole experience. At least they had each other to lean on as they suffer through this. I keep my ears perked, pretending to take in the scenic view that flies by the grand windows.

After a minute I hear the smooth voice of Peeta Mellark once more. “Ok, Owen, you can turn back around now.”

I shift my view back to my mentors who are moving over to the bar cart, now set up for morning coffee and tea. Katniss has pulled her long hair over one shoulder, revealing a fully secured top, as she combs the wavy tendrils with her fingers. “Owen? Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?” She asks me.

“Um…Coffee would be great, thank you.”

“Sure thing.” She answers, pouring the dark liquid into three mugs.

“Cream? Sugar?” Peeta adds.

“Just a little cream, I guess.” I’ve rarely had coffee. But I’ve never had a sweet tooth, and I always found the drink very bitter the handful of times I can recall sneaking a sip, so maybe a splash of milk will help.

“Ahh, same as Katniss then.” Peeta remarks with a laugh, earning him a jesting elbow to the side from his fiancee as she collects two of the three cups to come over to me.

I rise to my feet as she approaches, a guarded smile on her face as she holds the coffee out to me, made a muted beige by the addition of the cream. “Uh…thank you, ma’am.”

“Mira did that yesterday too.” She remarks, taking a seat next to me on the couch, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged. “What’s with you two calling me ma’am?”

“She called me, sir.” Peeta adds, an amused fondness in his tone. “It was sweet but even my father is rarely called that.”

“Actually, before we settle, I think I’ll go check on Mira, make sure she’s up and moving. I’d like to have her speak with all of us before we get interrupted by Effie and breakfast.”

“Yeah, Katniss. That’s a good idea.” Peeta compliments, taking her mug from her hands and setting it back down on the table as she rises.

“Oh, and Owen?” Katniss states looking down on me with those startling silver eyes. “You wore black boots to the reaping right?”

“Yes.”

“Put those back on.” She instructs. “You’ll be much more comfortable in them.” With that last bit of advice she brushes by us both and out of the room.

“She’s right.” Peeta confirms looking down at my loafers. “You want to be comfortable today, and familiar boots will help with that.”

“And the rest of the look? I thought I wasn’t meeting my stylists until we got there in a few hours.” I try to play off my nerves with another light instinctual jibe at the older merchant boy.

“The rest of the look is fine.” Peeta reassures me, seeing straight through my facade, and refusing to rise to the taunt.

Katniss returns after a handful of awkward minutes alone with Peeta, a clearly nervous Mira behind her. It seems Mira has had the same idea as me and has selected a black dress with a simple white collar, very reminiscent of the shirt Katniss had worn to the reaping yesterday. She has pulled her long dark hair back from her face in a braid like our mentor too. In fact Katniss has done the same hairstyle, the two Seam girls appearing like a matching set.

“Take a seat with the boys, Mira.” She suggests. “Would you like Coffee or Tea?.”

“Actually…” Mira speaks up. “Could I have some Hot Chocolate again?”

“Absolutely.” Katniss answers with a wide smile. “Go sit, I’ll grab it for you.”

I shift my legs to make room for Mira to sit on the couch with me and offer my most reassuring smile to the girl when her brown eyes meet mine. Upon closer inspection she also has dark circles forming, proving she slept no better than I. And if the redness of her cheeks is anything to go by, she likely spent much of her time awake in tears as well.

“So before we arrive in the Capitol, there are a few things we’d like to ask you. It will help us kind of figure out how to best help you.” Peeta proposes, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.

“First, would you like to be mentored and trained separately?” Katniss asks, holding out a steaming cup of the rich, creamy, chocolate liquid to my fellow tribute. “If so, that is entirely fine but the earlier we know that the better.”

“I…I don’t mind training together.” Mira speaks up, taking the offered mug. “If…if Owen doesn't.”

“I don’t mind.” I hurry out.

“Ok!” Katniss agrees, seating herself across from us. “Then if you have any special skills or talents that may be useful are you willing to share them?”

“Like what?”

“Like shooting a bow.” She explains. “Or perhaps you’re pretty fast? Agile? Strong? Can you climb things? Throw knives? Can you think quick on your feet?”

“Those are all qualities that can take you far.” Peeta notes. “And a good chunk of the Games is outlasting the others. More than a few victors have won by evading harm and other tributes.”

“Oh, do you have any knowledge of healing?” Katniss asks. “That could be helpful too.”

Their questions clearly overwhelm Mira as much as they do me, even with the conversation I already had on the subject with them last night. “Can…can we think on it and get back to you? After the parade?” I request for us both.

“Sure.” Peeta agrees. “Think on it and let us know.”

It isn’t long before Effie arrives, dressed in a bright, nearly blood-red number this time, choking me momentarily with panic. I swallow it down as quick as I can because with her comes breakfast. We eat a stilted and awkward meal, together. I force down as much as I can, not tasting any of it. That panic is brought back to the surface as our escort informs us we will be in the Capitol in just over an hour. An hour from now the real trials begin.

As we pull into the station, Effie gives us both a once over. “Very nice!” She compliments. “Miss Belle you look positively lovely and Mr. Sparrow, you look very handsome. But those boots have seen better days.” She comments.

I look to Katniss, and she just sends me a quick wink. “Oh, wait!” She remarks, stepping forward to lifts Mira’s braid over her shoulder, adjusting her already perfectly laid collar.

Unfortunately, I don’t escape Katniss’ touch ups and she reaches up and undoes the top two buttons of the shirt, leaving it just a touch more open. In the reflective window, I can see the change is nothing scandalous but certainly more comfortable and casual than I had it before. I feel like I can actually breathe under the material without it not latched all the way up to my throat.

When she steps back to her fiancees offered elbow, he lifts his eyebrow teasingly at the display.

“Oh, would you like me to do the same for you?” She immediately plays along, fingers lunging for his own buttoned shirt.

“No! No! My buttons are fine!” He defends, twisting his chest to evade her. “He’s the one we’re trying to sell as a scrappy charmer, not me!”

“No. You’re just my baker's boy.” She supplies, looping her arm through his as the train’s breaks engage and we are slowed to a stop.

“And you, my girl on fire.” He answers sweetly, placing a quick kiss to her blushing cheek. The action making Effie nearly swoon with delight.

When the train doors open, Effie steps out first, a loud echoing crowd reacts to her appearance somewhere in the cavernous station. Mira lifts her chin high and follows just a touch behind. Her Katniss-like braid swinging with every step.

I freeze. I…I can’t do this. I can’t go out there and greet these people. I can’t play up some story about some Seam kid overcoming everything. I can’t pretend to be some scrappy survivor or charming rogue or whatever-the-fuck adjective they toss at me next. No, I’m just Owen, and Owen can’t do this. I can’t be given the full prep-team experience. I can’t be mentored by Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. And I certainly cannot compete in the Hunger Games.

“Owen?” Peeta’s steady voice cuts through the static in my mind. “You can do this, kid. Just one foot in front of the other, ok.”

“Those boots have gotten you this far.” Katniss adds. “They can get you through this too.”

With that final push of support, I lift one leaden foot and then the other. Keeping my head down and schooling my face, as I follow the bright red shoes of our escort and dark braid of my District Partner. Before I know it I’m off the train, through the station, and being moved down a side hallway away from the din of the roaring crowds.

“Ok. We are going to pass you off in a moment to the prep teams.” Effie explains.

“But we’ll see you after, before the parade.” Peeta assures.

Suddenly a different chorus of voices and nauseating mix of floral scents fills my senses. A flock of multicolored birds shoves by Mira and I to overwhelm our mentors in an attack of feathers and neon hair. “Katniss!” And “Peeta!” they shriek, wrapping them in a series of unyielding bone-crushing embraces.

“Yes! Yes! Hello!” I hear Katniss’ voice call as she attempts to emerge from the fray. “It’s good to see you!” After a few minutes of fussing, she pries herself from their grasp. Her tan ensemble standing out stark against their bright colored plumage. “Can we introduce you to our tributes?” She attempts to shift the interaction with a tight, clearly uncomfortable, smile.

“Oh, they need no introduction!” The green-haired woman states, letting go of her rooted grip on Peeta’s arm to approach Mira and I.

“Hello, Mira!” She states first, placing a quick kiss on the girl's cheek, then turning to me. “Hello, Owen!” I’m not fast enough to evade her overly friendly act of affection and if the bright purple lip stain on Mira’s face is any sign, I’m sure my failure is marked quite obviously.

“We are losing time folks!” Effie interjects. “We can catch up with our victors in a bit! Venia, you all will be with Owen.” She declares. “Claudia, you all will be with Mira!”

“Perfect!” The neon yellow haired woman approaches, wrapping a gentle arm around Mira’s narrow shoulder. “Come with me little bell!”

My fellow tribute gives me one last look of panic before she’s ushered through a set of heavy metal doors. When I turn back to the team, a man with bright orange hair stands before me. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sparrow. You’re in good hands with us! If we can manage Katniss last year I assure you this will be easy work!”

“Have fun! We’ll see you soon!” I hear Katniss call, with little sympathy, as I’m pulled through the same set of doors and into the next phase of my torture.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls. “They’re over here!” He points further down the tunnel, grabbing my hand in his to pull me through the chaos of stylists and tributes and mentors to the District 12 chariot and its familiar Onyx Horses.

“Look at you two!” Peeta delivers with a smirk, as we finally greet them. The prep teams have certainly given them the full experience. Both of their hair has been cleaned and trimmed and their faces and bare arms have that waxy glow that I’ve come to learn is a telltale sign of the teams extensive skin treatments.

Our stylists have gone a completely different route than they did with us last year. They dressed us in form-fitting fireproof suits and bathed us in literal flames. But for Owen and Mira they’ve draped each of them in a loose flowy material, black as night, or more thematically coal. Owen’s reaches his knees while Mira’s her ankles. Cinna and Portia have styled them with dark sandals, and a long cape over each of their shoulders. At first glance, the capes appear a marbled gray. But as our tributes shift nervously about, the material almost seems to fade in an out like a shadow. To really push them it all over the edge, Cinna and Portia have given each of our Tributes a black metal crown inlaid with various gemstones of size and color.

“Wow!” I call. “Cinna, Portia, you’ve outdone yourselves. What is this material on the capes?”

“It’s a blend of hand painted gossamers. Then we layered them one over the other to create the shifting effect.” Cinna explains.

“It’s beautiful!” Peeta compliments. “I’ll need to paint this.” He murmurs to himself.

“What was your inspiration?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“It comes from an ancient mythology, from a land and culture that existed long before the Dark Days, older than even Panem.” Cinna begins. “They had a deity that ruled their afterlife, considered both the ruler of the dead and everything under the earth. So, of course, he was the patron deity of Miners and of Wealth. The stories say he ruled a land of the dead, of shadows, of rightful judgement, people would pray to him and make sacrifices for success and for safe passage onto the next life.”

“You dressed us as dead?” Owen asks, not at all amused.

“No, I’ve dressed you as the Gods who rule over the dead. The ones people pray too to make their deaths easier. I dressed you as a God, dear boy, and this culture believed their Gods to be immortal.”

“Immortal means living forever, right?” Mira asks.

“Yes, you are quite right, Miss Belle.” Cinna compliments, earning a shy smile and a blush from our young tribute. “We liked the idea of going a different direction than we did with Katniss and Peeta, especially because the fire has become so synonymous with them and their story. We wanted to give you something of your own.”

“So if Katniss is the girl on fire, what does that make me?” Owen snarks.

“Lord of Shadows?” Cinna suggests with a light laugh. “God of Death, something of the sort. When you go out there, the message we send is the same line of thinking of those ancient people, that meeting this god was inevitable. Death is inevitable for us all, we will all meet this god someday. Of course, hopefully not for a very long time. But the story we're telling is that you two are just as inevitable, if any of these other tributes want to win the Hunger Games they will have to fight through you two, and Gods are not an easy foe to defeat. Additionally, associating you with darkness and shadows also ties to District 12 and its export of coal.”

“Owen?” I ask. “Would it be alright if I feel the fabric of your cape?”

“You can feel any part of me you want, darling.” The young boy drawls at me. I feel Peeta bristle at my side at the obvious implication.

“Easy there kid, I’m going to be a married lady soon enough.” I toss back, reaching out to take the delicate material in my fingers.

“I thought I was supposed to be playing up the whole charming rogue thing?” Owen defends himself with a cocky smirk.

“Yes, to the fawning crowds out there, not to us.” Peeta retorts. “And not like that. You’re a kid, don’t let them forget that either.”

“It’s time.” Cinna states, making me drop Owen’s cape from my hand. I watch as Cinna offers an arm to Owen to help him into the chariot and Peeta, ever the gentleman, offers a hand to aide Mira.

Once they are safely aboard, Portia flutters around them, arranging their outfits just so. “Ok everyone! This is it!”

“Are you in there ok?” Peeta asks. “If you need to hold on to each other to stay stable, that's ok, to help each other.”

“Should they hold hands?” I ask Cinna, raising my voice to be heard over the rising din.

“Yes.” Cinna suggests, calling up to our tributes. “Hold hands. Present a united front! Remember, you’re strong, you’re powerful, you’re inevitable! You are above all of this!”

With that final bit of advice, the horses push forward and the Peacekeepers usher us off towards the mentor area. Over my shoulder, I just catch Mira reaching out to take Owen’s larger hand in hers before they disappear around the corner to begin their procession.

With hurried steps we rush up into a box near the end of the tunnel, where Cinna guides us to the four seats right in the front marked '12'. Peeta and I sit ourselves just in time to see the Tributes from District 1 emerge.

I take a moment to look around at the people sharing our box. It seems to be most of the mentors and stylists from this year’s Games. I catch sight of the Mentors from One, the siblings I remember winning back-to-back Games as a child. Cashmere and Gloss, I finally recall their names. They’re seated with a man with bright blue vines painted across his arms. The dark-skinned bespectacled man a few chairs to their right looks familiar, I think he’s a Victor from District 3. I don’t recognize many other Victors from the last few Games, the ones whose faces and names are a bit more on the forefront of my mind. As I continue my scanning, my eyes meet the sea-green eyes of a bronze haired, tan skinned, young man: Finnick Odair. The legendary charmer and Capitol Darling is not even remotely paying attention to the events unfolding before us and instead staring entirely at me. There’s something in his eyes that I find unsettling, like he’s trying to size me up or figure out the secret truths in the depths of my soul.

When he realizes his sea-green have met my silver he winks. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at the gesture.

“Here they come!” Peeta speaks into my ear, finally giving me an excuse to break the far-too-intense eye contact.

I lean forward towards the railing of our box as the Chariot carrying our tributes finally emerges at the end of the procession. Once again, Cinna and Portia have worked a miracle. They have taken these two malnourished, frightened children, from the Seam and made them something entirely new. Their slight gauntness, from years of under-eating, appears as sharp beautiful features on the screens put up along the square. Cinna’s advice to behave “above all of this” has given them both a flicker of something pointed, a ferocity in their keen eyes. Their capes flow seamlessly behind them, presenting the intended image of shifting shadows with each flick of the fabric on the wind. Owen in particular carries it all exceptionally well. He looks powerful, frightening, like a threat.

Compared to the rest of the tributes, our stylists have set our tributes apart from the rest. The other district stylists have certainly pushed themselves more creatively than last year, but none can match the skill of Cinna and Portia. At least, the two tributes from District 4 aren’t dressed in very realistic plump fish suits like they were last year. Even if their gowns and cloak of embroidered fish scales are a sickening shade of vibrant green. I can’t help but recall that Cinna dressed me in a similar fabric for our formal Victory Tour Feast in Four. His version, however, was a much deeper and more flattering shade of teal, with deep rich green accents on each of the scales. I had actually felt quite beautiful in the garment.

I comment as much to Cinna as he loops his arm in mine to retrieve our tributes once they’re returned to the tunnel. “Four’s costumes look familiar don’t they?”

“Hmmm…” He muses with a pointed waggle of his eyebrows.

“Better than the very lifelike fish they were dressed as last year.” Peeta leans in to join on the joke.

“Well, they all can’t be as lucky as us can they?” I answer.

“Four had quite a good stylist until she retired a handful of years ago, I think before the 66th Games.” Cinna explains.

“Since then though its been a revolving door of tackiness and on-the-nose ocean and fishing references.” Portia tosses over her shoulder, leading us through the crowds of reuniting stylists and tributes to our own.

There’s an overwhelming look of relief upon their faces when they finally find us. “You did so well!” Portia compliments, approaching them with open arms and taking them each into a quick hug before stepping back to let the rest of us greet them. Owen's face twists in discomfort at the embrace but Mira is much more willing to be held for a moment.

“Yes. You will have made quite an impression.” Cinna confirms.

“So Mentors…what are you opinions on our performance?” Owen asks, raising one newly shaped eyebrow.

“I’d say you did…” I lose my train of thought when I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Turning my head to examine the grand space, I search for the cause. I realize it's the female mentor from One, Cashmere. Like Finnick, Her deep brown eyes remain on me even when she realizes I’ve caught her staring.

Peeta sensing my discomfort, follows my gaze. He moves into action immediately, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me with him towards the elevator. “Let’s take this upstairs.” He comments to our group. “We can chat with a few less ears around.”

Our tributes have the same awed expression written across their faces that I’m sure I did as the glass elevator carries us up to Floor 12. Those thick silver doors open and we are met with the excited face of Effie Trinket once more.

“You did so well!” She shouts.

“Yes.” Peeta agrees, brushing past Effie in the entryway to move into the apartment. “Why don’t you two take a few moments to change and reset and then we’ll meet for dinner?”

Owen and Mira stand frozen in the space, visibly trying to take in the suite's grandness and unsure where they are supposed to go. Once again, I’m met with the exact mirror of myself a year ago. My first thought upon seeing the massive space we’d be occupying had been that it could fit our home in it a hundred times over.

Both these kids are from the Seam, and those houses are pretty standard. Slight adjustments made by the handier residents, or extra rooms shabbily added should a family have a few more children than normal, or perhaps intended. But overall, all those houses in the Seam were all the same. Even the Community Home, bigger than the uniform houses of the rest of the neighborhood, was nothing to be impressed by. All the buildings in the Seam were small. All too small and soot covered. But, no soot hangs in the air here. Just the slight twinge of florals and candy scented air that I’ve long guessed they must pump through the vents.

“Here.” Portia declares. “Follow me, children. Your rooms are this way.” With a gentle hand on each of their arms, Portia guides our tributes down the hall to their assigned rooms, leaving them to bathe and take a few minutes to themselves.

“I’m going to grab something, I’ll be right back.” Peeta murmurs to me, heading in the same direction of our tributes.

Effie has bustled herself into the kitchen, giving orders to the gathered Avoxes. Haymitch has already found the bar. It’s all too familiar. Being back in this suite, back in the Capitol, another tribute parade. I need some air. Forcing my feet into action, I make for the doors to the balcony.

The air out there is better than in the apartment but there’s something about it that still feels artificial, treated. What I really need is the open air of my woods. Crisp and cold in my lungs as the sun rises over the horizon. The ambient calls of birds in the trees, my father’s mockingjays. The incomparable sense of ease, of peace, of being free.

“They did well.” Cinna’s deep dulcet tone breaks into my thoughts as he moves to lean next to me on the balcony railing. “And your suggestion was a good one. Owen needs a strong guiding hand.”

“He’s got potential though, don’t you think?” I ask, voice sounding more like a pleading child than it has in a long time.

“I do.” He confirms. “He’ll need to get lucky but if he’s handy with a weapon and we sell him to the audience the right way, I think he’s got a real shot.”

Appeased by his comment, I let myself hope for just a few moments. Not for too long, I need to be practical and a lot will have to go in both Mira and Owen’s favor to make another Victor from Twelve even remotely a possibility. Several of the tributes are bigger, stronger, clearly already better prepared. Better trained. Yeah what I wouldn’t give to just be back home in my forest, breathing in the quiet, clean air.

“Hey.” Peeta speaks, the warmth of his hand radiating through my bones where he rests it on my back. “Take a breath, Katniss.”

It’s only at his suggestion that I realize my breathing is no longer steady, my chest feels constricted, trying to take in heaving gulps of the artificial air.

“Take a breath, Katniss.” He repeats, rubbing up and down soothingly along my back. “You’re ok, we’re ok.”

“It’s ok to be scared, Katniss.” Cinna adds. “This is a very difficult situation. Just breathe with me.”

Peeta pries my white knuckles off the railing and shift me to face my stylist, his grounding hand never leaving my back. Cinna gently takes my hands in, his eyes find mine. “Deep breath in, hold it for four, then deep breath out.”

It takes a few tries but eventually; I match Cinna’s rhythm. I feel my heartbeat slowly return to normal as the calming exercise takes effect. “There you go, kiddo.” Cinna compliments, he leans forward to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’ll give you two a moment.” He adds, excusing himself back into the apartment.

“You ok?” Peeta asks. I turn to face him, concern evident in his sapphire blue eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I respond. “I’m ok, its nothing really.” It’s clear my answer does nothing to ease Peeta’s distress over my distress. “It’s just being back here again, y’know.”

“Yeah, Katniss. I know.” His eyes finally soften, and I see the flash of his own fear in them.

“How did you know how to help me with that?”

“I get panic attacks sometimes too.” He admits. “Portia taught me some ways to ease them.”

“I didn’t know you got panic attacks!” I answer, aghast.

“I didn’t tell you.” He states, flatly. “They aren’t too bad and they were a lot worse right after we got home, but they’ve gotten rarer the further we’ve gotten from our Games.”

“But still…why didn’t you tell me.” I know why, we weren’t speaking after our Games. But I need him to say it. I need him to confirm that it's my fault he suffered through them alone.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He answers.

“Peeta.” I reproach him for the half-truth. There’s so much more I want to say but as usual words fail me, he’s always the one who’s good with words. But, why wouldn’t he tell me after we started speaking again? After we agreed to be friends. I told him about my nightmares, let him help me through them. Apparently I help him with his even if he doesn’t wake me with his own thrashing, like I do him. We both are still dealing with the aftereffects of the Games. But we’re trying to manage. He paints the horrors. I actively flee into the woods to escape.

I’ve always been better at showing my care for him, how much I value his friendship, in other ways. I step forward and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. He immediately returns the embrace. “Will you stay with me tonight?” I ask against the cool fabric of his silk shirt.

“Always, Katniss.” He answers, cradling the back of my head with one of his strong, steady, hands.

“People are already intrigued by you two!” Effie declares as we all gather around the large table for dinner.

“Anything in particular?” Peeta asks.

“Not really, but District 12 has the country’s attention after last year! It will be very good for us! I was talking you both up all day! There are already several folks I know who are interested in sponsoring.”

“That’s great, Effie.” I state. “Thank you!”

“Well coal becomes pearls under pressure, after all!”

I can’t stop myself from whipping my head up to catch Peeta’s eyes. I can see the same barely concealed laughter in his blue that surely is obvious to everyone but Effie.

I turn down the offered glass of wine this year, as does Peeta, recalling how foggy it made me feel. Mira seems to follow our lead, even offering a quieter, shyer, version of Peeta’s polite “No, thank you,” when the Avox approaches her with the tart, dry drink.

Owen accepts it though with an indulgent smile. He drinks about half of it with quite a bit of haste before suddenly switching to slow small sips. Drawing out the last of it as he eats the grand meal before us. It seems I’m not the only one who feels the effects of wine a little faster than we'd like.

The dinner conversation flows easily as the Avoxes flutter around clearing courses and keeping our glasses full. As the last course emerges from the kitchen, the same gorgeous cake from last year, I take the chance to restart our conversation from the train.

“So did you give any more thought to what we discussed this morning?” I ask as the familiar red-headed Avox steps away from the last of the cakes faltering flames. I’ll need to try to learn her name this year. I mentally chastise myself. Maybe I can see if she'll write it down for me?

“About useful skills?” Owen recalls.

“Yes.” I confirm, meeting his silver eyes across the table. “Come up with anything?”

“I’m pretty quick.” Owen offers. “And like I said last night, I can talk my way out of a fight.”

“That won’t help you much, in the arena.” Haymitch scoffs and I throw him the strongest glare I can manage.

“It will help him win sponsors.” Peeta defends. “You told me as much last year.”

“And you said you’ve been in a few fights, right Owen?” I ask.

“Yeah, a few.” He confirms. “Been hit enough times to have developed a thick skin.”

“Well, that could be helpful in this context.” Peeta states. “Isn’t that right, Haymitch.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushes off.

“Mira?” I shift the attention to her.

“Um…I’m pretty quick too. And I’m small, so like the announcers said I can probably hide pretty well. And I’m pretty good at helping my little brothers when they get hurt, healing their cuts and stuff.”

“That’s good.” I encourage her.

“Yeah, that’s a good place to start, Mira.” Peeta adds.

“Do either of you have any experience hunting?” I ask. “Or with a weapon?”

“Not really.” Owen states. “But one of my chores in the home was helping cook the meals sometimes so I’ve used a knife a bit in that context.”

“Ok.” I comment. “Like Peeta said, that’s a good place to start.”

“I help cook dinner too!” Mira offers. “And I know how to gather plants and herbs around 12.”

“Great!” I try to sound encouraging and positive. “All of that is helpful for us. After we watch the recap tonight, the team will talk and come up with some suggestions for tomorrow’s training.”

The anthem of Panem drowns out the remaining sounds of our silverware against the delicate dessert plates. As a group we rise and move into the sitting room, spreading ourselves out around the grand couches just in time to see Caesar Flickerman’s too-big smile fill our screen.

The hosts seem to have noticed the extra effort made by the stylists this year, calling it “One of the best opening ceremonies in years!” When they reach our tributes, they rave about their looks, touting Cinna and Portia’s ingenuity once more. Even suggesting that the material they invented for their capes is sure to be the Capitol’s next big trend.

“Hand holding again?” Haymitch remarks.

“Yes.” Cinna confirms. “It worked last year, after all.”

“Just the perfect touch of rebellion.” Peeta murmurs at my side, recalling Haymitch’s comment when we did the same last year. He speaks so quiet even the microphones surely hidden all around us would have difficulty picking it up.

When the program concludes we send the tributes off to bed. “Let the grown-ups talk!” Haymitch tosses out.

“Get some rest.” Peeta offers as a softer dismissal. “Tomorrow the real work begins.”

Chapter Text

I wake to the sensation of Katniss pressed tightly against my chest. The dawn light bouncing off the sleek metallic and candy coated buildings of the Capitol and angling it directly in my eyes.

I can’t sleep with the windows open here. The windows of the tribute center simply don’t open. And even if they did, I’m sure a force field would wait on the other side, just like the roof. The compromise I came to with myself was to leave the curtains open instead. If I couldn’t feel the open air, then at least I’d have visual confirmation of a world that exists outside of this room.

I’d woken twice in the night by terrors of Katniss being ripped from my arms, of Cato storming into the cave, our cave, and killing her in front of me. As usual, my mind was eased by the sight of her safe, the feel of her wrapped in my arms, her cheek pressed against my chest, her leg thrown over my good one, her fingers gripping my t-shirt subconsciously in sleep, like the thought of me slipping from her grasp was unthinkable. She had, for once, slept better than I. Only waking me with her thrashing once. I don’t know if she ever was fully awake before I calmed her back into a quiet, still, sleep.

I let myself hold her as I watch the sunrise inch over the horizon. It's not until a bright clear blue has replaced all the remaining shades of indigo and soft orange that she finally stirs. Katniss turns in my arms enough to stretch her own high over her head, so much like her sister’s cat I have to stifle my laugh. She’d hate such a comparison. Personally, I find Buttercup a perfectly lovely creature but there is clearly some deep-seated tension between Katniss and that cat, that amuses me to no end.

“Morning.” She murmurs tucking herself back against my shoulder.

“Morning, Katniss.” I whisper into her hair.

“It was just a dream that we were back in Twelve, wasn’t it?” She questions, gray eyes remaining closed, tight as can be.

“It unfortunately was.” I confirm for her, earning a dramatic groan in response. “C’mon, Mira and Owen need us to get them ready for their first training session.” I encourage.

“I know.” She answers.

“Y’know, I was so nervous for our first session last year.” I admit.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Her eyes meeting mine.

“Good.” I state. “I was so worried about you thinking I was frightened and weak.”

“I’ve never thought of you like that.” She declares casually, finally sitting up.

“Not even when I had blood poisoning and a fever, dying in a cave?” I question.

“Nope.” She confirms. “You didn’t think I was frightened and weak when I was trying not to gag at the sight of your festering wounds?”

“A pretty girl was stripping me of my clothes and tending my wounds, I promise, it never even remotely crossed my mind to consider you weak.” I throw a wink her way, making her whole face blush in response, exactly as I had hoped.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go, get dressed.” She shoves me gently on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you out there.”

When I emerge from my room, a while later, having showered and dressed, I find our Mira Belle already sat at the large dining table, alone and nursing another steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Morning, Mira.” I comment, approaching the Avox placed next to the grand buffet table. My simple, “Good Morning,” goes, understandably, unreturned with anything beyond a nod of acknowledgement. But my mother would be quite angry to learn I missed even that moment of politeness, she raised me better after all.

Gathering a strong cup of coffee, I sit myself in the empty chair next to Mira. “Did you sleep alright?” I ask her.

“Fine.” She answers with a noncommital shrug. “Um…Peeta?” She begins, leaning towards me and tucking her head.

“Yes, Mira?” I ask, mirroring her body language.

“Why…why doesn’t he talk?” She whispers, brown eyes flitting momentarily to the Avox server she can certainly still see over my shoulder.

“He’s an Avox.” I begin, dipping my voice so only she can hear, fingers clinging to the warmth of the mug in my hand. “He…he’s had his tongue removed, he can no longer speak.”

“Wha…why?” Her eyes go wide with fear. But at least she has the wherewithal to keep her question hushed.

“He likely did something that they considered treasonous, and the Capitol punished him for it.” I explain. “He won’t hurt you Mira. You don’t need to worry. He was here with us last year, and he was kind.”

“I…I know.” She answers, her face softening and I realize I have misread her reaction. She’s shocked and sorry for the man, not afraid of him. “That’s so cruel.” She comments under her breath. I immediately straighten up, there are no doubt cameras and audio bugs hidden everywhere on our floor, especially after Snow’s very explicit threats to Katniss before the tour.

I was sure we were goner’s after the incident in Eleven: with me offering money to Thresh and Rue’s families, with the man giving us the three-finger salute, his immediate public execution. But we played along for the rest of our time travelling through Panem, behaved as nothing but the perfect, dutiful, victors. I quickly lost count of how many times I said the words, “and we owe it all to the mercy of the Capitol.”

I still don’t quite know what finally convinced the districts of our story, what exactly we did that worked to “fix things” as Katniss said we were required. Maybe we didn’t, just slowed things down. Or maybe he just decided it was worth the risk to draw out our torture a little longer, leave us in limbo just to force us to spend the next 10 years watching District 12 kids die brutally in the Games. Then when he’s done playing with us like chess pieces, or as soon as we step just enough out of line, he’ll certainly organize some mysterious accident to off us or our loved ones.

“Peeta?” Mira’s soft voice cuts through my panicked thoughts. She must read on my face that she’s done something wrong, that something has shifted by her comment. Her brown eyes go wide flicking up to the ceiling and around the room for just a flash of a moment, before she blanks her face and gives me one small miniscule nod. Hmm…maybe our Mira Belle is wiser than we thought.

“Peeta, what should I have for breakfast today?” She raises her voice for the benefit of the hidden microphones.

“Whatever you’d like.” I answer with equally feigned casualness. “We want you well-fed for your first day of training.” I bring her back to the buffet table and follow behind holding her plate as she piles it high with a bit of everything they’ve made for us.

“Good Morning!” The chipper voice of Effie emerges from the elevator as Mira and I return to our seats. One by one the rest of our team joins us, although it takes a second wake up call, this time from Cinna, to finally rouse Owen from his bed. His dark curls a tangled bird's nest atop his head.

Polite chatter bounces around the table until everyone has had their fill, with Mira even shyly asking me if she’s allowed seconds. Of course she is, I’m sure she’s never had enough for a truly full serving let alone for a second. The food is one of the rare silver linings of this entire barbaric horror show. So, I let myself revel in her excited smile when I tell her, she’s “welcome to as much as she can stomach.”

“So this is what we want you to do.” Haymitch begins. “They will all be watching you, just as you will watch them. So don’t give the whole game away today. Try a few things, fail at a few things. Today is just about getting a sense of everyone else and a sense of what you might be good at.”

“And stick together.” Katniss adds. “For now, you are a pair.”

“I’d like you each to come back with three observations about other tributes.” I finish, offering the final prepared bit of advice our team discussed last night.

“And see if you can find any hints to what the arena might be.” Haymitch suddenly speaks up. “Sometimes they hide subtle hints about the arena in the training so make a note of the different stations they are offering you and at dinner I’ll have you list off all the ones you can remember.”

With that it’s time to send them off. Effie escorts them down just as she did us last year, leaving Katniss and I with Haymitch and the stylists behind in the suite.

“You two lie low today, stay here around the apartment, discuss strategy on presentation with Cinna and Portia.” Haymitch declares, with the same gruff, disinterested, tone he used when instructing Owen and Mira. I guess once a mentor always a mentor.

“Aren’t we supposed to be getting sponsors lined up before the Games start?” Katniss scoffs.

“Yes, but you two are already the ‘talk of the town’ as Effie said. Make them wait, make them earn your favor. If you hold out on them a bit when you finally make yourselves available to discuss sponsorships they'll come out swinging with more money and bigger promises.” Haymitch explains.

“So no sponsors today?” I question.

“I’m going to go out there and get a sense of the support as it stands now, Effie is drumming up some more. I’m also going to check in with a few old goats who usually are interested in supporting us backwater District 12 kids and see if I can get some unofficial deals made ahead of time.” Our mentor adds. “But remember, only you two can officially accept money and sponsor gifts for them. You’re the mentors not me, this is just me collecting on some IOUs and some handshake deals.”

“When will you have us go out and start making official deals?” Katniss asks.

“Tomorrow I’ll take Peeta with me. Then the day after, Katniss, I’ll take you. Let you hone your skills under my excellent tutelage, once more.” He taunts. “But once the Games start, you two will do it together. The Mentor Hall is always chock full of eager philanthropists just looking to throw their money at anything and like I said you’re…”

“Fresh meat? The talk of the town?” Katniss jests.

“The newcomers.” I join in, “The star-crossed lovers of District 12, the Capitol's latest obsession.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Alls this to say that they’ll all want to get a chance to talk to you two and they’ll want to do it together.” Haymitch brushes us off, rising to change and depart.

When our tributes return, they are in higher spirits than I expected. Owen, in particular, seems much more positive about the forthcoming week and is immediately eager to share his findings. It seems they took it upon themselves to split their focus by gender, Mira paid attention to the other female tributes and Owen the boys.

They take turns sharing the things they picked up on. Some are simple, things our team has already realized, like the fact that there’s only two or three tributes who seem like real physical threats this year, the boys from District 1, District 2, and District 10. All tall and broad, eighteen, clearly have some experience with training: the boys from One and Two, or hard-labor: the boy from Ten.

Other observations are more intriguing though, like the way the two tributes from District 2 seemed at odds all day. Mira notes for us that they separated from the moment they entered and spent the day almost actively avoiding being at the same station.

“Hmm…the career pack was already forming that first day of training last year.” Peeta comments. “Were there any districts or tributes that seemed to align?”

“The pair from One stayed together, the boy from Two kind of came and went with them.”

“What about the tributes from Four?” Peeta asks.

“No, they didn’t seem interested in alliances. Stayed just the two of them together like Mira and I.” Owen explains.

“That’s a good start.” Peeta compliments their findings. “Do the same thing tomorrow, make a note of what weapons people seem to excel in. If the Gamemakers think they have a tribute who’s skilled in a particular one, they’ll usually ensure they put one in the arena.”

“Like the bow Katniss used last year.” Mira recalls.

“Yes.” I confirm. “But they put it deep in the cornucopia so I decided not to risk it by going for it at the bloodbath.”

Once we’ve all had our fill of dinner, Lamb Stew much to my joy, I put forth an idea that came to mind while Haymitch left us sequestered in the suite all day. “I’d like you to practice knife throwing.”

“I was going to tomorrow.” Owen states. “That station was pretty packed today.”

“Not tomorrow, tonight.”

“Is that allowed?” Peeta asks, turning to Haymitch.

“I don’t think it's explicitly not allowed.” Our mentor answers. “They aren’t supposed to get into fights with other tributes so I guess as long as they don’t throw the knives at each other we might get away with it.”

“We can just use butter knifes.” I suggest. “I just want you two to work on your aim and we don’t exactly have any spears or bows lying around here.”

“I’m in.” Owen agrees.

“I guess I can give it a shot.” Mira adds.

For the next two hours, Mira and Owen take turns throwing the heavy butter knives across the living room. It takes a lot of small adjustments and tries but eventually; they hit the pillow we propped up as a target more often than they miss. Soundtracking the evening with the repeated clatter of the dull metal blades hitting the floor, a welcome rhythmic interruption to Claudius and Caesar’s Pre-Game Special that drones out of the television’s speakers.

By the time we send our tributes off to bed, I’m already trying to come up with other small things we can teach them away from the eyes of the other tributes and teams. Peeta could teach them some basic wrestling principles which might help if they end up in hand-to-hand combat. I can teach them to move quietly through the woods. I doubt the arena will be as perfectly honed to my skills as it was last year. I’ve pissed Snow off too many times to hope I’d ever get even remotely as lucky. But, being able to move as silently as possible could take them far and keep them hidden regardless of setting.

There has to be other skills too. I’m certainly not an expert at knife throwing but between, Peeta, Haymitch, and I we managed to give them at least a passable lesson. Maybe some basic healing? I did an ok job helping Peeta when I found him by the stream last year. The small remedies from my mother and the burn ointment went far to keep me going early on too. Maybe some simple snares?

I wish I had a bow. If only I could at least give them a few lessons on how to shoot. I’ve never taught anyone, and the only person I’d ever seen try to teach the weapon was my father. But even one or two private lessons on it with them could make a difference, even with a likely subpar teacher like myself. A bow wouldn’t require them to get as close to their competitors. It would allow them more distance. In theory they could get high and stay there, hunt for food from above, even take out a tribute who happened by their hiding spot if they had to.

The thought immediately brings Marvel to the forefront of my mind. My stomach roils at the prospect of Owen or Mira having to kill like I have. No, it’s not a prospect, it’s nearly a certainty. If either of them is going to come out as the Victor it's an undeniable truth that they will have to kill. That they will spend the rest of their life having to live with that fact, with that blood on their hands.

I don’t know any Victor who became one without spilling a little blood. Peeta would be the closest I’d guess, but whether or not it was intentional, he’s at least somewhat responsible for the fox-faced girl’s death, he pushed Cato from the cornucopia and into the dog mutts. No, there’s no world in which a Victor emerges from that arena without spilling blood, without being haunted by ghosts.

Glimmer. Marjorie. Marvel. Cato.

The ghosts that will haunt me forever. I hadn’t even known Marjorie or Marvel’s names until the tour. At first I thought it would be easier, to keep them filed in my mind simply as the girl from District 4 and the boy from District 1. In the end though I couldn’t avoid it, and learning their names had changed nothing. Marjorie’s bloated face and Marvel’s empty eyes still make me ill, still force me awake with screaming gasping breaths every time those particular nightmares come about.

Rue. Thresh.

Their spirits haunt me too. In a more mournful, moroser way. The memory of them forces me to wake with tear-stained cheeks and an ache in my chest, rather than screams, but they haunt me all the same.

I know as I hear Peeta sneak into my dark room that even with his arms there to protect me, nothing will save me from the people and visions who haunt me tonight.

The next two mornings I wake with steadily rising unease and anxiety. The next two nights I suffer through more nightmares than I have in months, and no amount of comfort or soothing words from Peeta seem to help.

He’s handling things no better. Peeta actually wakes me from a nightmare of his own for once, his entire body going stiff and his arms tightening around me hard enough in sleep to wake me up. He seems to have developed a nervous tick of biting his fingernails, and his curls are perpetually mussed with all the tugging on them his hands are doing.

To no one's surprise, Peeta is much better at wooing the sponsors than I am. According to Haymitch, Peeta is as charming and kind as ever, a natural at convincing people they should support our tributes and their chances. I do my best to smile and play along but it all feels so forced, so unnatural.

I understand how it helps, that all the laughing at bad jokes and dancing around questions about the wedding, even putting up with the constant oohing and ahhing over my ring, it all means money for our tributes. It could mean bread or soup when they are hungry. Water when they’re dehydrated. Perhaps even medicine, like the burn ointment Haymitch sent me last year. But still the idea of talking odds of a child’s survival…

Haymitch manages with the ease of someone doing this for far too long. He knows when to smile, when to challenge, when to pull back. But there’s something in his eyes that I catch occasionally, something empty and broken.

It’s much easier for me to focus on the more direct ways we can help Owen and Mira. In the evenings we have them continue practicing with the throwing knives. Cinna makes the whole thing easier and Effie less aghast at our destruction of the Tribute Center’s decor by some donated pillows from his apartment. With that we can hand them the sharp knives, and the lighter ones that felt a bit more like the ones I remember from the arena.

Owen lets Peeta show him a few basic wrestling moves, and the boy does decently with getting out of them, despite his smaller frame. It’s Peeta who suggests I partner with Mira so she can learn them too. We were right about her speed and she’s not shy about throwing a knee or elbow into me to get out of my, probably too weak, hold on her. The poor girl is incredibly apologetic afterward, but hey if she gets some practice getting away from a bigger opponent, I’m fine with it. Even if it's at the expense of my knee or results in a few bruises.

We teach them some basic emergency medical skills: how to use fabric as a bandage, how to make a tourniquet, the warning signs of infection, how to tend to a fever on yourself if you have to.

I give them some tips on how to soften their footsteps, what to listen for to make sure you’re not being followed or tracked yourself, even the basics of how to track game. We have to get quite creative practicing these new skills in the apartment.

In the end, we take turns wearing a scarf of Portia’s as a blindfold as the others sneak around the room. The blindfolded person guessing where the others are and the others try not to be caught. It actually becomes quite fun after a time, even Effie and Portia join in.

The one skill we don’t tell Effie about is the quick lesson we give them on how to start a fire. Upon Haymitch’s suggestion, we plan to do it in one of the very large bathtubs. With the fan on and someone always at the ready to turn the tap once the spark catches, we might give them some halfway decent practice with it.

Of course, it's only after I’ve spent a good 20 minutes lecturing them on fire safety and the dangers that would come with lighting a fire at night, that Owen cuts me off to remind me they both know how to start a fire, have been doing it for years in the hearths of their respective homes in the Seam. Apparently, that pendant he wears on a tarnished chain, he’s even used as a striker before on truly desperate nights.

“That’s actually quite impressive.” Peeta declares after Owen gives us a demonstration.

“Great for making friends.” The boy jokes. “Or impressing pretty girls.” He adds with a pointed wink in my direction.

“I’m already the girl on fire.” I answer. “I’ve got more than enough fire of my own to be impressed by a few sparks.”

I surprise even myself with the witty comment, a skill much more in line with Peeta’s wheelhouse, but it makes all three of my companions laugh so I don’t let myself think too hard on it. It's such an odd scene, four kids laughing in this place of nightmares, the cold tile beneath our legs and wide toothy smiles on our faces.

The kids do a decent job of hiding their fear, and I hope we’ve done a decent job in giving them the occasional escape from it. That wasn’t the original intention, and it's hard to forget what you’re learning to hide from and sneak around even when we make a joke of it. But, if we can provide these kids with something to smile about, even for a moment, well that’s something isn’t it?

The extra work shows at least a little in their training scores. A tribute from a poor district like Twelve, as young and as small as Mira, a child who has never had enough food or training, well they can expect to score maybe a 4 or 5 if they’re lucky. But our Mira Belle manages a 6. We can work with a 6. The boy from Three who won about five years ago, Maxon or Magnus, he had a 6 and he managed it.

Owen earns himself a 9. Peeta secured himself an 8, and he sits here beside me. A 9 is good! A 9 will get us sponsors. There have been several victors who have scored an 8 or 9. Why couldn’t we add one more?

The Victor from 3 who won the 6 though, I shudder to think of what happened to him afterward. He didn’t survive to our Games, a slip of the hand when working in his lab late one night. An accident, they say. I remember the mandatory viewing afterward, where they recapped his Games and bemoaned the loss of a Victor gone too soon. The Capitol news presenters were nearly salivating at the great tragedy of it all: to have survived the Games at 18, finally be gifted the life of a Victor, and then still to die at only 21. But Haymitch has made the odd comment and with my own experiences with Snow, it makes me wonder what truly happened to him. Did he step out of line? Refuse some dark secret order? Or perhaps the nightmares and trauma of the Games simply became too much for poor Maxon.

No, if we get Mira out of this, if we can bring her home, I will do everything I can to make sure she is safe. To spare her the fate of that Victor from 3. Owen too, if either of them survives this they deserve a long life, a peaceful life, as far from Snow’s grasp as we can manage. They deserve the “Victor’s Life” we were promised. The life that our trick with the berries has stolen from us.

But now, we’ve learned our lesson and we’ve learned a bit about how to play Snow’s true Game. Yes, a 6 and a 9, those are both very manageable.

The day of their interviews comes too fast, but Cinna and Portia have outdone themselves once again. Leaning into the Capitol’s fascination with the capes they wore in the parade, they dress our tributes in similar shifting fabrics.

For Mira, a gown of shadows and silver that changes with every graceful step she takes. She took to the heels and gowns much easier than I did. But in the end, Portia has chosen simple flats for her to wear, so she carries herself with an ease and casualness that is quite becoming. Her dark hair flows over her shoulders in light waves, framing her warm brown eyes perfectly. Atop her head sits a laurel of roses, black as coal.

Cinna has dressed Owen complimentary, just like they did with Peeta and I last year. He wears black trousers and a black button-up shirt, made of that soft silk-like fabric that is so popular in the Capitol. Over it, Cinna has draped him in a long gray coat of the same moving silver material. The shades of the coat emphasizing his piercing Seam eyes. Cinna adds a final touch of a coal black rose on his lapel and it seems even Flavius has managed a miracle by taming Owen’s curls into place.

Side by side, they look brilliant. Striking. Imposing. Like Victors.

We wait as long as we can to take our seats among the other mentors and stylists, arriving just in time to catch the horns that sound the announcement of Caesar Flickerman’s entrance.

He has had his own last-minute touch-ups it seems. At the Reaping coverage and the few Pre-Game specials I’ve suffered through, he had his hair dyed as pink as Effie’s. But tonight? No tonight, he arrives on stage in his standard blue suit and his hair, eyelids, and lips painted a startling silver. Cinna and Portia, truly ever the trendsetters.

Just as the reaping recap, I find myself only half paying attention. Focused instead on the way Peeta’s fingers keep twitching nervously in my own. It’s only when I shift his hold in a way that lets his fidgeting become focused on my engagement ring does some of the tension leave his shoulders. His fingers rhythmically twist the band back and forth as one-by-one each Tribute puts on their part of the show, inching closer and closer to our Mira and Owen.

When it’s finally her turn, Mira approaches the dais with a grace and confidence that’s gone yet unseen in our bird-like girl. Her chin lifts high, unyielding as she meets Caesar’s eyes with her own.

She does a very good job hiding her nerves, speaking in a slow, steady, voice just like we practiced. She talks about her family: her father and two little brothers back home, how she’s been helping to care for them since losing her mother. She declares that it's dangerous to underestimate the tributes just because they are from an outer district. Perfect. Then goes a step further and reminds the audience that Rue saved me and kept me alive after the tracker jacker attack, how dropping the nest had been Rue’s idea initially. Well, that we didn’t prepare. That is all Mira. I can’t stop myself from stiffening at the reminder but the audience seems moved by the memory, so maybe it's worth it. Peeta offers me a silent squeeze of my hand in acknowledgement.

She completes her portion with a confident declaration to the audience, “Just because someone doesn’t at first glance, look like a good bet, doesn’t mean they aren’t. There are more to the Games than strength and size. Many Victors have earned that title with their wits and speed, their ability to outlast the rest.”

“Well, that is certainly true, Miss Belle!” Caesar smiles widely at her. “Now, I have to ask! Your Mentor, our beloved Girl on Fire, put on quite a show for us last year. Will you give us a twirl in this brilliant gown?”

Mira stands and looks to Portia. I see her from the corner of my eye give our Tribute the familiar sign to spin. As Mira begins to twirl, something shifts in the audience. Gasps of surprise, fascination, and encouragement echo around the grand theater.

I hadn’t noticed it before but Portia has carefully tucked gems into the gowns folds. As she spins, she becomes swallowed by a shimmery, sparkling, shadow. The hem of her gown seems to flow in and out of existence as the fabric flutters around her ankles. It’s truly a sight I won’t soon forget, and nothing could stop the proud smile that spreads across my cheeks.

Once Caesar has finished his fawning over Portia and Cinna’s work and the crowd has calmed enough, he dismisses Mira back to her seat. The audience sends her off with a level of applause usually reserved for the surest bets or Capitol favorites.

My eyes find Peeta’s and I can see that same pride on his face. She did good. He mouths to me. He’s right. Our Mira did well. But we aren’t out of the woods yet, there is still one more interview of the night.

It had been a bit harder to convince Owen to play up the facade than I had hoped. He had been making jokes about it all week, but when it came time to practice and prepare for his interview with Caesar, he had some second thoughts. The problem was, he was good at it! The Acting. Definitely better at it than I’ve ever been. In the end we practiced both ways, with the arrogance and charm and as the more straightlaced, albeit angry, 15-year-old he actually is. When our time ended, he still hadn’t decided, and I had run out of ideas on how to convince him.

I had laid down for the night, restless and anxious, trying to come up with anything else that might work on Owen.

But in the end, as usual, Peeta came through. He slipped into my room and laid down at my side. As I tucked myself against his chest, he whispered into the dark, “I talked to Owen. He’s going to play the charmer.”

“Thank you.” Was all I managed to verbalize, pressing myself tighter against him to hide my desperate relief from the moonlight creeping into the room.

Whatever Peeta did to convince Owen to play it up definitely worked. He approaches Caesar with that carefully crafted smirk and a mischievous glint in his silver eyes.

“Mr. Sparrow!” Caesar declares, shaking the young man’s hand. “Now to save myself the heart attack your mentor gave me last year, I have to start with this question! Do you have any confessions of love to regale us with?”

Owen lets out an easy laugh, right on cue, the audience joining in. “No, no, Caesar! Listen, Mira is a lovely girl and a very competent competitor, but she’s a little young for me.” He jokes.

“So Peeta hasn’t given you any advice in that part of your life?”

“Well, I’ve been a little preoccupied with other things Caesar.” Owen jokes. “Let me get myself back home to 12 and then I’ll be happy to take any advice they have on the matter. Or hey if Peeta isn’t careful, I might just snag Katniss from him.”

That sends the audience into hysterics. Peeta, ever adaptable, simply lifts the amber filled glass he has been pretending to nurse. A joking challenge to our Tribute for the pleasure of the cameras. He punctuates the act by lifting our joined hands to place a quick kiss to the back of my fingers for all to see.

“But enough about my mentors, eh? I think we’ve all heard enough about them the last year or so!” Owen calls, beating Caesar to a comment to calm the crowd. Good. We drilled into them how limited their time is. Good, bring it back to yourself. I silently commend the boy.

Caesar asks him a few questions about his life back in 12, and Owen spins a truly tragic tale of loss, survival, and perseverence, hitting every point we practiced. It’s clear he’s nearly done when Caesar asks him why he’d make a good bet in the Games.

“Well, Caesar, no one thought I’d survive this long, and yet hear I sit. I’ve made a habit of proving my doubter’s wrong.” Owen declares, a proud smile across his cheeks. “And I have no intention of stopping now!”

“That’s a line for the Victor’s reel.” The stylist seated to Peeta’s left remarks haphazardly. Whether she means she thinks Owen has a shot at coming out of this a Victor of if she’s making a dig at the arrogance in the statement I’m not entirely sure. Either way, Caesar’s last comment cuts off anything else she’d add.

“Well, I won’t ask you to twirl like your District partner!” Caesar jokes. “Unless you want to!”

“Oh no, I can’t quite pull off a twirl like Katniss or Mira.” He answers.

“Then we shall call it a night!” Caesar states. “Ladies and Gentleman, from District 12, Owen Sparrow.”

Owen rises to his feet to the loud applause of the crowd. He pauses for just half a second, eyes flicking up to our place on the dais. With a quick wink, he places a hand on his chest, extends the other, and bows. The crowd roars.

No one can say that the boy didn’t make an impression. No matter what happens in the coming weeks, Owen Sparrow has successfully sold a bit of his soul and earned himself the Capitol’s attention. Now it's up to us to make it all worth it.

Tomorrow the real Games begin.

Chapter Text

I wake with a different sense of dread this year. Last year, when I woke the morning of the Games, I’d been scared but almost resigned. When Cinna arrived in my room that morning, a simple shift in hand, I knew there was no escape. I was going into the arena. I had a clear goal: survive, fight, kill if I had to, and get home. If I got lucky, if I found a bow, I knew I had a real chance of getting back to District 12, back to Prim, and my mother, and Gale. Yes, Haymitch was supposed to be looking out for us. Helping us in whatever ways he could on the outside. But in the end, if anything happened to me it would be on me, because I failed. I just had to make it through the next few weeks. Just survive long enough to make it home.

This year though, it's not me who Cinna is greeting like a benevolent omen. It's not me who’ll be ushered to a hovercraft, have a tracker injected in their arm, and get carted like chattel to the arena. Instead, I’ll rise out of my bed, get prepped and dressed, be served a large breakfast. Then when I’m ready, and only when I’m ready, I’ll make my way down to the first floor of the Training Center in time for the gong. The ease of my morning, compared to what awaits our tributes, sickens me.

We’ve done everything we can to prepare them. We’ll do everything we can on the outside to help them. But once they disappear into that elevator, it's on them. Mira and Owen. If they are going to survive the forthcoming weeks and make it home, it's on them to do it. All Peeta and I can do is watch, and hope, and worry, and send the occasional roll of bread.

I want to burrow myself further into the pillows and hide from the world. I want to forget the last week. I want to go home. I want to never have to take part in another games again, in any capacity. I don’t even want to watch.

No. I force my mind to stay on task, to focus on Owen and Mira and what I’m going to say to them. They’ve rebuilt the Games Center, so now it's attached to the Tribute Building. We actually have the chance to say a few final words before sending them off. It’s a luxury we were not given last year from Haymitch. I certainly don’t have time to waste fondly recalling the safety of my bed at home: tucked away from the world next to Prim, her warmth, the faint smell of medicinal herbs and light lavender that always clings to her hair.

I feel a different, much larger, and arguably much warmer blond shift behind me in the bed. Rolling onto his side, he wraps a leaden arm around my stomach, pinning me deeper into the too soft mattress. Clearly, he’s not ready to face this day either.

“What time is it?” Peeta murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Early. But we have to be up soon.” I answer, making no attempt at movement.

It’s Effie’s persistent knocking and the echoing clacking of her heels moving down the hall to Peeta’s unused room that finally spur us to rise from the bed.

“See you soon.” Peeta states, solemnly, before slipping out of the room to get ready for the day, leaving me to the same.

I shower and change into the dress Cinna has set aside for me as quick as I can. Emerging into the living room barefoot and with still dripping hair just in time to see our tributes off.

“Mira!” I call, rushing across the cool floor to meet her where she stands with Portia, waiting at the elevator for their turn to depart.

Fear is painted across her features, warm brown eyes wider than I’ve ever seen. She throws herself around my waist and I instinctually clutch her to me like I do Prim when she has a nightmare.

This sweet, scared, small girl. My sisters classmate, desperate to protect her family like me, like Rue. “I like your dress.” She speaks against the black velvet fabric that Cinna has dressed me in. The incongruous compliment clashing with the weight of the day. A light chuckle escapes my lips, as I pet her hair.

“Thank you, Mira.” I answer, stepping out of her hold but keeping my hands on her shoulders. “Remember what we said, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

“Run away from the bloodbath, then try to find water.” She declares, voice only slightly catching over the words.

“Exactly.” Peeta confirms, appearing over Mira’s shoulder. She lets go of me to embrace Peeta with the same force and desperation with which she greeted me.

“And then?” He asks, wrapping his strong arms around her. Her height and the breadth of his arms nearly hide her face completely from the world as he does. Tucking her away, safe, like a baby bird in its nest.

“Food is second. Water first, then food. Hide when I need to sleep. My goal is to outlast not fight.” She answers, voice muffled against Peeta’s dark shirt.

“Yes.” I state, stepping up to the pair. “Remember, we’re going to do everything we can on our end to keep you safe, we believe in you Mira. Never forget that!”

“You’re smart, you’re quick, and you can stay hidden. Don’t take unnecessary risks if you don’t have to.” Peeta adds. “We’re rooting for you! We’re fighting for you!”

The elevator doors ring as they open on our floor, breaking the moment. Peeta wide eyes meet mine as Mira squeezes him instinctually tighter. “Ok.” He murmurs, tucking his head to place a kiss on her hair. “You are much stronger than you think you are Mira. I know it!”

He peels her off of him as gently as he can, but we are running out of time. Portia can only hold the elevator door open for so long. I approach our Mira Belle one more time, placing my own comforting kiss against her brow. “Remember who you’re fighting for. Do this for your father. For Willy and Alex!” I add, cupping her face. She’s a big sister like me, driven to protect and fight for her siblings like me. “Think of Willy and Alex! Getting home for them!”

She takes a deep, shaky breath, brown eyes shifting from fear into a resolute strength. I let the tether panic has on my heart loosen for just a moment, replacing it with a glimmer of pride in this sweet, kind, brave girl. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, Peeta guides her the last two steps into the elevator. Once she’s in, he steps back taking my hand in his, holding her in our gaze until the doors have stolen her from us.

Only once she’s out of sight, does the fear crash over me again and I feel the sob I’ve been shoving down my throat finally escape. Before I have the chance to right myself, Peeta’s arms are around me, his hand cupping the back of my head as he presses it against his shoulder. I allow myself only a second to sink into the comfort of him and calm myself.

“I’m ok.” I declare, stepping out of his hold. “I’m ok.”

I school my face just in time, as the click of the door at the end of the hall interrupts the quiet hum of the apartment. Cinna appears, Owen just a half-step behind. He’s closed off again, arms crossed tightly against his chest. His gray eyes are sharp, nearly piercing with anger and determination as they meet mine, just like when he climbed those steps at the reaping. Good, he’ll need to hold on to that fight.

“Any last advice?” He asks us, voice flat.

“Haymitch would tell you to stay alive.” I speak first. “But you’re already planning to do that.”

“You bet.” He answers, “Gotta earn my right to call you a nickname.”

“And prove them all wrong.” I add.

“Fuck’em all.” Owen recalls my assertion from the train.

“Fuck’em all.” I agree. Even though it's me who initiates the hug, I’m still surprised when he steps into my arms. “Now tell me, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?” I ask.

He steps back, puffing out his chest in a show of pride, but his hands are shaking slightly, betraying his fear. “Water is first. Then food.”

“And the bloodbath?” Peeta asks.

“Avoid it.” Owen repeats our advice. He takes a steeling breath before adding, “If there’s a bag right in front of me I might go for it though.” Those startling Seam eyes shift quickly between Peeta and I, a silent seeking of approval of his plan.

“Ok.” I remark, my stomach already flipping at the thought of him falling in the early minutes in some desperate grabbing for a backpack. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If you go for one and someone beats you to it, forget it and just get clear of the cornucopia.”

“What else?” Peeta prompts him.

“I should get high or hide to sleep.” Owen continues, recalling our words from last night.

“Yes.” I confirm.

“If I find Mira I’m going to help her.” Owen adds, voice stern like he’s waiting for us to argue with him over this second suggestion.

“Ok.” Peeta agrees. “But remember that you need to keep yourself safe to.”

“Outlast.” Owen says.

“Outlast.” Peeta states.

“We’ll do everything we can on our side to help you! We’re going to fight for you, but we need you to fight for yourself too! You’re stronger than you think you are! You’re smart! You’re quick! You can do this, Owen!” I declare, a twinge of desperation leaking into my tone.

“Remember what you’re fighting for.” Peeta adds. “You’re fighting to get home, you’re fighting for your mother’s memory, and your fighting for yourself.”

“Last year, Cinna told me something before I went in.” I begin, gesturing to our shared stylist watching from a few steps away, leaving us to have this last moment with our tribute.

“I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could I’d bet on you.” Cinna supplies, a fond smile across his lips and genuine kindness in his familiar golden brown eyes.

“Exactly.” I state. “I’d bet on you, Owen. You can do this! I really believe that!”

“Thanks Katniss.” Owen states. “I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

“Just fight to come back to us.” I tell him. “That’s all you’d need to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Owen answers with a smirk.

“You can do this, and remember we’re fighting for you too.” Peeta declares.

“Thanks Peeta.” Owen answers, surprising Peeta as he steps forward to pull him into a hug as well. “Really, thank you for everything.” He speaks against the fabric covering, Peeta’s broader shoulder.

The elevator dings once more, the doors opening. “Ok, its time to go.” Cinna speaks.

Peeta lets the boy go, stepping back as Owen approaches me once more.

He wraps me in another quick hug before stepping back, shrinking in on himself at taking the extra act of affection, but that cocky smirk returns to his face. “Y’know Katniss, I’ll be fighting for you too.” Our tribute declares with a wink, earning a laugh from a surprised Peeta before he can muffle it behind his hand.

“Whatever it takes to get you home, kid.” I answer, cupping his face and placing a loud kiss against his cheek. His wide, shocked, silver eyes and bright red blush prove once more that his flirtatious comments are, as always, all a defensive act.

“It's ok to be scared.” I remind him, quietly, walking him through the doors where Cinna waits. Peeta steps up to my side and takes my hand in his once again. “You can do this, Owen!” I declare one more time. He tosses us a last smile as the doors close, this one more genuine and confident than any of the faux-bravado he’d been playing at the last few days.

Peeta and I stand there in silence, clinging to any semblance of strength our joined hands can give us for several minutes. It isn’t until the doors open once more and our prep teams emerge that we finally move out of the entryway and into our respective rooms for final touches.

They are less excitable than I’m used to, perhaps they also sense the albatross hovering over us all like a shadow. Flavius keeps the conversation light, sticking to complimenting the health of my hair after a year of using the products they’ve been sending me.

Venia praises the collection Cinna has put together for me to wear through the length of the Games. “It’s so important to make a good impression on the sponsors after all.” She notes, when commenting on the various sleek dresses and sets he has made for me in varying shades of coal black and grey.

“From what I’ve heard, everyone is itching to work with you and Peeta.” Octavia supplies. “So hopefully, you’ll have lots of sponsor money to help them.”

“Yes. I hope so.” Is my only response.

Once they are done with their work, we all return to the central area for breakfast, joining Peeta, his own prep team, and Effie in a tense quiet meal. I barely choke down a handful of bites of eggs, too focused on the ticking clock I can just make out from my seat at the table. Haymitch finally emerges from his room as Peeta and I rise to leave.

“Where have you been?” I spit out. Had he really drank so much last night that he couldn’t do the bare minimum of dragging himself out of bed early enough to see our tributes off?

“Getting my beauty rest.” He answers. “I’ll need it for the night shift?”

“The night shift?”

“I’ve asked Haymitch to monitor our tributes overnight. We’ll work with the sponsors during the day and do what we can while they are awake. But I figured we’d be able to sleep easier knowing someone was watching over them while we get some sleep.” Peeta explains.

“Especially someone with my extensive experience.” Haymitch snarks. “I believe those were your exact words, boy.”

“Yes, well, it is so appreciated.” Peeta throws back, mimicking our mentor’s tone. “Are you ready, Katniss?” He turns to me, immediately softening his voice.

“Any last advice?” I ask Haymitch. “Or suggestions you’ve gained from your extensive experience of course.”

“When dealing with the sponsors, stay together, work together. You are a pair, work as a pair.” He advises.

“And the other mentors?” Peeta asks.

“Be polite but don’t go out of your way to make friends unless one of those kids makes a real alliance with a tribute from another district.” Our mentor suggests. “And remember, you all are trying to save your own tributes, so no matter how nice and genuine they seem they aren’t there to save Mira and Owen, only you are.”

“And any advice for that?” I repeat.

“Keep the sponsors on your side, you’ve already built up quite a pot with some, and with a lot of the others you’ve laid the groundwork, just need to seal the deal. And…” Haymitch begins, his eyes seeking anything but Peeta and I.

“And what, Haymitch?” I spit out.

“And don’t get too attached.” Haymitch declares, voice grim with resignation brought on by 22 years of false hope, grief, and loss. “Although I think its too late for that.”

The large television in the sitting room springs to life, the familiar faces of Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman appearing before us as they begin their pre-Games coverage for the morning. I catch Haymitch flinch at the sound of their voices. His discomfort lasts for only a moment before he shifts his face into his usual disinterest and nonchalance.

“Come on Katniss.” Peeta speaks, breaking me from my examination of our mentor. “We need to get down there.”

I pull my gaze from Haymitch’s gray eyes to find Peeta’s blue. He’s masking it better than I surely am, but I can tell in the stiff way he offers me his elbow, that he’s just as scared as me. He doesn’t even relax into my touch like usual when I rest my hand on his arm.

“Hey switch sides, show off that pretty ring any chance you get, girl.” Haymitch comments, pointing at my right, and quite ringless, olive-toned fingers presented in bold contrast against Peeta’s charcoal shirt.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I brush off. “Are you ready?” I ask Peeta, his jaw finally unclenching as he acquiesces. Together we move to the elevator, standing for the third time that day with shallow breath and rising panic in the apartment’s entry way as we wait for its arrival.

“Hey! Boy! Sweetheart!” Haymitch calls, forcing Peeta and I to turn our heads to him. “Stay alive!”

The elevator doors open before I have the chance to come up with a snarky response and Peeta, who’s usually so much more witty and quick-thinking than I could ever dream of being is too pissed to answer with anything more than an aggravated and exhausted eye roll. “C’mon, Katniss.” He murmurs, pulling me by our linked arms into the elevator. He faces the back wall until the doors close behind us, pinning us in.

Once we’re alone, I slip my hand from his elbow, opting to use our few unobserved moments attempting to offer him any semblance of the comfort he seems to so easily give me. I step into his space wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing myself into his side.

He finally lets out the deep caustic breath he’s been holding, letting his shoulders slump and muscles relax. “We can do this?” He speaks, voice rising in question.

“We can do this.” I answer. “Together.”

“Together.” He agrees, right hand finding my left as he fiddles with the engagement ring. “Always.” He repeats the inscription he had added as a surprise to the band.

“Always.” I confirm, meaning it, grateful to have the Boy with the Bread at my side.

The elevator slows and we rise to our full heights, righting ourselves to be presentable to the cameras that will inevitably be upon us momentarily. I shift myself to his right side and lift my hand to his elbow, those sparking stones presented proudly to all whose eyes may find us.

The elevator doors open and immediately bright morning light fills the space. Peeta’s arm tenses under my hand. Squeezing the strong muscle, I walk us into the grand Mentor’s Suite, pulling him with me. He hesitates for only a moment before shifting into his usual charming self.

“Well, this is cozy.” Peeta leans in to comment into my ear.

The space set aside for the Mentors seems to be a large balcony, twelve couches and tables spread out, one for each District, all facing a larger screen than I have ever seen. Loud, raucous conversation echoes up over the railing from the open space below, assumably where high paying sponsors and important Capitol citizens have paid for the privilege of watching the opening of the Games. Two-story tall windows take up one entire wall, illuminating the entire room.

“Where are our seats?” I wonder aloud, scanning the balcony for any sign of District 12’s assigned area.

“Twelve’s over there in the back.” A deep voice speaks from behind us. Peeta and I both whip around at its intrusion.

The sneering face of District 2’s Marius Latium, Victor of the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, greets us. My mind immediately supplies the image of him as they announced him as Victor, his bloodied face and bruised knuckles. In the end, he had won on brute strength, pinning his last opponent, the boy from Five, with his knees. His fists pounded relentlessly into the smaller tribute for several moments after that last gong went off.

Both the tributes from 12 that year, Noah Aspen and Sage Barlow, had died in the first five days. The boy had fallen in the bloodbath and the girl to an ill-fated run in with the boy from…the boy from District 2, I suddenly recall. She had been in the year above Peeta and I at school. But perhaps, in the long run, those were better ends than they could have suffered, certainly faster.

The Arena for the 72nd Games had been hot and dry. A seemingly endless expanse of sand dunes and sun. Shelter was scarce, and water even scarcer. The tributes who didn’t die by dehydration only survived by rationing water. Some were lucky enough to scavenge a few bottles from the Cornucopia, others had to rely on their mentors to keep sending it along. I really got lucky last year with our arena.

I had been rooting for the boy from Five when it got down to the final few. District 5 has yet to win in my lifetime and I had allowed myself to hope that perhaps that fact would change.

“You know my feelings were quite hurt to not receive an invitation to your Victory Tour.” Marius drones, face blank and cold.

“I assure you, it wasn’t personal. I don't believe any past Victors were invited to attend.” Peeta answers for us both.

“Well, they already had one more Victor than they originally bargained for.” The young man snarks, shoving past us towards, presumably, District 2’s Mentor Table.

“He seems nice.” Peeta jokes through a tight smile, pulling me by our joined arms towards the back of the balcony.

It takes a few minutes and a lot of avoiding the eyes of the other mentor’s but eventually we find our assigned section. There’s two small screens set atop the table. A timer counting down to the start of the Games at 10:00 AM sharp.

“One for each of them?” Peeta guesses. “A direct camera on them despite what’s on the main screen?”

“Yes. Probably.” I agree, unable to form the words for anything additional, my throat closing in on itself. The weight of far too many eyes for comfort making me want to flee back to the elevator, no all the way back to my bed, and cower under the covers like a child. Mira and Owen. Think of Mira and Owen. Be strong for them. I force myself to keep their faces in the forefront of my mind, a constant reminder that whatever fear or challenges I shall face today, it’s nothing compared to their own.

Ten Minutes.

They’ll be dressed by now. Cinna and Portia will be making any final adjustments they need. Will Portia braid Mira’s hair for her, like I asked? Like I did on the train? She hadn’t had someone else braid her hair since she was a girl, well an even younger girl, since her mother passed when she was 5.

The small screens come to life and like the large one looming over the 12 Stations, the faces of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith appear before us, chatting away with a sickening glee. A grand cacophony makes itself known over the railing at my back.

Peeta and I take our seats. An Avox approaches, this one with tawny hair streaked with gray, older than I’ve ever seen for someone of her position. It's only then that I notice how many of them are scattered around the room, delivering food and drink to the mentors at their seats. Peeta sends this one away with a polite, “No thank you.” Good, there’s no way I could stomach anything right now. His own paler than normal pallor revealing he feels much the same.

I notice the other mentors keep looking over to us as if sizing us up or testing our mettle. We are the only new mentors this year; they have likely grown accustomed to Haymitch’s drunkenness and crotchety off-putting nature. They are surely waiting to see how we shall handle this horror, first hand.

Five Minutes.

Cinna and Portia will be offering them any food and drink that’s left. Will they be able to stomach anything right now? I couldn’t. I barely choked down a few sips of water in those last handful of minutes. They’ll secure their tokens: Owen’s pendant necklace, Mira’s small silver bell. A piece of home tucked away in their assigned games outfits.

I take one more glance around the room, taking in the 22 mentors as we all take our places. None of them seem anymore eager than Peeta and I. Even smirking, snarling, Marius Latium has dropped his earlier bravado. For the second time this week, my eyes finds Finnick Odair’s. But there’s no mirth in those infamous sea-green eyes anymore. And instead of a flirtatious wink, he offers me a single solemn, bracing, nod.

Three Minutes.

They’ll be moving into the glass cylinders now, sharing their final moments with their stylists. Receiving the last small acts of comforts, Cinna and Portia surely won’t part from them without bestowing.

Peeta shifts on the couch next to me, every muscle in his being tense. For the thousandth time this week, I silently thank the universe that he’s here with me. I could not do this alone. We both move at the same time, fitting together like two pieces from the puzzles Prim loves.

I press myself into his side as the clock keeps ticking down. He reaches one arm across my front, his left hand settling on the couch next to my left hip. He leans in front of me, as if he could physically save me from witnessing everything that's about to happen. To the cameras it will look like two lovers who even in this moment cannot be physically separated. But I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me the perfect excuse to press my chest into the back of his shoulder and easy access to hide, if I need to, from the bloodshed that is inevitably about to occur.

Two Minutes.

Our first glimpse at this year’s arena appears. Stone. Cement. A bright blinding sun, high in the sky.

“Ruins.” Peeta realizes before I do. “Its ruins of a city.”

He’s right, the silver cornucopia sits sparkling in the center of a crumbling, bombed out, and war-torn city block. Unlike last year, there’s no field of green or rising pines anywhere in sight. Just an expanding labyrinth of destroyed city streets spiraling out from that cornucopia.

One Minute.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 74th Hunger Games Begin!” Claudius Templesmith’s voice rings out. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Our tributes faces appear on those two small screens in front of us, just as Peeta guessed.

Mira’s breath is coming in ragged, desperate, gasps as she frantically tries to take in the arena’s reveal. But her dark hair is braided down her back. I say another silent thanks to Portia.

Owen’s face is blank, his chin lifted high. But his eyes, in his eyes is only fear. It’s ok to be scared. I had told him. I meant it. I still do. Even if he wasn’t, I’m surely holding enough fear in my bones for all of us in this moment.

I, franticly, try to take in as much information for them as I can. They aren’t placed next to each other, but aren’t terribly far. All the tributes all dressed in various shades of beige and brown jackets, that hang down to their knees. Durable, colored to blend into their surroundings. A warm looking cream shirt underneath it, the material could make good bandages if needed. Long gray and muted green pants. Sturdy and thick, good for cold nights.

Peeta’s shaking hands take mine with a force I’ve never felt from him. My eyes instinctually seek his and find sheer panic. I try to say everything I can with a single nod. A silent desperate reminder that we are not alone in this. I am here for you. You are here for me. Just to be sure he understands my message completely, I mouth to him one word, “Together.”

I register the moment the understanding crashes over him. He returns my sentiment with the same soft word on his lips and our eyes find the screen again. We press ourselves together impossibly tighter, lending each other all the very limited strength we can spare.

The crowd below us does not seem to share our discomfort. The roar of their approval fills my ears. Their clamor for blood rising higher and higher with every second that Claudius Templesmith counts down.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The clang of the gong is the last sound I register. Then, only silence and blood.

Chapter Text

First, flee the bloodbath. Done.

I took off down the nearest street I could see, fleeing as fast as these thick boots can carry me. Covering my ears to block out the screams and escape the violence that was absolutely unfolding before the cornucopia.

What did Owen do? Did he flee like Katniss and Peeta suggested? Or did he risk it and charge into the blood and gore hoping to get some extra supplies? I had considered it too. For just a moment, I had, truly. But the boy to my right had a good half a foot on me, and the one to my left was the quick-footed one from District 4. His eyes had already narrowed in on the nearest backpack to us, and I knew I’d absolutely lose a battle for it against him alone. There was absolutely no chance of surviving a charge for it if the tall boy went for it too.

So when that gong went off, I turned and ran. Reassured myself with every step that it's what Katniss and Peeta wanted me to do. What Peeta had done last year. I’ll figure out the rest. Just put as much distance between myself and the others as I can.

I only slowed my pace when I heard the cannons sound, signaling the end of the bloodbath. Eight. Eight cannons. Eight already dead. Sixteen Tributes left, including myself.

Second, find water. Ok, that’s been a little harder. Everywhere I look is stone and gravel. Bombed-out streets, crumbling buildings, the occasional vine beginning to scale the surrounding walls. But no water.

The echoing of footsteps sounds to my left forcing me to slip into one of the half-collapsed buildings to hide. I pull on Peeta’s simple suggestions on how to slow your breathing, how to stay present and prevent panic. It helps to fade the pounding of my heartbeat enough to actually hear anything else.

I recall Katniss’ training, listening to the rhythm of their footfalls. The problem is they don’t seem to have any discernable rhythm. The only thing that makes sense is their rising volume. They are getting closer but that’s all I can be sure of.

I peer through the open space in the wall that, at one point, must have held the glass pane of a window. No, I know it did because it’s shattered glass is spread on the ground beneath my feet. I quickly pick up the largest shard I can see and slip it into my sleeve. Returning to the opening just in time to see a tribute stumble down the side street towards my hiding place.

I throw my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my surprise and freeze. The boy’s uneven tread gets worse and when he turns to look over his shoulder, his jacket shifts just enough to reveal the blood-drenched hand pressing into his stomach. In fact his entire, cream-colored shirt is rapidly staining dark red. As red as the backpack he is clutching in his hand. His rapidly paling hand.

I watch his shaky, fumbling, movements as he continues further down the stone street. And then…he drops. He collapses on his stomach, his hand desperately tries to catch himself but only serves to lose the last bit of pressure he had over his wound.

Vivid red spreads out from the boy, his life slipping away with every drop. I should comfort him. I should tell him he’s not alone. I should help him. In my heart, I know I should do something. Literally, anything besides just stand here and watch this person become hollow before me.

I think of Willy and Alex, too young for the reaping, but not that much younger than this boy. I think of them watching me, right now. Of waiting to see what I’ll do. I always comfort them when they get hurt, I always heal them. Are they ashamed of me for not helping this boy too?

I take one step towards the bleeding boy, resolute in making my brothers proud. To at least not let him think he’s alone. I wouldn’t want Willy or Alex to be alone.

A cannon sounds. Nine.

I rush to his side, trying not to step in the still expanding pool of blood. His face has gone slack. His eyes, gray, peer up into mine, unseeing. He’s gone. I can’t save him. I couldn’t have ever saved him.

Swallowing the bile in my throat, I pry his fingers from the handle of the backpack still gripped tightly in his hold and sprint further away from the arena’s center. Turning the corner just as the shadow of a hovercraft appears in the sky.

As darkness falls on the first night in the arena, I burrow myself further into my hiding spot. I think Katniss would be quite proud of the little hideaway I’ve managed for myself. Scaling up to the second floor of a bombed out building, no stairs, so anyone who tried to surprise me here would need to follow the slow and somewhat difficult trek I had to climb. The half ruined stone floor is not so high off the ground that if I had to jump down to the floor, I could escape alright. It would be a hard landing but a doable one.

I take another small sip of my water. I got lucky with my supplies: Two full water bottles, a few bread rolls, unfortunately the basic bland type the Capitol prefers, a pack of jerky, some matches, a thin blanket, a small bottle of iodine and a few strips of cloth for bandages.

The anthem starts, drowning out any other noise, and I know the moment I’ve been dreading all day is here. Mira. Did she flee the bloodbath like she said she intended to? Did she get away? If so, does she have any supplies or is she completely unarmed? Is she safe? Is she hidden? If so, where is she? Nine cannons today. Please don’t let any of them be for Mira!

One by one the faces appear. As they broadcast each fallen tribute across the sky, I try to remember each of their names from training and the coverage. Nine Tributes Fallen: Lucius from District 2, Newton from District 3, Solara from District 5, Ford from District 6, Wefta from District 8, Amarantha from District 9, Bran from District 9, Felix from District 10, and Fabian from District 11.

The sky goes black. No Mira! Mira is still alive! I let the fear in my chest loosen just a touch. Mira is still alive, for now in this moment she is still alive. I let that fact comfort me as I attempt to settle down for the night.

The deaths of Lucius and Felix are the most surprising, they were easily physically some of the strongest upon first glance. Well, that at least takes them off the board. That’s two very threatening people I don’t need to worry about hunting me down in my sleep, or hunting Mira down.

I try to make a mental list of those of us left: Both the tributes from One, the girls from both Two and Three, both tributes from Four, the boy from Five, the girl from Six, both tributes from Seven, the boy from Eight, the girl from Ten, the girl from Eleven, and both of us from Twelve. Counting each of their names off on my fingers: Veloura, Silvus, Minerva, Ada, Daria, Kai, Nik, Millicent, Juniper, Arden, Reed, Fawn, Annie, Mira and I. Fifteen. Fifteen tributes still alive and out there somewhere in the rapidly cooling dark.

When I wake my first instinct is to bolt out of bed and sprint to the living room. The Games will be plastered across the large screen, surely. I need to know, are they alright? Are they still alive?

They have to be. Haymitch promised to wake us if anything happened. Since frantic knocking or a vengeance laced glass of water to the face never came, instead only three separate nightmares, it has to mean Owen and Mira are still alive.

They had both managed alright yesterday. Mira sprinted away from the cornucopia as soon as the gong went off. Abandoning the risk of the bloodbath worked out well for her. The boys to either side of her both charged for the same supplies and would have pinched her between them. With their greater stature and strength, she never would have made it out of there alive.

Surprisingly, it was the boy from Eleven, taller and stronger than the Mayor’s son from Four, that came out the loser. Kai Murray proved himself quick on his feet, dodging the boy from Eleven's sword swings and escaping his reach to grab the backpack they both were going for. Fabian was less lucky, and didn’t make it more than a few steps chasing the Mayor’s son before a knife landed in his back.

Mira spent the rest of the day moving further and further away from the Cornucopia. She got lucky to cross paths with another dying tribute, the boy from Nine. She, smartly, waited him out and snagged his backpack of supplies before continuing onward. When we left for the evening, she had been rationing the water from her scavenged pack and climbed up into the second floor of some ruins to hide and rest. Peeta agrees she did well, listened to all of our advice, and set herself up ok for the next few days.

Owen, unsurprisingly, acted with a little less restraint. He charged into the melee, like he warned us he might, for a dark green backpack of supplies. His fingers found the strap at the same time as the Girl from Nine. They tussled for it for a moment before it seems he recalled some advice from Peeta. Owen planted a boot into the slightly smaller girl's chest and wrenched the bag from her grip. Shoving her backwards and unfortunately right into the path of the charging girl from District 1. Owen was fortunate to escape her violence but not so lucky that he missed the sight of her bloody attack. He snagged a knife on his way into the ruins, running as far as his legs could carry him. That makes both tributes from Nine fallen in the first hours, and both of their deaths tied to ours. Twelve certainly made no friends in Nine today.

Like Mira, Owen took our advice to ration any supplies they got and spent his day making progress towards the outer edges of the arena. Climbing up into some ruins and hiding away for the night.

Thankfully, they both avoided any other tributes. Though they did nearly give me several heart attacks with some close calls. We’d been able to track all the tribute's locations on the large map projected on a screen in the Mentor’s Suite.

Had the boy from Five turned left instead of right he might have stumbled upon Mira. Had the girl from Three not stopped to examine her pack, or the girl from Four, decided on a different hiding spot for the night, they might have crossed paths with Owen. It just further drove home another key element of surviving the Games: luck.

But for now they were safe. Well, not safe. No one is ever truly safe in the arena. But they were still alive which is all I can allow myself to hope for.

Nine gone in the first day. Less than last year’s eleven, but still a significant number of tributes lost to the bloodbath. The hosts were practically salivating as they regaled each death during the evening’s recap. Peeta and I turned the volume down as low we could, eating an otherwise silent and very late dinner, but unfortunately it seems muting Required Viewing was not possible, even on our Capitol provided television.

The grand twist of the first day was the falling of two very sure bets going into the Games: The boy from Two and the boy from Ten. They were two of the three Owen correctly suggested, after that first day of training, would be the biggest physical threats in the arena. It seems Lucius and Felix had both come to the same conclusion and when they crossed paths during the bloodbath and leapt at the chance to take out their biggest competition. Lucius, the boy from Two, delivered a mortal blow to Felix. But before he could finish him off, the girl from Four, a small thirteen-year-old only a touch taller than our Mira, managed to land an arrow through Lucius’ throat.

A thirteen-year-old, overlooked by most of the oddsmakers, takes out the favorite. It was certainly an impressive sight. Even the slight, skinny, girl…Daria! That’s her name! Yes, even Daria seemed surprised at landing the kill. I didn’t know that tributes of Four would have need of a bow and arrow, being from a coastal district. But maybe she was from one of the illegal tribute training schools, they reportedly have, where they get the chance to learn some skills with weapons.

But if so, surely an older student would have volunteered for her, wouldn’t they? Unless…unless the mayor’s son wasn’t the only one sent into the Games on what was rapidly appearing to be quite suspicious circumstances. Is there something deeper going on in District 4? Something Peeta and I weren’t able to ease with our performances?

For whatever reason that poor girl's fate sent her into the arena, she managed something spectacular. A tribute from Two killed by a well-aimed arrow for the second year in a row. Surely the district is in a bit of an uproar, their own illegal training schools likely carving bows and setting up targets already to prepare for next year.

I find a small spark of fondness forms in my chest for the girl and her bow. I guess if the worst comes to pass and we can't save Mira or Owen, then I wouldn’t hate to see one of the tributes from Four come out the Victor.

My determined movements to rise out of bed end up waking Peeta at my side. A flash of panic and fear crossing his face as he immediately sits up at the disturbance. Realizing it's morning and I’m just rising to start the day, he takes a few deep breaths, rubbing a hand over his still exhausted face.

“Nothing from Haymitch or Effie?” He asks.

“Nothing from Haymitch of Effie.” I confirm. “I’m going to shower and change and then lets head down.”

“Yeah.” Peeta agrees, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reattaching his prosthetic. “Give me twenty and then we can go.”

Twenty minutes is just enough time to shower, dry my hair, pull it back into a braid, and dress. Unfortunately, it’s not fast enough to avoid being caught by Effie, as I hurry to meet Peeta at the elevator doors. Horrified by my lack of makeup, she refuses to let us leave for another five minutes, frantically covering up my dark circles and coating my eyelashes before I slip from her hold and make a break for the elevator where Peeta waits. A half-hearted “Thanks, Effie!” tossed in my wake.

When we arrive in the Mentor’s Suite, it’s almost entirely empty. Haymitch sits at our section, chatting away with the dark-skinned mentor from 11. Chaff. I recall, having spent years watching him pass a bottle back and forth with Haymitch on TV.

They rise when we approach. “Good Morning.” Peeta declares, dropping my hand to offer his to Chaff to shake. “I’m Peeta Mellark.”

“Yes. I’ve heard much about you from this one.” Chaff answers, shoving Haymitch’s shoulder in jest, before shaking Peeta’s hand. “And you…Miss Everdeen.” He turns his attention to me.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I offer as politely as I can manage, extending my hand. He brushes past my offer of a handshake and throws his good arm around me, placing a big kiss on my cheek, far too close to my lips for my liking. I jerk back, startled, stepping closer to Peeta, as Haymitch and Chaff guffaw.

“Apologies, sweetheart.” Haymitch attempts to brush off my clear discomfort. “He’s an old friend.” Turning back to his “old-friend,” Haymitch tells him he’ll join him for breakfast soon but for now he needs a few minutes alone with us. Accepting the dismissal, Chaff steps away with a wave.

“Don’t let him do that again.” I demand of Haymitch, swiping at my mouth.

“He won’t, sweetheart. He saw he made you uncomfortable, and I promise, he won’t push. He’s not the type.” Haymitch answers, an attempt at a soothing hand falling to my shoulder.

Knowing that’s probably the best I’ll get in terms of a genuine apology I let it drop for now. “Any updates?”

“Both of them are still with us.” He states. “I would have told you if that wasn’t the case. Things were quiet last night. No new cannons.”

“Are they awake yet?” Peeta asks.

“Starting to stir.” Haymitch says. “The sun is just rising for them now so they’ll be on the move soon.”

“Thank you Haymitch.” I state. “Really, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He brushes off. “Can’t have you two falling apart on me. Who else will I pester when we get back to the village?”

“Get some breakfast and get some sleep.” Peeta suggests, with a small smile.

“Yes, Mentor!” Haymitch tosses back with a joking salute. His hand dips down to the table where he presses a button to reveal a tray of hot coffee. He prepares a cup, with a small splash of cream, sets it on a saucer and presents it to me. “Have some coffee. It will be a long day.”

With that he leaves us, moving over to join Chaff. Momentarily, I’m confused: why did he make me my coffee? How’d he even remember how I take it? Why didn’t make he one for Peeta? Then my eyes catch on a small white card tucked under the cup, matching the fine porcelain of the saucer.

“Peeta?” I say, trying to keep my voice as casual as I can. “Have some coffee.” I pass the mug to him, and notice him catch sight of that same hidden detail. He takes a small sip, choking it down for the benefit of the cameras. Peeta has always preferred tea, or if he drinks coffee, he’ll take it black.

We sit side by side once more while Peeta makes himself his own cup, leaning forward to block my lap from the main cameras mounted at the front of the room. I slip the card free and tuck it into his inner jacket pocket.

The day passes slowly, and surprisingly quietly. As the sun rises higher into the sky, the rest of the mentors come and go from the suite. It seems, like Peeta, Haymitch, and I, they are taking turns at the screens. Owen and Mira both rise and begin moving again, each continuing their strategies of getting as far away from the cornucopia as they can. Ironically, they are also slowly moving closer together. A turn down a side street here, a decision to turn left, there. And I spend most of the day silently willing them to take the path that would lead them to each other fastest.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like the arena is too cold during the day and they both were lucky enough to find bread and water in their packs. But it seems their luck ends there. They do a good job rationing as they seek water or other food sources, but neither of them come upon anything. The large map that tracks the tributes doesn’t show any major water sources and all day I look for a sign of creatures they could hunt for food. Once again, nothing. Not a single bird, rabbit, squirrel. Not even a small mouse.

I mention this to Peeta and after; I find him spending much of his time searching the screen in the same way. We’ve done well with sponsors but that doesn’t stop Haymitch from returning after lunch to pull first Peeta, and then I, out to meet with a few more. We spend much of the evening debating whether to use some of that money, but in the end decide against it. Agreeing that they still have enough water and food to last them the night and into tomorrow. As long as they keep rationing as they’ve been. So, tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow we’ll send them each some food and water.

It’s obvious just how uncomfortable the idea of controlling someone’s entire access to food and water makes Peeta. When we met, formally anyway on the train last year, I assumed that the baker’s family always had food on their table. They literally bake the bread that feeds District 12. How could there not be enough for them to have a slice? It’s only in the months since the tour, in the time that we’ve actually become friends, that I learned it was not only my family that has felt the pangs of hunger. Perhaps the Mellarks were never as desperately close to starvation as we were, especially after my father’s death. The starvation that Peeta himself saved us from. But a lifetime of stale bread and small portions adds up. I hope more than anything that some food and water sources make themselves known soon. Anything but spending the next few weeks watching our Sponsor Pot dwindle just to keep them from feeling that same cavernous emptiness I know all too well.

After Owen and Mira have both safely hidden themselves to sleep and the anthem of Panem plays again, this time over a blank sky, Peeta and I finally rise and move to return to Floor 12. Recalling the card we still haven’t found a safe moment to open, I speak up in the rising elevator. “Can we go see the roof before we eat some dinner?”

Peeta knowing the deeper meaning in my request answers, “Of course,” and then lets the conversation fall back into mutually exhausted silence.

We follow the familiar path back up to the roof and into the gardens. Grateful, for another windy night to fill the air with the sound of the clinking chimes. They won’t be able to hear us, but I am not convinced of a lack of cameras hidden here. I step forward to slide my arms under his jacket and hug Peeta quickly, surprising him for a half-moment, before pulling back and slipping the card free from its pocket. Keeping myself pressed close to him, painting the picture of young lovers never able to be out of arms reach, I flip the card over in my hand. On it in Haymitch’s ghastly scrawl is the message: R + T families alive.

I let out a deep breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding, and Peeta’s entire body sinks into relief at the confirmation, his head falling against my shoulder momentarily. Rue’s and Thresh’s families are still alive. Good, at least we haven’t doomed them too.

The third day of the Games brings us all some good luck.

Katniss and I try to be some of the first into the mentor suite again but clearly our rush down there yesterday angered Effie enough to have our prep teams arrive at dawn. I’ve never seen Claudia so annoyed at me as she is when I ask for the twentieth time, “Are we almost done?” Those surgically altered purple eyes glaring me down as she steps away with an exasperated huff to leave me to Portia. Thankfully, Portia is more willing to match my haste and I’m ready to leave only a handful of minutes later.

When I meet Katniss at the elevator, her own frustration shows quite obviously across her face. Her brow furrowing and fingers fiddling with the ends of her glossy and treated hair. Her prep team have already begun taking advantage of the grand breakfast Effie had prepared, but Katniss and I have more important things to worry about than food, at least for ourselves.

Owen and Mira both spend the morning on the move. Their diminishing rations, prompting them both into more urgent exploration for a water source and game.

It’s odd that there isn’t even a river or lake or anything. Even more so that there’s no animal life. Maybe the vines are edible? They’ve started climbing up some buildings, but not all of them. And if they aren’t, then that only makes me more unsettled. Games with limited food and water usually aren’t considered particularly exciting. Ironically, the Capitol residents don’t seem to enjoy just watching a bunch of children starve to death.

So if there’s no obvious food and water sources, then what do the Gamemakers have planned? The thought runs circles around my head all day, and I can see Katniss becoming similarly uneasy as Owen and Mira keep coming up empty in their searches.

Something shifts in the early afternoon though, Owen’s and Mira’s paths start veering closer and closer. “What can we do?” Katniss whispers to me, grabbing my arm. “How can we tell them they are close to each other?”

“I don’t know.” I answer honestly, pulling up the gift options on our small screens. “Anything we send has to be approved, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” She confirms. “We submit it and if the Gamemakers approve it, they’ll get it.”

“Could we send them a note?” I suggest. “Did Haymitch do that with any of the gifts he sent you?”

“No.” She answers. “I had to guess what he meant.”

“Well, it looks like its an option.” I point out on the screen. “Maybe some water and a hint?”

“How far apart are they?” Katniss jumps into action, pulling up the aerial map. “What’s that about 1000 Yards?”

“Ok, yeah, let's try this.” I declare, tapping away on the screen. Following the prompts, I prepare a gift of fresh water to be delivered to Owen and we test what we can write. First, we write out: Mira, 1000 yards to your right. The price of the water shoots up exorbitantly.

“So a message costs more.” Katniss voices our realization. “What if we shorten it?”

Trying again, I type out a simple three word message: 1000 Yards Right. The cost immediately drops. Still more expensive than just a bottle of water on its own, but slightly less appalling.

“Worth it?” I ask her.

“Worth it.” She agrees, reaching across me to press confirm on the gift. It takes a minute but suddenly our Sponsor Money drops.

Our attention zones in on Owen’s screen before us. A small parachute appearing a few feet ahead of him. He hurries up to it and doing a quick scan, confirms there are no other tributes nearby. He snags the package and immediately jogs two more streets down, tucking himself behind a wall to hide. Smart kid. I commend in my head. We know there’s no other tributes nearby, but he doesn’t. If there had been and they had seen a parachute drop a few streets over, his location would have immediately been exposed. Something to remember.

He takes a long drink from the water, stopping when his eyes catch on the small card attached to the parachute string. His eyes scan it quickly before he looks up to the sky, seemingly searching for a camera.

Suddenly his silver eyes catch mine through the screen. I hear Katniss take a gasping breath at my side, her entire being going still. Slowly, Owen’s lips mouth two words, Thank You. Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be a charmer, his face shifts into that practiced smirk and he tosses the camera a wink.

Springing into action, he shoves the parachute and water bottle into his backpack and begins moving in the direction we’ve told him. Seeing that it worked, we do the same thing for Mira. She reacts much the same way. And by the time they serve a late lunch to the mentors, our tributes are well on their way to each other.

1000 Yards Right. What’s 1000 yards to my right? A water source? Food? It’s got to be something important right? Katniss and Peeta wouldn’t tell me that to warn me of a threat, would they? No, if it was something dangerous it would be easier to tell me to turn left. They wouldn’t have told me the exact distance of a threat. And if it wasn’t important, they wouldn’t have sent me the message, just the water.

I use the sun to guide me in the correct general direction as I weave through the destroyed city. It’s eerie, how completely empty it is. If I didn’t know better, wasn’t hyper aware of the cameras watching everything I do, or couldn’t feel the weight of the knife gripped tightly in my hands, I’d almost believe I was completely alone in the world. That I was the last breathing being left behind.

A scuffle of stones echoes about 100 feet to my left. I shift my weight onto my toes and move as silently as possible until I’m tucked behind a wall. The sounds of soft footsteps slowly crawl closer. Then they simply disappear. Did the tribute stop? Did they turn away? Are they silencing their footsteps like I am?

Clutching the knife tighter in my hand, I creep around the edge of the wall. Trying to get a glimpse of the threat.

Before I can stop myself, I call out her name. “Mira!”

She whips around her own blade outstretched in defense. “Owen!” She shouts when she realizes it's me. Our feet rush towards each other, momentarily forgetting all advice from Katniss on stealth.

When I reach her, I throw my arms around her small frame and pull her into a tight hug, accidentally lifting her off the ground with the force of my embrace. For the first time in three days, I let a real smile cross my face. She’s alright! She’s alive!

Setting her down, I see the same relief I feel in her. “Are you alright?” She asks.

“I’m alright, are you?” I answer, eyes tracing down her for any signs of blood or injury.

“Yeah. I’m ok.” She confirms.

“Have you gotten anything from Katniss and Peeta?” I ask, hoping they’ve been keeping an eye on her too.

“Yeah, they sent me some water and a note earlier.” She explains.

“1000 yards?” I guess.

“Yeah.” Her eyes narrow. “1000 yards, why?”

“They were trying to get us to find each other.” I explain, a small huff of laughter slipping past my lips. “So, Mira Belle from District 12…do you wanna be my ally?”

“Yeah, Owen Sparrow from District 12, I’ll be your ally.” She agrees with a smile, holding out her hand.

“C’mon, ally. Lets find a place to settle in for a while.” I answer, confirming our pact with a quick shake of her hand.

We move a few streets further out and then climb up into an upper level to hunker down for a bit. As the sun continues to move over the sky, we quietly update each other on what we’ve been through the last three days. Thankfully, she has had no run-ins with other tributes after the first day. And in that one interaction, she came out of it with a pack of supplies. We compare our limited treasure and trade a few items: I give her some matches and we split her roll of wire to make snares.

As the sun sets on a third day in the arena, I realize this is the second day in a row with no cannons. Surely the Gamemakers won’t be fine with that pattern continuing. Just before the sun disappears fully over the horizon, another parachute arrives, landing right in our little hideaway.

“Dinner.” Mira notes, reaching forward to free the package from its strings.

She’s assumed correctly. Katniss and Peeta have sent us what could be considered a small feast in the arena: four rolls, some hard cheese that could last for a few days, two apples, and some more water. Splitting it between us and pooling the food from our packs we allow ourselves our fill, then set aside the leftovers for tomorrow.

I let Mira sleep first, laying down my blanket on the floor and then hers over her. “Thank you Owen.” She murmurs as she settles down.

“Of course, Mira.” I whisper into the night, sitting down at her feet, my knife gripped in my hand as I take up my watch. “Us Seam kids stick together.”

“Seam kids stick together.” She agrees, drifting off into sleep, safe and guarded.

It’s Mira rather than the sun that wakes me on the fourth day of the Games. “Owen, we should move.” She speaks quietly, shoving my shoulder.

I sit up on alert, my knife still clutched in my hand even in sleep.

“We should move. I think it's going to rain and we’re exposed here.” Mira explains. Her comment draws my eyes up to the sky. She’s right. Not a single beam of sunlight breaks through the gray.

We gather our supplies and climb down as quick as we can from our ledge. It takes a few minutes, trying to beat the rapidly darkening sky, but we eventually find a building with an accessible second floor and enough roof coverage to keep us somewhat dry.

Tucking ourselves as tightly against the wall as we can, we do another catalogue of our supplies. Knowing we might be here for a while, we agree to hold off on breakfast for now.

The temperature drops suddenly, and it’s like someone's flipped a switch. In fact, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened. One minute it's dry and the next it's pouring. Pulling my knees to my chest, I mentally prepare to be here for a while.

“Owen?” Mira’s voice breaks through the noise, just loud enough to be heard over the water pounding the stone.

“Yeah?” I answer, sliding closer to hear her better.

“Is it bad that we’re teaming up? They’re not going to let there be two victors again.” She barely whispers, like she’s admitting a horrible truth. And she is really.

She’s right. I’ve known it since the moment they pulled my name. They won’t let there be two. Peeta and Katniss were a very specific exception, not the start of a new rule. But if it’s not going to be me, it should be her. The thought of letting her go out there and face this alone…no…no I simply can’t let that happen.

I take a moment to collect my thoughts and quiet my fears before I answer. “It’s still really early Mira. There’s still 13 other tributes, and both of us.”

She doesn’t agree. But she doesn’t debate the point either.

I press on, needing to know her answer to a more immediate, and more concerning, question. “Mira, you know I won’t hurt you right?” I declare, turning my upper body to face her more directly. “I meant it on the train when I said you didn’t need to worry about me.”

“I know.” She answers with a sad smile. “And us Seam kids stick together right?” She reaches out to take my hand.

“Yeah. Us Seam kids stick together.” I agree, squeezing her hand in mine. “And we got Katniss out there looking out for us too.”

“And Peeta, even if he’s a merchant kid.” She jokes, that sad smile shifting into one of genuine fondness for our mentor.

“Yeah, Peeta ain’t half bad for a merchant kid.” I concede with an eye-roll, earning a slight chuckle from her as I’d hoped. “And they can help us better if we stick together, anyway.”

If I wasn’t already sure our Mentors were watching us, the parachute that arrives moments later would certainly confirm it. “I think that’s Katniss and Peeta’s way of proving my point.”

Mira’s laugh is covered by a first booming roll of thunder. “It seems the Gamemakers agree too.” She adds.

Pressing ourselves side-by-side against the wall we examine the gift: two small cups of broth and a roll for us each, with nuts and berries, definitely from Twelve. Knowing Katniss is watching I make a point of holding my spoon with extra refinement. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my old Mentor now.

Chapter Text

It takes a full day and a half for the rain to slow. A very boring, day and a half. I can’t figure out what the Gamemakers are playing at here. For the third night in a row, no new faces appear in the sky and the fourth night we only see one, the girl, Millicent, from District 5.

When Mira wakes me to take the last watch, I realize that the rain is finally slowing. Still consistently pounding the pavement but not the constant monsoon it had been for the so long. Then, seemingly around mid-morning, the sun finally breaks through the clouds. I dig through our bags, determined to celebrate the first bit of light and this new day with a more substantial breakfast.

Katniss and Peeta have been really generous in terms of sending food. Sending some apples and cheese again the first morning with no break from the rain, and more bread and broth in the evenings. But, I know we can’t rely on that. We haven’t needed them to send water; the rain seems clean enough. So one positive is that we’ve been at least able to stay hydrated. Whenever we finish one of our bottles, we simply place the empties in the rain and wait for them to fill. It’s slow, but it works. But we can’t do that with food, and I know every morsel they send comes with a cost.

Effie and our team were optimistic about Katniss and Peeta’s ability to gain us sponsorships. Their newfound fame and first year as mentor’s making them quite a status symbol to support for the Capitol rich. Katniss went so far as to joke that she’d offer a wedding invite to someone if need be. Sure our interviews and them talking us up helps. But in the end there's only ever going to be so much money.

But still that can’t be the Gamemaker’s play here right? No water, no food. They can’t be planning on a Games where they just watch us starve and die of thirst. The Games a few years ago had enough of that and people didn’t seem to find that all too exciting. No, there has to be another game at play.

When Mira wakes, she’s surprised to see the small feast I’ve laid out for us. “We finally have some sun!” I explain. Then, considering how well-rested and shut-in I feel after three days in one place, I suggest, “We should eat up and then venture out and see what’s changed.”

As we allow ourselves our fill, we notice the first new addition to the arena. The call of a bird. Well, less a call and more a harsh, shrill, caw. “A crow?” Mira guesses when her ears catch it too.

“Yeah.” I agree. My thrill at the first sign of animal life, and therefore something to hunt or snare, quickly muted by whatever horror the Gamemakers surely have planned with them. Are they mutts? Or are they just regular birds? There were squirrels and other small game in Katniss’ arena last year. But if it is just regular game, why of all things a crow?

Well, crows need to eat too, so there must be something else out there for them to feast on. Unless these crows, circle back to some secret hutch where the Gamemakers feed them. I’ve seen nothing like that in the Games before but maybe they just cut it from the coverage for the Districts.

“You done?” Mira asks, silencing my thoughts.

Shoving the last of my bread into my mouth, I answer, “Yeah,” earning a disgusting grimace from Mira at my poor manners.

“Effie would be disappointed in you talking with your mouth full.” She comments, beginning to pack her bag.

“Well, one of us will just have to live long enough to apologize for my behavior.” I toss back.

“Obviously. And one of us will! But in the meantime…” Her eyes scan the newly light-filled space. “Aha!” She points out a small camera. “You can apologize through the camera in the meantime.”

“Ugh fine.” I groan out, knowing it will make her laugh. “I apologize Effie! Should I survive this you may give me all the etiquette lessons you’d like.”

“Oooh, don’t make promises you’ll hate to keep, Owen.” Mira jokes.

Tucking the last of our supplies into our packs, Mira and I peer out over the ledge of our hiding place, scanning for anyone from the higher viewpoint. Seeing no one, we climb down from our hiding place, and set off as silently as possible through the ruins.

The storm has brought on a clear shift to the arena. Green has overtaken the world of gray and brown. The rare vines have become much more common, their stalks climbing up and spreading out over every few buildings. Small sprouts of grass have grown through the thin cracks in the pavement. Is that what the crows have been eating?

We move east, keeping the sun to our backs as it shifts westward across the sky. After about, probably, an hour of walking we finally hear the crow again. Freezing in place, both Mira and I instinctually look up, searching for any sight of sleek black feathers. When nothing comes, we press on. But we only make it another half block when we hear it again. Shifting ourselves into an intersection of paths we finally see our quarry. Though can your really call it quarry if we have no way to hunt it?

The sharp caw call echoes out three more times as the bird’s black eyes scan the space from its perch high on the ledge of another blown out building.

“I wish Katniss was here.” Mira notes. “Peeta says, she can hit anything straight through the eye!”

“It’d make for quite a dinner.” I answer back matching her fond, friendly, tone.

“Well, when we get back to Twelve we’ll have to organize one. You and I, Katniss and Peeta, even Haymitch.”

“Your brothers and father.” I suggest, letting myself get caught up in the impossible future reality where we all get home safe and sound. Just for a moment. I can let myself imagine it for just a moment.

“You're friends from the home.” She invites.

“Not too many of them, most of the kids I was close with have aged out and moved on.” I admit. “Left me behind y’know.”

“Well, I don’t intend to leave you behind, Owen.” She promises, an earnestness in her eyes. “I wouldn’t leave my brothers and I won’t leave you.”

I can't stop myself, I reach out and hug her quick. Because she's good. Genuinely good. It's such a rare quality in my life, in the world in general. “Yes, and that’s why you need to be the Victor.” I decide then.

Our hopeful reminiscing is cut short by the bird falling dead at our feet. The black blade in its stomach almost camouflaged against its sleek black feathers. Grabbing my knife in my hand, I spin around. “Mira, we need to go!” I hiss.

My warning comes too late. She gasps sharp; her back bumping mine and I whip my head to assess the threat. A tall, red-haired tribute, stands threateningly blocking one path out of the intersection. A dark brown number 7, embroidered into her jacket. Juniper, that’s her name. Really named after a berry?

My mind runs 100 miles a minute trying to find a way to get Mira and I out of this. A scuttle of stones behind me makes me spin, pressing my back into Mira’s once more. The boy from Seven blocks our path out that way. FUCK!

I think I can take this kid, Arden? Maybe. If he kills me it doesn’t matter what stupid tree-themed name he has. I think I can take him. If I can get into his space and block his sword arm, I think I can do it. He’s older but not much bigger than me. But Mira…I don’t think she can take Juniper. She’s 18, scored an 8, and definitely much taller than my young companion. Maybe if I…

The somewhat lame battle-cry from the boy cuts my planning off. “Mira! Run!” I shout, pleading desperately in my mind to Peeta Mellark of all people. Hopefully, you’re as good a wrestler as Katniss thinks you are, Baker’s boy! Feeling Mira shift from my back I know I’m free to move, dodging the boy’s swing, I throw my entire body weight into him. The sudden shift of his momentum and unyielding cement at his back seems to knock the wind from his lungs and thankfully the sword from his hand.

We scrapple and tussle like two boys on the playground or like the younger kids in the home when someone doesn’t want to share one of the few toys we have. Are they watching me now? Those kids, with their too thin faces and sallow, pale skin? The Matrons, with their cruel words and crueler hands? Are Katniss and Peeta?

Suddenly, I’m pressed into the familiar position of my back against the stone, a bigger kid pinning me down. I didn’t lie to Katniss and Peeta when I admitted I had been in a few fights. But I didn’t add that I had yet to win any.

But…I never had a knife in a previous fight. I don’t have time to question the morality of it. Don’t have time to think about if this kid has a family back home, a girlfriend, parents who love him. No…because I can’t die like this. I can’t make the kids in the home watch me die, bloody and violent, a thousand miles away. I can’t make Mira watch the hovercraft lift my body into the sky. I can’t make Peeta and Katniss and all of Twelve watch me fail them. I can’t disappoint one more person. So I find the hilt of that knife with sweaty scrambling fingers and swing.

It feels like a dream…a nightmare…watching that blade break through the dark skin of the older boy's neck. The bright red blood immediately spilling down his chest staining his white shirt. His deep brown eyes looking at me shocked, like he can’t believe it either. Pleading, desperate, I think his lips start to form a word when suddenly he goes limp.

A cannon sounds.

Scrambling myself out from under him, I realize just how much of his blood I spilled. My own white shirt looks nearly as red as his does. My hands are wet and sticky…and…and shaking. My legs feel numb…I…I can’t…I don’t…

The pounding of footsteps behind me make me spin. The red-haired girl shrieks in rage and flings her axe with a practiced precision. Bracing myself for the pain, the death that is flying directly at me, throwing my hands up instinctually to block my face.

But the pain, my death, never comes. Opening my eyes, I see a long dark braid, a small jacket covering an even smaller girl.

“M-Mira?” I mumble out. She turns and I get confirmation on why the axe never pierced my chest. Good, sweet, kind, Mira Belle. That small, fierce, determined girl threw herself in its path. She was going to try to shove me out of the way, I realize. She didn’t leave me behind. She collapses to the ground, her brown eyes searching the sky.

“M-Mira?” I repeat, eyes filling with tears, unable to process what’s happening in front of me. I want to help her, to hold her, to not leave her alone. But I’m covered in blood. Blood of someone I’ve just killed. I can’t touch her. I can’t stain her skin like mine’s been stained. Forever stained now. Brown eyes meets Silver, and she’s reaching out for me. Her eyes hold no fear, only calm, and then they hold nothing.

It’s then that I realize the red-haired girl is not reaching down to offer Mira some semblance of comfort or tuck her long dark braid back over her shoulder but reaching for the handle of the axe still plunged in my Mira’s chest.

A cannon sounds.

Like a coward, I flee.

Countless pairs of eyes fall on Peeta and I. Pitying. Excited. Judging. Waiting to see how we’ll respond to the first tribute we’ve lost. Lost. We’ve lost her. She’s lost. No, not lost. Dead. She’s Dead. Mira Belle is dead.

I can’t stop myself. I flee. Flee the pained, sorrowful, glances thrown my way. Flee Peeta’s desperate attempt to grab my hand. Flee his pleading call of my name. I flee it all. The sound of my shoes deafening on the floor as I sprint as fast and as far as my rapidly numbing legs can carry me.

Grabbing the dead boy’s fallen sword, I flee. Forgoing all of Katniss’ tips on stealth of direction, I run. Where? I don’t really know. How far? I don’t really know. I just run. Run until I physically can’t run anymore.

It turns out I can’t run anymore because I can’t breathe. Stumbling into an alleyway, I barely have enough control of my legs to clamber me up onto a high ledge. Breathe, Owen, Breathe. I try to command myself. But it’s not working. Nothing is working.

I try focusing on a singular point, focusing in on a camera I catch in the corner. But then I remember why the camera is there, that at this very moment I’m being watched. Every moment I’m being watched.

What time is it in the Capitol? Do Katniss and Peeta already know? If it’s nighttime will someone wake them? Haymitch maybe? Or will they simply have to find out the news in the morning?

If they already know do they hate me? Will they abandon me too? Leave me completely alone in here. I’d abandon me. I failed. I fucking failed. Just like always. Just another useless fucking waste of space. Another stupid fucking mouth to feed. They’ll surely abandon me now. Mira was the good one. The sweet one. The one who was supposed to make it home. The one who has a family waiting…

The thought of it makes me gag, the spasm forcing my body to its hands and knees. Willy and Alex. Two boys, too young, not even 10 yet. Too young to even be eligible for the reaping. Willy and Alex. Sitting at home, waiting for their sister, their…not their mother…but not, not their mother. Their Mira.

The remnants of my breakfast make themselves known again, emptying my stomach on the stone. What the hell am I even doing this for? Spite! What a stupid fucking thing to fight for, to die for. Katniss has no idea what she’s talking about. She made off like a fucking bandit, was basically already a trained career when she got to her arena. Got a perfect arena for her skills. Got the crowds sympathies with volunteering for her sister, and Peeta’s stupid lovelorn dramatics. They literally changed the Games for her, for them. How can she have any fucking idea how to get me out of here?

“Seam kids stick together,” my ass. Katniss abandoned the Seam the first chance she got. I abandoned Mira. No, I failed Mira. I left her behind. I’m a failure. A useless, disappointing, fucking failure.

My vision goes black and the last thing I register is my body collapsing to the stone.

The blaring notes of the anthem hit me like an assault. Forcing my eyes to open, I try to piece together what happened. Every muscle in my body hurts. The energy I had this morning after three days of rest and food long gone. Leaving in its wake, an empty gnawing ache.

The sky lights up as the face of the boy from Five appears, Nik.

Then…then Arden’s face appears. The glow from the projection showing just how much of his blood remains on my skin, on my clothes. I only have a moment to try to come to terms with the mess I’ve become when her face appears in the sky.

Mira Belle.

I can’t help myself, the grief crashes over me like a storm, and suddenly I’m weeping. Violent, wrenching, gasping sobs. I have no idea where this is coming from, truly. I’ve never cried like this. Only ever quiet, secret tears, hidden under scratchy wool blankets or locked away in pitch-black closets. Never this. Never such potent, physical, visible, grief.

The sky goes dark and I realize I’ve missed my chance. Missed my chance to memorize her face, the nervous, half-smile she had in her tribute photo, the long dark braid Katniss had done for her, the soft, determined, pride she had developed in our days preparing for the Games. It was like she was a completely different person. On the train, I had thought her this broken, terrified, baby bird. But by the end, by the time we got to the interviews she had taken flight. Something about the Capitol and our Mentors, or maybe just being properly fed for the first time in her life, had bred a confidence and drive in her that hadn’t been there before.

But like everything else the Games touches, it was fucking destroyed in a snap. So no, my last image of her wouldn’t be her face bright, and unharmed in the sky. Instead, it would be her pale and graying face, her lifeless eyes, her hand desperately reaching out for mine, and the rapidly shrinking sight of her bloodstained body as I left her behind like the coward I am.

Just one more reason for Katniss to abandon me now. She had stayed with her ally as she slipped away. She sang her a fucking song and shrouded her body with flowers. But me? No. I just ran.

A scuttle of stones catches my attention, pulling my face from sleeve I’m met with the cold blue eyes of the boy from District 1. His arms pull himself up onto my ledge. Shifting to my knees, a sound of movement to my left reveals the rising form of his district partner. “Hello, coal boy.” Her voice drawls. “Sorry ‘bout your friend.”

Yeah this is the worst day of my entire fucking life. Even if I survive the arena, survive even the next ten minutes, I will never have a worse day than this one.

The boy gets his feet under him first, and charges, raising his spear in my direction. Thankfully, the tight quarters don’t give him much room to throw it. My survival instincts kick in just fast enough for me to dive out of the path of the incoming strike. But this ledge is too small, too narrow. They’ll have me cornered in no time.

The window. The blasted out window. It’s not that far of a jump. Is it too far of a jump?

The girl swings now, and I finally get my feet under me. Unfortunately, I’m not quite fast enough. Pain shoots through my entire leg, no, my entire body. Fanning out from my upper thigh. I should reach for my sword right? Try to defend myself? Or is it better to just escape?

The boy charges me again and I finally get my mind together enough to grab my sword. Blindly, I swing it in front of me. The blade clanging at the impact and sending a shock up my arm. Yeah, escape. Definitely the best option.

The boy, Silver? Silvus?, seems just as shocked as me that I blocked it and I leap at that moment of hesitation. In two steps, I’m through the window and plummeting towards the cement streets. It’s probably for the best that I didn’t have time to think about it because…fuck! Fuck! FUCK!

A tremor shoots up my legs when they make impact with the ground. I’ll definitely feel it in the morning. But I’m out of their reach.

Ignoring the pain rapidly hitting every single one of my nerves, I take off running. No plan. No destination. Nothing but pure adrenaline, panic, and fear. I don’t know how long I run, how far, I just run. I run until I can’t ignore the sharp stabbing in my lungs; the blood pouring down my leg, the complete exhaustion of my bones.

With my head slightly more screwed on than earlier, I’m more intentional with my choice of respite. I find a building that seems like it once had three floors. But all that remains of that third floor is a narrow lip, hardly wide enough for two people to lay side by side. Perfect.

It has be adrenaline and adrenaline alone that allows me to grapple up to that ledge. But once I’m hidden away, I finally let myself look at the wound.

Slipping the dark green pants down my legs, I find the wound is odd. I’d expected a gash, blood, the sight at exposed muscle, but certainly not a dark purple spiral of veins spreading out from the blight. I decide it's worth it to waste some water and slowly pour half a bottle over the opening in my skin, hissing at the contact.

Yeah, there’s something weird. I’m not sure if it's the loss of blood but my body is starting to feel flushed with fever.

I hunch myself forward and try to smell the wound. Katniss said infection has a smell. “You’ll know!” was her only answer when I asked what it would smell like. The smell that hits my nose is dark, sharp, like something decaying. What in the world was that blade laced with?

The Iodine! I have iodine! Digging through my bag, I find the small vial of medicine and a bandage. The pain when it hits the open wound is sharp but medicinal. Once I’ve coated the opening I wait a minute, hoping that odd purple veining with dissipate or the vibrant fever spreading under my skin lessens.

Nothing. No change. In fact, the fever only seems to be getting worse, and fast. Desperately, I dig through my backpack, trying to find literally anything else that my work to slow the bleeding or halt the imminent infection. Trying, and failing, to choke down the panic rapidly rising in my throat for the hundredth time in only a handful of hours. My fear is finally broken by the appearance of a parachute, with a rather large gift that lands itself directly in my lap.

Examining the delivery, I find a fresh bottle of water, another carafe for broth, a roll of bread, and something else. Medicine. I don’t even want to know how much that probably cost.

I take it all one step at a time. Fighting through the pain and the rising warmth under my skin, methodically. I use the fresh water Katniss and Peeta sent and one of my very few clean bandages as a makeshift towel to wash my hands and wrists. There at least the blood isn’t staring me in the face. I don’t even want to know what kind of nightmarish sight I make right now.

With clean hands, I pick up the cup of broth they’ve sent, warm through the metal tin it travels in. However, when I untwist the top, I’m not met with the bland, light, aroma I’ve grown used to. No, this…this is familiar. I barely believe my eyes, my nose, it's not until I taste it on my tongue that I’m able to accept the truth of the meal they’ve sent.

Bean and Ham Hock Soup. Every Seam kid knows Bean and Ham Hock Soup. You don’t make it more than a handful of years without having lost someone close to you, or knowing someone who has. It’s a mourning food, meant to soothe the soul and ease the mind.

They…they didn’t abandon me. They sent me food only served in times of grief. Food you only make for loved ones, for friends, for family. It says, you’re not alone in your pain. I’m not alone.

I force myself to pause; I need to take the medicine. None of this matters if I die from fever or poison or whatever sick trick Veloura laced her blade with. Choking down the sharp, metallic, medicine, I reach for the bread roll. Full of berries and nuts and still warm, as if straight from the Mellark’s oven.

Savoring every bite, I think back to the day on the train. Somehow it feels like both an eternity ago and only moments have passed. The squash soup, Effie ordered for. She wanted us to have a taste of home she said. She had no way of knowing I’ve never even seen squash let alone tasted it in soup.

But this, Bean and Ham Hock, this I know. This tastes like home. So after wrapping my wound, I let myself feel it. Home. the warmth of the soup burning away at the cavernous emptiness settling into my chest, the cool silent tears cutting through the grime on my cheeks.

Once I’ve finished every bite, I prepare to rest. Laying myself down, I say a silent thanks to Peeta for the bread and Katniss for the small act of Seam kindness. Seam kids stick together.

In a small bit of defiance after this living nightmare of a day, I pull my hood up over my head, blocking my face from the several cameras surely hidden all around me. No. My grief, my pain, my tears, are not for their entertainment, those belong entirely to my friend, Mira Belle.

Chapter Text

I rise with a new determination. Forcing the grief in my chest down enough to get me moving with the dawn. Grief won’t help me right now, and this section is rapidly becoming too crowded and too dangerous. So today needs to be about seeking a new part of the arena to hide away in for a while. About ignoring the dull ache constricting my every breath.

My wound from last night, thankfully, looks better. Whatever was in the medicine worked wonders and worked them fast. I drip a little iodine over it anyway, better to be safe, and re-wrap it once more. Slipping my pants back over my hips, I prepare to climb down from my hideaway.

When my feet hit the stone, I take a moment getting my bearings. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, testing my ease of movement with my wound and additional soreness. I had been right in the midst of my panicked plummet to the earth, that was probably a bit too far to jump. My knees ache, my ankles feel fragile, and my entire left thigh radiates a steady throb with every step.

I try to figure out which direction I came from last night, which directions to avoid. A sound makes my ears perk. Water? No. No natural water sources have appeared yet. The only thing even close was the few days of near-constant rain we had. Is that the only natural water they are going to provide us? Will we have to wait and hope for rain the entire time we’re in here? Ration out whatever water we can collect in between?

Tightening my pack on my back and gripping the sword tighter in my fist, I set off following the noise. If there is water somewhere, I can refill my bottles. The sound of it could help hide my footsteps and movements.

It takes a while, about an hour based on how far the sun has shifted in the sky, but the sound of water becomes louder and louder, urging my still exhausted body to keep moving step by step.

When I finally come across my destination, all my hopes are fulfilled. A river! Small and winding, maybe only a foot wide, but a river nonetheless. Looking in the direction it flows from, finds it twisting off in the distance, curving around buildings and through intersections, likely weaving closer to where I was resting last night, which explains how I heard the water initially. Seems like I took a longer way than necessary to find it, but hey I found it!

Scanning the surrounding scene, I look for any signs of life. Trying to confirm I’m as alone as I’m hoping. When nothing makes itself known, I set off on the quickly formulating plan in my mind. Dipping a hand into the water, I feel no immediate pain or threat, my skin coming out clean and unmarred. Scooping a cup of it with my hand I bring it up to my nose, smelling for anything metallic or herbal that could prove its been tampered with. Nothing. Just smells like water. Now comes the biggest risk.

I probably should have saved some of the medicine Katniss and Peeta sent last night. That girl’s blade was definitely laced with some type of poison. Where did she get it? Did she sneak it in? Did her mentors send it to her to use? They must have, right? How else would my mentors have been able to send an antidote so quickly, if the Gamemakers weren’t aware? Did she get the poison from the water? From the Arena itself? Yeah, I definitely should have saved some of that antidote.

It could not have been cheap. Did I just bankrupt our full sponsor pool with my stupidity? Are they right now frantically trying to convince the pompous Capitollites that I’m worthy of a few bucks tossed their way to buy me some bread? Yeah, I definitely should have saved some of that antidote. I need to be more careful, hide better, sneak through these ruins better, listen better for threats.

Lifting just one wet finger to my lips, I taste the water, bracing myself to have to throw up and purge my stomach if the worst-case scenario proves true. Clean. It tastes clean. Cold and fresh and clear.

I force myself to ignore the dryness in my throat and wait. I’ll clean myself off first. Give my body a few more minutes to react to the water if it is unsafe. Checking my surroundings one more time, I slip my jacket from my shoulders and pull the blood-stained shirt over my head.

Dunking the woven fabric in the water I set about trying to get it clean. It takes a few minutes but eventually the dark red stain starts to lighten and fade to a pale pink. It’s not perfect, but it's better. At least, the sight of Arden’s blood won’t directly confront my eyes every time I look down at my chest. Actually, I’m not clear of it just yet. The blood that soaked through still stains my skin. Laying the shirt to dry in the sun, I lean by chest over the water. Slowly I work handfuls of it into my skin, tinting it pink as it drops back into the river and rushes downstream.

Still sensing no signs of poison, I take a cautious sip of clean water from my hand. Then methodically, I wash as much of myself as I can: my hair, my neck, my face. Clearing the grime and blood and sweat that has clung so tightly to me the last few days. Feeling somewhat clean for the first time since I came up in the metal tube, I slip my still damp shirt back over my head, gather my supplies, refill my waters and set off.

Tossing a silent hope to the sky that I didn’t just doom myself with that bath, I follow the downward flow of the water. I’m set on surviving now. Mira said it herself, one of us needs to make it home. I failed her. I probably deserve nothing even remotely related to the life of a Victor after that, but I’m going to fight for her. I’m going to fight to get home for her, and for Katniss, and even for Peeta. Mira threw herself in front of that axe for me, sacrificed herself for me. I can’t let that go to waste. Not now, not ever. No matter how unworthy I am of that gift. A gift I can never repay. This can only end one way; with me standing on the platform being presented with a golden laurel of Victory from our “Good President Snow.”

I walk and walk until nothing looks familiar, moving as silently as I can on injured legs and keeping my ears perked for any signs of life. When the sun reaches its apex in the sky, I decide to take a few moments to rest and eat a small lunch with my rations. Bathing in the warmth from the sun and the calming sound of the rushing water. It seems the further I follow it the faster it moves. I wonder where it ends. If it ends. Does it circle the arena? If I follow it far enough will it loop me back around to where I started?

I only have to walk a bit further though when something catches my ear, disturbing the rhythmic sound to my left. The river curves around a building just up ahead, whatever it is must be hidden there. Inching forward, I press myself to the stone wall, peering around cautiously.

“Fuck!” A voice shouts, exasperated. The boy from Four, Kai Murray, the Mayor’s Son. Trying and failing to start a small fire. A small dove gray rabbit sits at his side, a knife through its pelt. He found a rabbit! Where did he find a rabbit? Maybe he would share. My mouth waters at the prospect.

Katniss and Peeta hadn’t said anything about alliances with other districts. They had trained Mira and I together, like we wanted, and had never advised us not to team up. But they hadn’t advised us to make alliances with anyone else.

Last year, Peeta had been part of the Career Pack for a bit, but that was written off as another tactic to protect Katniss. He knew they’d go after her early so he got in with them to keep them off her trail. He saved her from the boy from Two, nearly died from, a now vaguely familiar, leg wound he received while doing so.

But there was no true Career Pack this year. It was clear from those first hours of tribute training that things were tense. The two from District 1 were close enough, willing to work together. But the two from District 2, could not have wanted less to do with each other. The girl from District 4 was young, like Mira, which was odd for a career district, but she stayed close to the Mayor’s Son, and the pair stayed far from the rest.

The girl seems to be nowhere in sight, maybe they hadn’t been lucky enough to find each other. Or maybe their mentors hadn’t tried to help them cross paths. No, this boy from Four seems entirely alone. And struggling.

“You’re doing that wrong.” I call over the sound of the water before I can second-guess myself.

The boy’s head whips up alert, his arm swinging a sword in my direction, holding the blade with much more confidence than I ever have.

“You’re never gonna get anywhere like that.” I press on. “You need to shift your hands up and down the wood.” Recalling the advice of Liam Kelly, who aged out of the home three years ago, I demonstrate, rubbing my palms together up and down in the air. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got this token here I’ve used as a flint striker on a few particularly cold nights at home.”

I watch from the other side of the unnatural river cutting its way through stone streets. The Mayor’s boy tries a few times, his frustration growing more and more evident with each failed attempt.

“You said you have a flint?” The boy calls out to me over the rushing of the water.

“A striker. This pendant here.” I slip my mother’s pendant from under my shirt, lifting the chain with my thumb so the boy’s sea-green eyes can see it.

“Prove it!” The boy challenges. “If it works, I might just let you come over here and help me light this.”

“If I help you, I get some of that rabbit.” I propose as a trade.

The boy thinks about it for a few moments, clearly weighing the risks of letting me get close to him, of sharing a meal. “Fine. Deal.”

Proud of myself I search for a rock that might work, finding a chunk of stone that’s broken and sharp enough to get some sparks. Slipping the chain from around my neck, I angle the pendant against it just so and swipe, a spray of sparks shooting out and disappearing against the ground.

“Cool!” Kai calls, eyes pulling wide, like he’s actually impressed. But then he seems to remember himself, where he is, and his face becomes blank with feigned indifference. “Come on over I guess.”

Looking at the water, I debate the odds of getting swept away. “What do you think, water boy? Can I ford this or is it too strong?”

He scoffs at the diminutive nickname. “If you’re careful and steady on your feet, you can probably make it.” He answers with an eye-roll, adding, “Or maybe I’m just looking for a way to get you away from me and out of my hair.”

“Well, if I go so does my striker and you’ll have to choke down that rabbit raw.” I argue back.

“Guess it's up to you to trust me then.” Kai answers, vaguely.

Screw it. If it's too strong and I get swept downstream, I’ll let it carry me until I can find something to pull myself free, it's not deep, maybe only waist high so I’m sure I’d be able to at least keep my head above the water and escape a death by drowning. And if I can ford it, then I’ll hopefully get rewarded with some cooked rabbit for dinner. I just hope the boy isn’t planning to kill me as soon as I start the fire for him. Guess it’s a risk I’ll have to take, and I’ll keep on my guard.

Slipping into the water, I start momentarily at the temperature, its colder here than it was a few miles upstream. Well, I guess I’ve now bathed completely considering I’ll surely now be soaked from the hips down for the foreseeable future. Holding my backpack up over my head in one hand and my sword in the other, I move carefully through the rushing current.

When I finally reach the other side, the boy has his hand extended to help me out. His sword tossed to the stone floor. In a similar show of trust, I shift my blade to my other hand, balancing it with the strap of my pack and let him help pull me up onto the bank.

I’m dripping water onto the stones with every step but atleast I kept my pack dry, and it seems I might have a real dinner without forcing Katniss and Peeta to dig into our funds. “What are you using for wood? I haven’t seen any around.” I ask him.

“Not wood.” The boy explains. “These vines. They’re flammable, and some seem stiff enough to get a fire started”

“How do you know?”

“Saw the boy from Five light some a few days ago for warmth.”

“And what happened to the boy from Five?” I ask, recalling his face in the sky through my haze of grief.

I’m confronted once again by the reminder that this boy could kill me at any moment. That Kai would be quite wise to do exactly that. That I would be quite wise to get ahead of him and kill Kai before he can kill me. But I can’t. He hasn’t attacked me. He’s done nothing wrong nor committed some great sin against me. No, he’s just as unlucky as me to have his name pulled from that bowl. And now that I know what it’s like to take someone’s life. No. I know I won’t be the one to strike first.

“I don’t know.” Kai answers, interrupting my circling thoughts. “I certainly didn’t kill him. Just noted that he figured out the vines were flammable and moved on. He didn’t attack me. I don’t think he even knew I was there. Seemed a waste to hurt him for no reason.”

I relax just a touch at the kids confession, deciding for now to believe him. If he's telling the truth, clearly we have the same frame of mind. “Well, I promise not to attack you if you won’t attack me.” I offer. “And if you share your rabbit dinner of course.”

“I think that’s a fine deal.” Kai answers. “As long as you light the fire like you said you would.”

Slipping the pendant from around my neck, I repeat the same action I did on the other side of the river.

“Cool.” Kai murmurs, also repeating his earlier sentiment, as the sparks kick start the flame. “Wish I knew how to do that.”

“Don’t worry, wouldn’t expect some rich kid from the beach to know how to set a match.” I tease, glad to have someone to converse easily with again. It was odd, I didn’t realize how nice it was to just have someone to talk to, even for a moment, while in here. How much of a balm it was to have someone at your side. Mira had been easy to talk to. Losing that partner…well. No wonder, Katniss and Peeta were so attached to each other, even beyond the love story, it was obvious they were bonded in a way.

“I can teach you.” I offer the kid from Four.

“How do you know who I am?” He asks, suddenly suspicious. “We haven’t formally met. Just recalling the interviews?”

“My Mentors recognized your name. They met your dad on their Victory Tour, said he was a nice guy. They’ve been keeping a close eye on you.” I explain, remembering the heartbroken face Katniss made upon realizing the boy tribute from Four was the Mayor’s son.

“Ahh, yes. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12. Tell me are they just as sickeningly in love in person as they appear on tv?” The boy asks.

“Worse.” I lie, not wanting to reveal anything genuine about them when there are so many cameras around. “Now how do you know who I am?”

“My mentor thought you had potential, he’s been keeping a close eye on you too.” Kai answers, reaching out to pluck the rabbit from the ground and begin cleaning it.

“Ahh yes, the infamous Finnick Odair.” I state in the same mocking tone Kai used when identifying Katniss and Peeta. I recall the 65th Victor’s face from the crowds during the interviews. “Is he the only Mentor from Four this year?”

“No, there’s Talia too, but she’s a bit older than Finnick.” Kai explains. He pauses for a moment then looks straight up into the bright blue sky “Not that your old Talia! Just older than Finnick!” He calls, as if this Talia is some omnipotent being watching from above.

Well, she kind of is I guess. Surely our mentors can watch us beyond when the main coverage is showing us. It’s funny, I never thought of that. To simply speak to Katniss and Peeta like that. I can’t help the laugh that spills from me at the casualness with which this boy does it.

Peeling back a stretch of the creature’s fur, he continues. “She won before I was born. Finnick won when I was only 6. His was the first games I remember, actually. We had this huge celebration in the district the day we won, I remember the saltwater taffy and music.”

“Yeah District 12 did something similar last year. Mellark’s bakery and the Square was overrun with well-wishers.” I state, recalling the widespread joy at the end of last year’s games. Sure the District felt overjoyed for the Everdeen’s and Mellark’s but most people were overjoyed for themselves. Twelve would get extra rations for a full year. They’d have had to blow us clear off the map to even remotely kill the mood in the district that night. “I’ll gut it when you’re done.” I offer, referring to our half-skinned dinner.

This boy is going to give me a heart attack with all these false alarms and near-deaths. I can’t blame him for getting upset and openly grieving for Mira. I’d never. It’s not his fault the tributes from District 1 heard him and tried to take advantage. But leaping from a second-story building on an already injured leg without a second thought. Shit! I think my stomach flew up just as much into my throat as his surely did. How he landed it without breaking several bones, I still don’t know. Honestly, I don’t want to know. Don’t want to think about it for a second longer than I have to.

Then this morning with the water. He was smart about it, I’ll give him that. First smelling it for anything odd. Tasting it and waiting for any adverse reactions. Washing himself clean of the blood when he found it was safe. Doesn’t mean my chest didn’t seize when he started drinking handfuls of it. But he followed all of Katniss’ advice, she’d be proud of him. I know it.

How has Haymitch done this for 23 years? How has he done this alone? And now…well for now I have to do it alone. Katniss will be fine, she has to be fine. I don’t know what I’ll do if…

“Peeta Mellark!” A voice cuts through my inner panic. Looking up in its direction, I’m met with the most startling set of sea-green eyes I’ve ever seen. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time, I’m Finnick Odair.” The man speaks. “Mind if I take a seat?”

Chapter Text

I feel Peeta shift in the bed next to me and know what’s coming. I brace myself. Watching his t-shirt covered back as he adjusts his prosthetic for the day, the freckles on his neck catching the early morning light, the obvious tension pressing down on his shoulders. The way he hangs his head and the several nightmares he had last night only further confirming the presence of the weight he's been carrying. And he's carrying it alone.

I can’t put it off any longer. I know all his pleading and logic is right, it's not fair for me to give up. Not fair to him, not fair to Owen, and not fair to our poor Mira. We couldn’t save her, we did what we could and in the end it wasn’t enough. There’s only so much you can do to protect someone in the arena. But Owen isn’t dead, he’s still fighting and we can still save him.

At the end of each day, Peeta returns and finds me still unmoved. And each day, he dives into his now familiar spiel of trying to convince me to get out of bed. To eat something. To, at least, change my clothes. It differs from the requests he’s made each morning. In the mornings he tries to convince me to get up for Owen, to fight for him, to not leave the poor boy alone out there with only Peeta to help.

And yesterday morning he threw his ace. Right before slipping from my room he added one last request: he asked me not to leave all of this on his shoulders, not to make him do this alone like Haymitch has had to for 23 years. That comment cut straight through the ice and depression that's gripped my heart since Mira. Because he's right. Peeta’s always right. On the day of the Reaping we promised each other we wouldn’t have to do this alone, it was our one silver lining. That unlike Haymitch, we’d always have someone to help get us through this. It only took two weeks for me to break that promise, and last night in the dark I decided. I’m done breaking promises.

When Peeta climbed into bed last night, he didn’t plead and urge me to get up. Instead, he spoke entirely of Owen. Voice rising with excitement as he told me all about the alliance Owen’s formed with the boy from Four and the girl from Three, the plan they’ve come up with to destroy the District 1 tributes' hideout, just like Rue and I did to the Career's stockpile last year. Peeta’s starting working with Finnick Odair of all people, on how to best help them. He raved with pride in our tribute and I just laid there staring into space, still in the same pjs he forced me to change into two nights earlier.

I see him raise his head, clearly preparing himself to have to entreat me once more. So, I make myself move first. Reaching out my hand, I brush the soft fabric of his t-shirt, the warmth of his skin emanating out through it and into my fingertips. He flinches at the touch and whips around with wide eyes.

There’s so much I want to say, so much I owe him. But a simple, whispered, “I’m sorry,” is all I manage.

His eyes fill with tears as he takes my outstretched hand in his. Lifting my fingers to his lips, he places a singular kiss to the knuckles.

Forcing my stiff muscles into movement, I sit up and pull him into me. He immediately returns my embrace, pressing his face into my shoulder and I can feel the rattling breath he lets out as it fans across my skin.

“I’m sorry.” I repeat, even though its not enough. It's never enough.

“Are you…are you coming with me today?” He asks, shifting himself back to meet my eyes, filling my vision with waves of desperate sapphire blue. He’s clearly been as broken over this as I have but he’s been hanging on as much as he can. I gave him no choice not to.

“Yes.” I answer. “I’m coming today. He needs us. And its not fair to make you do this alone.”

He pulls me back against him once more. “Thank you, Katniss.” He whispers into my hair.

I allow myself another moment in the safety of his arms before I’m forced to let go and climb out of the bed. With a hand resting on my back, a reminder that he’s right there, we emerge together from my room for the first time in three days.

I’m greeted by the shocked faces of our teams, all of whom have tried and failed to get me out of bed. But of course in the end it was Peeta who was successful, not even Cinna or Haymitch made it happen.

I’m not sure whose idea it had been, but it quickly became clear that our teams didn’t want me to be left alone for too long. I had been treated to a revolving door of Effie, Cinna, and Haymitch. Effie had been very concerned with keeping me comfortable, trying and failing to get me up to shower or change, constantly fluffing my pillows and bringing me fresh cups of tea, no matter how many went undrunk. Cinna had tried to talk, about everything and nothing, just whatever came to mind in his smooth, steady voice. He sketched mindlessly, the sound of pencil over paper drawing me into sleep more than once. Haymitch hadn’t even tried to speak. Simply laid himself on top of the blankets at my side and closed his eyes.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Haymitch speaks first, a genuine kindness in his voice that sends a pang through my chest. He must have been really worried to not even offer me a snarky comment or more sarcastic tone.

I know Haymitch tries to pretend not to care about us. Maybe it's easier after all these years. To simply not try. I’m sure that’s what all the drinking is about, and after 23 years I can’t say I blame him. But I know deep down somewhere in that broken, liquor soaked heart of his he cares about us at least a little. He wouldn’t have come back to the Capitol with us, if he didn’t. He wouldn’t have tried to help us keep things calm on the tour, if he didn’t. He wouldn’t have helped us play up the love story, or aided us in the arena, if he didn’t. And after being in his shoes, after meeting Owen and Mira, there’s nothing he could say to convince me differently.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” Cinna speaks next. “Then we’ll get you dressed to go.”

“How did he do last night?” Peeta asks.

“Still with us.” Haymitch answers. “Him, the Four Boy, and Three Girl, holed up in a nice little spot last night and its still early so they haven’t started moving yet.”

“Ok, lets eat while we prep then.” Peeta decides. “Then we can get down there before they do.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Portia agrees, rising to her feet to whisk Peeta from me towards his room.

I immediately feel the loss of his hand on my waist. Thankfully Cinna, as observant as ever, quickly sets his mug down and tucks me in a hug. “It’s good to have you back with us.” He speaks against my unwashed hair. “Let’s get you some coffee and ready to go.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and brings me over to the table. He makes me a cup of coffee, adding the splash of cream without me even needing to ask, before passing it into my hands and guiding me back into my bedroom.

Before I know it, I’m dressed, made up, hair done and have choked down a light breakfast. I use the time to try to shift my mindset as best as I can back into mentoring. I’m going to need to be ready to play the sponsors, to sell Owen’s story, to make nice with the other mentors. I realize to do that to the best of my ability I’m going to need a lot more information on what I’ve missed while in my depressive haze.

As soon as the elevator doors close to plunge us down from our floor, I speak. “So give me the rundown on everything I’ve missed with Owen.”

I can see the shock in Peeta’s eyes. Clearly he assumed I’d still be out of it, probably let him take the lead today and just hang on his arm while I eased myself back in. But no, my mind is made up. I need to do this. This is what is going to pull me from my grief over Mira, or at least push it to the side until we can get home, and Owen is going to be coming home on that train with us. We’re going to save him. We’re going to get Owen home. I tell Peeta exactly that, “We’re bringing him home. I won’t accept anything else.”

“There’s the Katniss, I know.” He answers with a smirk, pressing his shoulder into mine. “So here’s what you’ve missed…”

He gives me the barebones of what Owen’s suffered through the past three days. The way he too got emotional over Mira’s death and ended up knocking himself out with a panic attack. He woke up when the anthem started and began crying again upon seeing her face in the sky. His tears alerted the District 1 tributes to his location resulting in them attacking him. He escaped but was injured in his leg by the girl's blade, poisoned somehow. Apparently Peeta and his new best friend, Finnick Odair, have been discussing it but were, so far, unable to figure out how she managed to find the toxin or perhaps smuggled it in. Regardless as soon as Owen was away from them, Peeta spent a lot of our sponsor money on an antidote and on sending him Bean and Ham Hock soup and some bread from 12.

The thought of that alone made my heart swell with pride. The soup was a Seam tradition. I can practically still taste it on my tongue from the many bowls of it I ate following my father’s death. Peeta as always sent the perfect message. He told the boy that he wasn’t alone in his grief for our Mira, and he sent him something from home to wash down the antidote he’d need. A small detail no one in the Capitol would probably recognize but everyone in Twelve would know, would understand exactly what Peeta was saying for us both. I'm unaware how he even knew about the soup tradition. As far as I know the Town families don’t do that when someone dies. But maybe I was wrong.

The antidote worked quick and the next day, Owen stumbled upon the boy from Four, Kai Murray, the Mayor’s Boy as we've been calling him amongst our team. He's also 15, like Owen, and according to Peeta the boys were so much alike, they were getting along like a house on fire. It would be heartwarming in any other scenario, somewhere outside the Games, in another world maybe they'd be able to be true friends.

Apparently even their district partners were similar: both only 13 and had both already fallen. Kai reportedly had a similar reaction upon seeing the face of his fellow tribute in the sky, the girl named Daria, who took down the boy from Two with an arrow.

I force myself to shove aside the pang her passing spurs in my heart. I don't have time to grieve for poor girls with bows and arrows right now. Another time, I will. I try to promise myself that when I get home, I'll at least acknowledge the hole this Games as permanently left in my heart, but I've never been very good with my own emotions. Maybe this is the excuse to try.

Owen had supported Kai then and shared his own feelings of loss over Mira. He even took watch most of the night so Kai could sleep and mourn without worries of being attacked. This simple act of empathy proving even further that we need to get him home.

The next morning they stumbled upon the girl from District 3 and saved her from a mutt, the first Peeta and Finnick had seen this year, an abnormally large rat-like creature with red eyes, earning her trust and the boys another ally. They brought her in on Kai’s plan to go after the District 1 Tributes supplies and were beginning to set that plan into action. Which brings us to today. As of last night they settled down to camp and we're planning to spend the day heading back to the cornucopia, collecting what they'll need.

“How are we doing in terms of sponsorships?” I ask next, satisfied with Peeta’s quick summary.

“Ok.” He admits. “Could be better. But the alliance with Four is helping, the pair have the audience’s attention, more so now with the girl from Three.”

The flow of sponsor money had slowed a bit after the Games started, the newness of us as mentors became secondary to the Capitollite’s pride in picking the winner. Owen’s interview helped keep it consistent through the first few days but interest in him and Mira had definitely died down a bit in the days leading up to her death.

“Ok.” I breathe out as the doors open to the mentors area. “We’ll do what we can today.” I take his hand in mine and let him lead me through the open space to our assigned couch and table.

As soon as we take our seats an Avox approaches. Peeta orders us each another coffee and a lemon danish for me, thanking them as he always does. He explains himself before I can even ask. “You’ve barely eaten for the last three days and I know you like the danishes.” He offers me a shy smile.

“Thank you.” I answer, overwhelmed by how close he always pays attention to me and vowing to myself to do better to return the favor. Before I can offer anything else though, a sandy-haired man swaggers over to us and Peeta jumps to his feet to greet the infamous charmer of District 4.

“Finnick!” Peeta calls shaking the man's hand with a chuckle.

“Peeta.” He answers, a teasing smile crossing his face.

And suddenly our new friend is very close to me, those famous sea-green eyes only inches from mine. “Hello, Katniss.” he says, leaning in, as if we’ve known each other for years rather than just now finally being introduced.

“Hello, Finnick.” I shift back, offering my hand for him to shake. However, much to my dismay he takes my hand and brings it quickly to his lips pressing a kiss there before dropping it from his hold. It was sweet when Peeta did it, genuine and instinctual. But Finnick…no the act was too practiced, forced, like he was trying to see how I’d react. Unfortunately, it seems my shock must be very clear on my face as he lets out a gleeful laugh.

“Charmed, Miss Everdeen.” He speaks. “I’ve just been dying to meet you. Has your fiance given you the run of things? Told you all of what you missed?”

“Yes. He’s kept me well informed.”

“Good, because you’ve arrived just in time. Our little friends are just getting themselves moving.” Finnick answers, that same charming smile on his face as he sits himself on our couch. One of his own small screens in hand, showing Kai’s smiling face as he packs his bag and laughs with Owen.

The trio sets off through the ruins, following this girl from Three, as she moves with confidence in the direction of the Cornucopia. It seems their plan has taken on some new elements in the night. The girl is sure she can extract the landmines from the tribute platforms and they can use them to destroy the supplies. She keeps looking to Owen and saying, “y’know like Katniss last year.”

It’s odd to think about it, how something so simple I did in the Games inspired copycats and has resonated. The berries make a bit more sense, the blatant defiance of the Games’ rules. I didn’t realize at the time the effect they would have but in retrospect, I can see why it would shock people, why it may have inspired others to commit their own small acts of rebellion. But blowing up the careers supplies? In the grand patchwork of our Games, I didn’t realize that part would have stuck in people’s minds.

It’s only once they’ve reached the cornucopia and the girl has dropped down to begin fiddling with the first platform that it clicks. The Boy from Three. Last year, he had been the one to take apart and replant the mines, the one who had been killed by Cato when I set them off. That’s why this Ada remembers it so well. My act with the apples had led to her District Tribute’s death.

She has a small case she keeps tucked in her pocket, methodically pulling out one tool after another as she begins taking apart the platform in front of her.

“Where did she get those tools?” I ask.

“I sent them to her.” A new voice answers, soft, steady. The three of us on the couch all look up, met with the face of the Mentor from District 3.

“Hi, Beetee!” Finnick greets.

“Hello, Finnick.” He answers. “It’s good to see you again, old friend.”

There's that term again, old friend. Chaff and Haymitch. Beetee and Finnick. Will that be Peeta and I someday? Chummy with all these fellow Victors and Mentors after years and years of Games? I doubt Snow would allow it. He didn't allow any fellow Victors to attend our Tour. I'm sure he'll find some excuse or some threat to hold over our heads, keep us at a distance from them too. Not that I really want to be old friends with any of these Victors. It would mean we've been mentors long enough to develop those connections and relationships. Well for Peeta to. He's always been the one who's good with other people, charming, smart, quick-witted, dragging me behind him as I attempt to just politely smile along.

“Hi, Beetee.” Peeta speaks up, sparking our introductions. “My name is Peeta, and this is Katniss.”

“Yes.” The man answers, taking Peeta’s offered hand to shake before reaching out for mine.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” I manage to offer, before pulling my hand back. “What are the tools she’s using?”

“Just a few little things for detailed and delicate work.” Beetee answers.

“Is it safe?” I ask. “Taking apart and rearranging the mines?” It seems Owen and I are on the same page as I hear him ask a nearly identical question through the speakers of our screen.

“No less safe than simply being in the arena.” Beetee says.

“Will they be able to travel with them?” I question. “To actually get them to where the District 1 tributes are keeping their supplies?”

“It should be. They activate the detonator’s remotely at the start of the Games from the Gamemaker’s Center but Ada knows how to deactivate them manually. So they’ll be able to travel with them and then have her reactivate them when they set them up.” Beetee explains.

Owen watches with heightened interest, asking questions as Ada works, clearly intrigued by the complicated process of taking the mines apart.

Around lunch time, Finnick excuses himself explaining he has a meeting but will be back in a bit, leaving Peeta and I alone with Beetee. When the Victor from Four slips away, Beetee leans in to us and speaks. “Your Owen here is quite smart, he’s picking up what Ada is explaining quickly.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peeta answers.

“I’m sorry for you loss. Miss Belle did not deserve any of this.” He adds, voice dipping so low the words barely reach my ears.

“Thank you, sir.” Peeta repeats, squeezing my hand in his.

As the tributes work, their plan becomes clearer. Originally they were hoping simply to set a fire and destroy their supplies, like Rue and I intended last year, but last night they saw them moving back to their hideaway. It’s Ada who first suggests they take these two pieces off the board.

“How do you suggest we do that?” We hear Kai ask through the small screen's speakers.

“We bury them.” Owen suggests, the casualness of it making all breath leave my lungs. “Like miners. When there’s a mine collapse they get trapped under the rubble.”

“Have you ever seen that happen?” Kai questions.

“Well, I’m too young to be down in the mines, but yeah most of Twelve can remember at least one major mining accident, and everyone knows what the alarm means when it goes off. There was one when I was a kid, maybe 8 or 9, they spent all day and night trying to rescue people. But there were still several who never came back up.”

The mining accident. The one that killed my father. That’s the accident he’s remembering.

“So how do we do that? Bury them.” Ada asks.

“Well, we’d need a way to set off the mines without being close and we’d need to hide them in just the right places.” Owen explains, recalling some of the basic lessons on mining they teach us in school. “The miners usually use dynamite in 12, but these would be our version of explosives. They usually have a remote detonator on them, so either with a timer or a button you hit once you're at a safe distance.”

“Katniss set the landmines off, last year, by hitting them with an apple, right?” Kai recalls.

“Yeah, she knocked over a bag of apples and one landed on a mine.” Ada confirms.

“Anyone got any apples?” Kai asks. “No? then we’ll need to find something else as a detonator.”

“Ok so we need to be strategic with where we place them and we need a way to set them off from a distance.” Ada ignores Kai’s attempt at a joke freeing her third mine.

As the day drones on, all the pieces fall into place. They extract four mines in total. My heart nearly bursts through my chest as I watch Ada walk Owen through freeing the last one entirely on his own. Waiting the entire time for his hand to slip, for him to twist a screw just the wrong way, or shift just enough to set it off. Waiting to watch him ripped apart right before my eyes in a burst of flame and violence and death. But it never comes, instead I see his face widen in a proud, joyous, smile as he slips the explosive from its sheath.

“I hated that.” Peeta gasps out next to me. Our eyes meet and I can’t stop the horrified laugh that slips past my lips, realizing he was just as panicked and terrified as I was at the display. Beetee seems somehow completely unbothered by the stress of the very dangerous work happening before us.

By time Finnick returns, hours later, our tributes have slipped into the ruins near District 1’s hideaway, taking turns watching and waiting for them to leave.

“Have they eaten yet?” He asks, as he sits back down at my left, a cloud of suffocatingly sweet perfume accompanying his presence.

“Not yet.” Peeta confirms. “We were waiting for the District 1 tributes to leave. Don’t want any parachutes giving away their location.”

“Smart.” Finnick agrees. There’s something wrong with him, his hands are twitching and he’s clearly unsteady as he reaches out for a glass of water. Did his sponsorship meeting go poorly? What kind of sponsor would have him so twigged out?

“They’re waiting to go in and set up the detonators.” I explain to Finnick, gently pushing the plate of cheese and fruit we’ve been picking at in his direction. “You didn’t miss too much, just Ada nearly giving me and Peeta a heart attack when she taught Owen how to take apart a landmine. Your Kai was smart enough to stay clear of such stupidity and risks though.”

“Good.” Finnick laughs, leaning in to me just a touch. “He’s a good kid, that one.” Then his face switches, suddenly serious. “Your Owen Sparrow is too.”

“Yeah…yeah he is.” I muster out, turning my attention back to the screens in front of us, too overwhelmed by the sincerity and pity pouring out of the man’s intense sea-green eyes.

It takes a bit longer but as the sun finally sinks in the arena, the pair from District 1 slink out of their hideaway and make off into the night, likely set on trying to hunt down other tributes like they had done to Owen a few days ago. As soon as the sound of their steps have disappeared into the night, our trio moves. Slipping into the ruins the District 1 tributes have been using to sleep and hide their extensive supplies.

“While Ada sets them up, let’s look through the stuff. See if there’s anything we can use.” Kai suggests to Owen.

“You go through it, I’ll keep watch.” Owen whispers back. So they take their posts, Kai digs through the supplies, tucking away any food they can snag without it being noticeable, grabbing the odd useful item. Owen listening for any sounds of arriving enemies. Ada moving around the ruins, securing and hiding a mine on each of the four walls.

When she reaches the last she calls Owen over. “Wanna learn how to set them up to detonate?” She asks him.

“I guess.” Owen answers. “Promise not to let me get blown up?”

“I’ll do my best.” She answers with a smile.

“Hey!” Kai hisses through the dark. “Apples!” He holds up a small bag of red fruit.

“Perfect!” Owen chuckles. “Tuck those away and then keep watch while Ada walks me through this.”

It takes all my self-restraint to not hide behind my hands as Owen activates a bomb for delayed detonation. This is insane. I keep repeating over and over in my head. Peeta is clearly doing no better, his bright blue eyes remain wide and unblinking on the screen tracking our tributes every move.

“There. All set.” Ada declares. “Now lets clear out of here.”

The three tributes reset the stockpile as best as they can, hoping to hide any evidence of their theft. Once satisfied with their work, they slip back into the dark, back to their previous hiding spot. Able to watch for their quarry's return, while being hopefully far enough away that should the landmines go off accidentally they’d escape any immediate harm.

Once they are settled in, we check the maps and seeing that there’s no other tribute near them, Beetee sets about ordering dinner for our trio. Only after they’ve started eating does Finnick request a meal for us four as well.

The pair from District 1 return long after the anthem has played. Ensuring our own tributes have settled down to rest. Us mentors depart for the evening. All of us knowing that we won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

Peeta and I stay awake sipping hot chocolate long into the night. Unable to pull our eyes away from the screen in the District 12 suite until they cannot physically stay open any longer. Peeta’s head falls against my shoulder in exhaustion sometime around 2AM. His breath evening out and providing a rhythmic soundtrack to my silent vigil for Owen and the impending attack in the morning.

There’s an unspoken weight in the air. Owen’s been credited with the death of the boy from District 7, Arden, already. He was somewhat involved in the girl from Nine’s death as well, even if he didn’t deal the killing blow. But this, blowing up the District 1’s Tribute hideout, waiting for them to be there and unaware is different. This is intentional. Deaths he’d have a direct hand in setting up. The girl from Nine was the bloodbath, there’s so much chaos in the bloodbath. The boy from Seven attacked him and he killed him in self-defense, and even then he understandably did not take that guilt on easily. Helping kill the tributes from One, will he be ok? Will he get injured in the attack? Will he be ok mentally in the aftermath?

I fall asleep sometime between 3AM and Sunrise, clinging to the image of a peacefully sleeping Owen for as long as I can. Hoping the day won’t push him somewhere he’ll never be able to come back from.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! Everything was going wrong. First, Ada fell asleep on watch, meaning Veloura and Lennox were already waking for the day when we finally got ourselves moving. Then, Kai stumbled on a vine catching their attention, making our targets leap to their feet, on alert. Ada, only halfway to where she was supposed to set off the one detonator on the outside, and unfortunately directly in Lennox’ eyeline, his spear clutched in his hand ready to throw.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! The curse spirals ceaselessly in my mind. We all stand frozen, waiting for the others to make the first move. But they don’t know that I’m here. Don’t know I’m even a part of this. As far as Veloura and Lennox know they’ve got eyes on all of their attackers and their backs to their supplies, they absolutely believe they have the better position. I realize there’s only one way to end this, and it's all on me. Slipping my knife from my hip, I shift myself as silently as possible. Thankfully, quietly enough that the tributes from One don’t catch the sound or movement out of the corner of their eyes. I plant my feet, line myself up with an opening in the wall. If I can get my aim just right, get just enough heft behind my throw, I might be able to do this.

Taking a deep breath and pulling on every practice throw in the tribute center, every word of adjustment and advice from my mentors, I line up my shot and fling my knife into the standoff. I watch the blade move, almost, in slow motion. As it inches by her, Veloura’s blond head whips in my direction, finally realizing there’s a third attacker. Kai springs into action, spinning on his heel when he catches she’s distracted taking off away from the impending explosion. It’s too late that I realize that my allies and I are definitely way too close, that the odds of us getting caught in the blast are not in our favor.

Well, this is it. Came all the way out here, exchanged an explosive death in the mines buried under rubble for an explosive death in the arena buried under rubble.

Fuck.

My vision erupts in a blaze of light as I feel myself lifted off my feet, all breath knocked from my lungs as I slam down hard onto the stone. I wait for the familiar blaring alarm to cut through the violent ringing in my ears, that shrill omen of doom and starvation for countless miners and their families. But it never comes.

A cannon sounds.

A second follows.

Chapter Text

I don’t know how long it takes my mind to process the scene before me, with my pounding head and aching lungs. I know it takes Kai, shaking my shoulder and yelling in my face to pull me from my haze, and even then I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. In fact, I realize I can't hear anything at all, just as my vision pinholes fades to black.

In the end, the attack could have ended much worse for our little trio. Yes, none of them left it unscathed but, it definitely could have been much, much worse. We all got lucky. For once, the odds might have actually been in our favor. We're immensely lucky that only two cannons went off. That they were the two cannons Owen had been hoping for. Ok, fine. I had been hoping for those two cannons too. If we have to have any cannons. But only because those two cannons mean our boy is just that much closer to coming home.

Kai made it out the best of the three. The way the explosion threw him meant he landed in a decently thick pile of discarded vines. His pack shifting in just a way that it cradled his neck. I’d bet he probably has a mild concussion but otherwise evaded any more serious harm. He was the first on his feet, sprinting right up to a dazed Owen to assess the damage to his friend.

Owen, well Owen came out ok. Not great, but not awful. The blast and landing definitely knocked the wind out of him. He landed hard on the stone resulting in some scary purple bruising on his back and some headaches and light sensitivity that definitely lent evidence to a concussion. The scariest part though was the way he lost consciousness for a few minutes afterward before coming to. And it seems his hearing wasn’t quite right all day, always asking for his allies to repeat themselves or speaking louder than he should.

Ada was definitely the worst of the three. She had the misfortune of being the closest to the blast and no chance to put some extra distance between her and the collapsing ruins. Her instincts were quick enough to try to block her face but she came away with some minor burns on her hands and arms. She was doing a good job of hiding the pain she was surely feeling though. Originally refusing to let Owen and Kai help her up or carry her pack, before eventually giving in to their offer for aid.

Once Owen came to and they cleared away from the wreckage, Beetee had sent her some medicine. Owen had helped, peeling her damaged coat over the tender flesh before applying the ointment and wrapping the injured skin in some bandages, stolen from the District 1 tribute’s stash. Just as Katniss had shown him, and just as Prim had shown her.

They spent the rest of the day resting and recovering, eating and drinking from their stash. But something had shifted in the last 24 hours on the outside. Until this point in the Games, the hosts and oddsmakers had been treating Owen and Ada essentially as afterthoughts in a lot of ways: decent competitors but unlikely to actually be the Victor. Kai being from a career district received a bit more begrudging respect, and consistently had slightly better odds listed next to his name. But the pair from District 1, and the girl from District 2, were definitely getting the best setup as future Victors. At least until, our trio’s attack.

But now, they forced the hosts to change their tune. Suddenly, Owen, Ada, and Kai were three of the surest bets you could make, and the sponsor money was flooding in to all three of our pots. Owen's odds were higher this morning than ever. The hosts suddenly remembered how charming he was in the interviews, a fact they seemed to have forgotten as the Games dragged on. But not anymore. They had awarded him the credit of killing the tributes from One, bringing his count up to 3. Ada and Kai remained at 0 direct kills, but their involvement in the attack was carrying them much higher than the tributes who have stayed hidden and out of any altercations.

When the hosts weren’t building up Owen’s mythos as a rogue, calculating, player they were practically salivating over all the ways this alliance could end. Would they keep seeking new tributes to take out of the competition? Would they go after the girl from Two next and ensure Kai was the last Career alive? Would they turn on each other? If so, when? And if so, who would be the first to break the peace?

Claudius argued it would be Owen, because “we should never underestimate those tributes from the outer districts, especially with his kill count.” Caesar was sure it would be Ada, because “she was the first to suggest they wait until the District 1 tributes were in their hideout before setting off the mines.” He was right on that fact. Ada was the first to suggest they try to kill them, not just destroy their supplies. But she didn't seem the type to turn on her friends. None of them did.

All morning, Katniss and I were flooded with meeting and sponsor requests, and by lunch our pool had exceeded where it had been at the start of the Games. Before I’d had to blow most of it buying that antidote for Owen. But Katniss is quickly becoming overwhelmed by all the attention. She barely lets me out of her sight all day, especially after she gets cornered by a prospective sponsor when she only left our couch to use the restroom.

“It’s for Owen.” I keep murmuring for both her benefit and my own. But that mantra can only push off my exhaustion for so long. The truth is I’m tired. Tired of all of this, of the long days spent worrying, the too short nights waking from my own or Katniss’ nightmares, the constant need to be “on” and playing along, selling a bit of my soul every time I laugh at some snobbish out-of-touch Capitol Citizen just to get them to throw money our way. It’s a grueling, crushing, punishing existence and I don’t know how much longer I can do it.

I hate myself as soon as that thought enters my mind. Owen is literally fighting for his life with each and every step. Could die at any moment. Could be killed at any moment. I remember the exhaustion of the Games, the stress, the worry, the panic that burrows itself in your bones when you’re in the arena. That’s real exhaustion. Not whatever my weak, soft, self is suffering through right now.

I only survived because Haymitch sent us the food, because Katniss gave me the medicine, and, yes, sent her the sleep syrup to knock me out to go get that medicine. Owen doesn’t have a Katniss in the arena, he only has her and I on the outside. Suffering this means Owen is still alive, and I’ll keep pressing on for as long as it takes to get him home. “It’s for Owen.” I say for the hundredth time, slipping my hand into Katniss’. “We just need to keep going, it’s for Owen.”

We give ourselves the rest of the day and night after the explosion to rest. Though Ada, despite her burns, wakes ready to get moving again. Kai and I manage to convince her to wait at least until the afternoon, to get some food and water in us, to do another full check of our supplies.

With my share of the stuff we snagged from the tributes’ hideaway I have a good haul: Three apples, some crackers, a bit of cheese, a few pieces of dried jerky and dried fruit, two stale rolls of bread, three bottles of water, two more rolls of bandages, maybe half a vial of iodine. I still have my sword, and a knife. The other lost in the explosion. But all in all, not too bad.

Hopefully, the sponsor money is coming in consistently. Maybe my part in the attack on the tributes from One will help win some people to my side or help my odds. My lucky shot with the knife certainly couldn’t hurt, though I doubt I’ll be able to recreate it if asked. I find my thoughts veering far from the cannons that sounded as a result of that knife, just playing the moment the handle left my sweaty, panicked, palm over and over and over again. Nothing of its aftermath.

If my count is right, there are seven tributes left: Minerva from Two, Ada, Kai, Juniper from Seven, Reed from Eight, Annie from Eleven, and me. They’ll be getting ready to interview our families back home. Who would they get to speak about me? Would anyone? Would Kai’s father speak for him? He’ll probably have to. He’ll probably be dragged in front of a camera and forced to wax poetic about how much of an honor it is to have his son represent their district, to get to take part in the wonderful tradition of the Hunger Games. What bullshit! Does Ada have any family at home waiting for her?

If I survive this what will my life even look like? Cozy dinners in Victors Village? Third wheeling Katniss and Peeta? A drunk Haymitch stumbling up onto my porch at all hours of the night? All of us gathered together, reminiscing about the great honor of the Games and comparing scars?

I guess it’d be a better life than I’d have if I stayed at the community home: aging out in three years and forced to sign up for the mines the moment I turn 18. I don’t know if that’s any better than even my current alternative: a cheap wooden coffin and a grave no one will care enough to visit.

Maybe Katniss or Peeta would stop by every once in a while, when the survivor's guilt becomes too much, leave a rogue flower in my honor. But that’s likely just wishful thinking. Perhaps the last bit of my childish desire to be seen and valued still hanging on despite all of life’s attempts at killing it. Who cares? However this ends, none of it matters if I don’t get home. I have to get home. So I give into my unwavering headache once again and simply roll over to nap. Trying not to remember that the only way I walk out of this is if the two people also hidden up on this cold stone floor are dead.

That second morning after the explosion, Kai and I finally fail to keep Ada in one place. She’s completely set on heading out, making arguments about the need for water, the need to get moving. In the end though, it's her point about the bodies of the District 1 Tributes that gets Kai and I on her side. They haven’t been retrieved yet. Buried under the rubble, there’s no way the hovercrafts can get in there to extract them. But Ada suggests that if we clear out, they might be able to get people in here to do the more delicate work.

So with a handful of resigned sighs, we gather our supplies and set off into the arena once more, moving back towards the Cornucopia as we try to get back to the river. We have no real plan. No idea what we’re going to do next, just put one foot in front of the other, I guess. As the sun nears its apex in the sky, we finally make it to the riverbed.

Ada drops to her knees before the water, opening her bottles one by one to fill them. Just as she tightens the top on the last, the ground starts to vibrate under our feet.

The vibration turns to shaking. Then, the shaking turns to cracking. My mind spins, trying to find the word from school to describe what this is.

“Earthquake!” Kai calls in warning, naming the Gamemakers' twist before I can. Startling, stark lines appear in the surrounding cement, as if the arena is splitting into smaller slices.

The shaking turns into jarring, trembling, quaking. So violent, the only way to weather it is to drop to our knees on the stone.

Kai and I end up in the same small segment of ground. But Ada…Ada gets pulled away by the shifting earth beneath us, her bandaged hand slipping through my grasp as I fail to yank her onto our narrow fraction of clay.

It seems to last forever. The rumbling under our feet, the echoing collapsing of the surrounding buildings. Those half decrepit ruins immediately crumbling to dust and sediment. It could last a minute, ten, even an hour, and I’d have no idea. Just desperately trying to grip the stone with one hand, my friend’s collar with the other, hoping against all my shit luck that I won’t get separated from him too.

When it stops, finally stops, no one moves. We stay frozen, huddled against the ground until we’re sure the earthquake has passed. I expect to hear a cannon sound from some distant part of the arena, but it never comes, only silence.

What was the point of that? Did the Gamemakers fail in whatever ploy they were attempting? Were they targeting a tribute who outwitted their move? If so, who? Who could they be targeting? Trying to set one up as a hero, or take one out of the equation?

“Everybody ok?” Ada calls from her crumbling plateau a handful of steps to my right.

“We’re good!” Kai answers for us both. “You?”

“I’m good.” She confirms. “Do you want to come to me or should I come to you?”

In the end, Kai and I decide to, carefully, cross the unstable stone to Ada. From there, together, we get ourselves away from the fault line and further into the ruins.

The sun sets quicker than usual, which cannot be a good omen. But in what feels like, maybe, twenty minutes the arena shifts from early evening light to a dark, starless, night sky. It helps my assumption when there’s a longer than normal gap between the sun disappearing over the horizon and the start of the anthem.

We use the ruckus of the music as an additional cover for us to climb up into a new set of ruins. This one covered in more of that climbing vines than any of the others we’ve come across. In fact, with each passing day the arena seems to get greener and greener, more and more alive. The river continues to flow steady, the glimpse of rabbits and small game is becoming more and more common, bird calls fill the air with their songs.

My mind returns to its earlier diatribe. What are the Gamemaker’s doing? The arena is changing around us. From barren, crumbling, ruins to green growth and rebirth. Why? Are the Gamemakers trying to send a message? If so, what? And for whom?

A blown out and destroyed city could be a warning, maybe. A reminder of what they did to District 13 during the Dark Days. Is that where we are? No. They wouldn’t send us all the way out to Thirteen. They say the air is poisoned, that it's too dangerous to fly into its airspace, or spend even a minute amongst the ruins. No. They need a Victor. Katniss and Peeta proved that last year. They wouldn’t drag us all the way out to Thirteen just for us to die from the residual fumes and toxic vapors. No, we can’t be in Thirteen. Surely, we'd know by now. We’d be feeling the poisons affects. So no, it can’t be Thirteen. Maybe a recreation?

What could the returning greenery and animal-life mean then? Why the disasters: the storms and the earthquakes? What message are they trying to send? If I’m a fucked up part of it, the least they could do is let me know.

Kai takes first watch after our small dinner of rations, and I drift off, head pillowed by my pack, into nightmares of poisonous smoke and choking, burning, air.

It’s odd. In the aftermath of Mira’s death I felt overwhelming, all-consuming, grief. If I let my mind settle on her for longer than a moment, I still do. That panic immediately comes rushing back. But Ada’s passing? All that makes me feel is numb. Empty, cavernous, numbness. Maybe it will hit me later? Or maybe having Kai here to see it too, to share that loss, makes it just easy enough to not force me to completely fall apart. Or maybe, Mira’s loss just hurt more, was more personal. My district partner. My fellow kid from the Seam. Ada was brilliant, imaginative, and an incredible ally, but she wasn’t from home. It’s easier to distance myself from it, from her loss. No. Her death. She’s dead. Not lost, not gone, not home, dead. Attacked by some Gamemaker crafted mutts.

There was something about the attack though, something I can’t quite place. The snake mutts targeted her specifically. They circled Kai and I, separating us from her and each other, preparing to strike. But they never did, at least not at Kai and I. Just Ada.

We’d been attempting to hunt our dinner for once, rather than relying on our mentors and the sponsors' generosity. Then they appeared. Rushing out of the fault line like a wave. Those swirling silver serpents. Their vacant red eyes. The hissing, so loud it seemed to almost be coming from inside my head. Ada’s scream as they lunged. Kai’s desperate plea of “NO!” Ada’s flailing limbs as she stumbled backwards. Her complete disappearance beneath a sheet of silver.

A cannon sounds.

Ada. The snakes escape back into the nearest fault line, taking any trace of our ally, our friend, with them. Why? What did she do to earn such pointed attention from the Gamemakers? Or what didn’t she do?

My mind comes back to the earthquake, who was that for? Just to create another opening into the arena? The odd disasters that affect most Games are expected, often designed to keep the Games interesting or drive storylines. Just last year, the Gamemakers started a forest fire to drive Katniss into a confrontation with the Careers. They sent days of storms and focused on Katniss and Peeta as they were tucked away in a cave. Showing the other remaining tributes for much briefer stints than the so-called Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12. But usually they are subtler than this.

The Games are a message, a warning, a threat hanging over the Districts heads. A yearly punishment for the sins of people long dead. A constant reminder of what happens when you step out of line. They basically say as much every year at the reaping. But every minute I’m in here that becomes clearer and clearer. A message, but to more than just “the Districts.” Who else?

If it's about punishing inter-district unity, then their hypocrites. The Career Pack forms every year, usually at least 2 or 3 districts fighting together in the Games. If it’s about her messing with the landmines, then it's just the same. The tribute from her district did the same thing last year to guard the Career’s supplies. Is it because she turned their landmines into a weapon? Used the arena itself to take out other tributes? The attack on Ada was a targeted message to someone. But to who?

Kai seems to react, similarly, to our loss. Quiet, cautious, going through the motions, turning inward. We abandon our hopes of hunting for dinner and opt instead to just find some ruins to climb into. Almost as soon as we do, the sky darkens with clouds.

Tucking ourselves against the wall, we’ve just settled in when the first of the rain falls. By the time the anthem plays, it's a steady rhythm against the stone over our heads. We maintain our silent vigil when Ada’s face appears in the sky. But, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Kai dip his head to stare at his shoes. I keep my eyes on Ada’s. I missed my chance to get that last glimpse at Mira. See her as the girl she was, not how she ended. I won’t do the same again. Ada's long black hair, her bronze skin, made even tanner by the days out in the sun, the silent challenge in her dark eyes, her knowing smile. No, I won’t forget any of it. I’ll remember her patience and calm encouragement when teaching me to free the landmines, her quick mind, her bold plans, her snide jests. That is how I’ll remember her. Not the snakes, not her scream, not…not…

I’m the first to break the silence when the anthem ends. “It's not our fault.” I say, hoping he can read the unspoken half of that sentence. It’s not our fault. It's the Gamemakers' fault.

Kai’s sea-green eyes find mine in the dark. The nod he gives me tells me he hears every word. Understands our shared, silent, accusation. It’s the Games fault. The Capitol’s fault. All of this is the Capitol’s fault.

“I’m sure your mentors will find this familiar.” Kai teases, changing the subject. Giving us both an out of our slightly rebellious conversation, and extending an olive branch to share a moment of levity in this shithole after such a shit day. “Probably brings back some good memories.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure they’re thrilled.” I answer, sardonically. Letting myself grab onto that humor, that opportunity to ignore everything else.

“I hope the Gamemakers don’t expect us to kiss cause, dude, you’re a nice guy but you’re not my type.” Kai adds, tone full of jest.

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing, loud. Probably too loud. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type either.”

“Y’know there’s this girl back home, I won’t tell you her name, so don't even ask, don’t want to blow my chances at something when I get back home, but she’s got this long dark hair and these big light brown eyes. That’s my type.”

“You would have liked Mira then.” I find myself suggesting. Maybe in a few years, in another world. A world where we all get to grow up and have relationships and make stupid decisions as we try to figure life out. “Kind and caring, genuinely good and sweet, not an act.”

“Sounds like Daria, so I’m sure I would have liked Mira too.” Kai agrees. “I wish I could have met her, I think she’d have made a pretty good friend.”

“Yeah she was.” I acknowledge, covering up my emotion with a cough, I shift us back to the original subject at hand. “So what happened with this girl from home?”

“Nothing, didn’t get the guts to say anything to her. And she’s friends with my cousin anyway, who’d be pissed if I made a move.” Kai admits.

“I’m sure she’d understand if you went about it the right way.”

“Maybe, but Mer’s real scary when she’s mad.” Kai declares with a laugh. “You actually remind me of her.”

“You think I’m scary?”

“Nah. You’re a regular ol’softie, but you hide it well. And you’re always watching, thinking ten steps ahead.” He states.

Well, clearly Kai’s opinion of me is quite a bit higher than my own. I’m really not all that. Kai’s smarter than me, more charismatic, more open. He’s already got the confidence and presence of a Victor. He’d wear the title well.

“Mer’s like that too.” Kai continues. “I think she should be a doctor someday, but she’s not sure if she can handle it, the blood and everything. But she likes problem solving, and she's got a big heart.”

“That would make a good doctor.” I compliment the girl. If Kai’s right about her, or if she’s anything like him, I’m sure she’d be good at whatever she sets her mind to. “I’d trust a doctor like that, anyway.”

“Yeah.” He answers, disappearing back into his thoughts.

“Y’know the closest thing we have to a doctor back home in the Seam is Katniss’ mom. Her parents ran the apothecary when she was a kid, so she knows everything about herbs and remedies.” I offer.

“You keep saying that, ‘the Seam.’ What’s that mean?” Kai asks.

“It's the poor section of District 12, where all the miners and their families live. Katniss is seam. But Peeta…Peeta’s family is Merchant, they own the bakery, live close to the district center.” I explain.

“Did you ever meet Katniss before the Games?”

“Nah, I was in a community home for the orphans of the district, and Katniss mostly kept to herself.” I answer.

“And any girls in the community home catch your eye?”

“Didn’t really have time for that. Too worried about trying not to starve to death on the rations they divided amongst us.” I say, stilling my hands. Well, that can’t be good for the blade. I realize I’ve been dragging my knife along the dusty stone floor. My absent-mindedness will surely be to blame for dulling the edge. “Had no money, no future, not much of a catch by those standards. And the Matrons of the home were pretty strict.”

“Yeah but a pretty girl is a pretty girl, and if one wants to kiss you, you do what it takes.” Kai declares.

“That’s true.” I certainly noticed a few girls, Sally Hemlock from history class always smiled at me and said hello. Ivy Jackson kissed my cheek once when I walked her back to her home in the Seam. She was pretty, with her dark hair and gray eyes like the rest of the Seam girls. But that was years ago, we were barely twelve. I hadn't even gone through my first Reaping yet.

Beyond that? Well, like I told Kai, it's hard to get your hopes up for romance when you’ve got nothing much going for you in the long run. I always thought if I survived the community home, got a decent job in the mines, then maybe I’d give romance a shot. But I wouldn’t want to bring anyone down to my world of starvation and extreme poverty if I could avoid it. I’d want to make something of myself first, something beyond the dumb kid from the community home with a dead mother and no-one for a father.

“Hey even Peeta Mellark understands that.” Kai declares, cutting into my internal self-assault. “Can’t pity the poor bastard even with that leg of his, he found a very pretty girl who wanted to kiss him in the worst possible place. And then he got to take her home.”

“That's true. But not all of us can be Peeta Mellark now can we.” I answer.

“Unfortunately.” Kai chuckles. “But hey Katniss…just saying if I make it out of here and that baker's boy doesn’t prove up to snuff you come find me in District 4 any day!” Kai announces to the sky.

“I think my victor’s residence in Twelve will be easier for her to get to.” I toss back, defending my mentor.

“That might be the case.” Kai jokes. “But if the Hunger Games can’t stop true love, what’s a few districts of distance.”

At that declaration, a parachute floats itself down into our hideaway. Attached to it is a small basket of various breads: Salty Green from District 4, Nuts and Berries from 12, and the Sourdough from the train, the style from District 9. When I unhook the parachute from its handle, my eyes catch on something white tucked under the rolls.

“No way! She sent a note!” I call out when I realize what it is.

“Who? Katniss?” Kai asks, sitting up and leaning over the basket.

Pulling the notecard free, I flip it over. “It reads: You’re both a bit too young for me, and I’m happy with my Baker’s Boy.”

“Oh, I like her!” Kai declares, the rain largely covering up the loud laugh he lets out at her teasing.

“Yeah she’s nice.” I agree.

“And pretty.” Kai compliments.

“And very good with a bow.” I remind him. Then my mouth moves faster than my mind as I add, “Did you know she threw a knife at me that first night on the train?”

“No way! Really?” Kai’s eyes go wide with awe as he reaches for one of the rolls from Four.

“Well, she threw it past me. But we both know she can aim and it was close enough to be terrifying, I assure you.” I explain.

“Yeah, I think I’ll shut up now.” Kai finishes, settling back against the wall as he rips into a chunk of the roll. “Night Katniss!” He states to the sky, mouth full.

“Hey Peeta too!”

“Night Peeta! You’re not my type but you seem like a nice guy and got great taste in pretty girls!” Kai adds, belatedly.

“Night Finnick! Night Talia!” I mimic, sending my own message to his mentors from Four. I lay against my pack and bite into the taste of home, letting it soothe away a bit of the pain of the day.

Chapter Text

The skies show no signs of stopping. Just a constant deluge of rain. If it doesn’t let up soon, the arena will be at risk of flooding. Unless that’s the point.

So far we’ve had a massive thunderstorm, an earthquake…is a flood next? Does Owen know how to swim? I doubt it. There’s nowhere in Twelve for us to learn. Kai likely does, but an ally's swimming skills will only be so helpful. To have Owen make it this far, suffer so much, just to drown in some Gamemaker crafted flood? They wouldn’t end his story like that. Would they?

He’s got the highest kill count, technically, of the Games. He’s not out hunting other tributes like the pair from One were, and the girl from Two still is. But he’s considered a pretty sure bet, and he’s well-liked amongst the Capitol citizens. They’re convinced he’s playing up his friendship with Kai to keep his trust, that he’s just waiting for the right moment to strike or until it's down to the last few tributes. But they don’t know Owen.

There’s no playing up or faking in that friendship. I think if anyone could tell, it’d be me. I’ve become all too good at sensing when someone is being genuine in their affections and friendship in the last year.

There aren’t any other alliances still standing. Everyone else is on their own. Minerva, the District 2 girl, Juniper, the District 7 girl, who killed our Mira, Reed, the District 8 boy, Annona, the District 11 girl, Kai, and Owen. Seven. Only seven tributes left.

How does this end? Will they force a confrontation between Kai and Owen? Like they tried to do with Katniss and I last year…before the berries. Is that how they’d do it? Force Kai to abandon Owen to save his own life in a flood? No, that’s not bloody enough. Not dramatic enough. Will they force some dramatic final showdown between them? Violent and bloody and horrifying? Something the victor could never come back from. Not truly.

How does this end? Will it be mutts like Ada? She seemed to gain traction with the crowds; she had rising odds, and then she was gone. Targeted. Clearly targeted by mutts. Usually mutt attacks aren’t like that, or if they are, the Gamemakers are subtler about it.

How does this end? How will they get it down to just one? How do we ensure that one is Owen? The questions circle round and round in my mind. The horrible, nightmarish ways he could die. The terrifying, grisly fates the Gamemakers could craft up for him. They revolve through my vision over and over again. All through the evening special with their hometown interviews. All through Mayor Murray’s false pride in his son being a part of the Games, its legendary history, the great honor to have his own son represent and fight for their district. All through Mayor Murray’s very real pride at his son for his choice of allies, his teamwork with Owen. All through the stern Community House Matron’s attempts to speak positively about Owen, his wits, his good heart, his politeness, her sneer and tight voice giving away just how little she believes the words she’s saying.

The horrors swirling through my mind, follow me all the way into bed, where not even the familiar scent of lemon and pine on Katniss’ hair is enough to lure me from them or into sleep.

The sun never rises on my watch. Just more clouds, more rain. An unending, unyielding downpour. It goes on and on and on. Kai and I remain bored tucked up in our second-story hideaway. Our only entertainment, watching the level of water slowly rise bit by bit as it climbs up the walls of the first floor. It has to be at least knee-deep when the night comes in and it becomes too dark to keep tracking its progress through the gray. We pick cautiously at our rations and as the anthem begins, a parachute arrives carrying our now familiar meal: broth, bread rolls, and water.

However, the appearance of a face in the sky snags my attention before I can reach out for the package. Juniper.

The image my mind draws up is not the photo in the sky, her red-hair pulled off her face, her sickeningly, smiling face. How dare she smile? No, it’s her furious, flushed face I see. The grimace or rage and determination as she marches up to me…to…to her.

Mira. Her pale and graying face, her lifeless eyes, her hand desperately reaching out for mine. The sight of her fading as I fled, as I did the one thing she promised she’d never do. As I left her behind.

A horrible, cruel thought crosses mind.Good. I’m glad she’s dead. She deserves it for what she did to Mira.

I feel it for just a moment. The relief. The joy. The righteous justice of it all. And then my conscience kicks in. Just how horrible of a thing to think. How awful I am for believing that for even a moment. She had no choice in being in here. No more than I did. Or Kai. Or Mira.

I hate her. This girl from District 7. I do. I will always hate her. But I won’t revel in her death. I won’t let the Games make me do that. Make me into that. It’s the Capitol who deserve my anger, my rage, for doing this to all of us.

A third day of rain. A third day of boring television. What is their plan here? Maybe it's because I was in school the other games or maybe it's because I actively avoided paying attention as much as possible, registering the horror that was being blared through every public screen for all those Julys. But this doesn’t feel normal.

I mean, our Games had a handful of quiet stretches, but faces appeared in the sky pretty consistently. Is it because it's a weekday? Are they planning something big in the coming days? A feast, perhaps? Hoping to stretch out the inaction until the days where the Capitol citizens are largely not working?

All I know is that every minute of drawn out rain and storms is another minute for the Gamemakers to prepare whatever horrors they are crafting up. The possibilities are beyond my wildest imagination but it supplies more than enough for my nightmares to make do.

Dog mutts like the ones from our Games; one with deep brown eyes and dark hair like our Mira. Massive stumbling rats with bright red eyes like the ones that first attacked Ada; the ones Owen and Kai saved her from. The silver serpents they couldn’t save her from. We’ve already seen crows in this arena, perhaps swarming birds with pointed beaks. Clicking bugs. Tracker jackers. Eels slithering through the shallow water. One by one the possibilities swim across my vision. All of them targeting Owen. And then once the cannon sounds for him, my mind offers other victims: Peeta, Haymitch, Gale, Cinna, Effie, my Mother, Prim. Over and over, I watch them fall.

It gets so bad on that third night of storms, I don’t even try to sleep. No coaxing from Peeta can convince me to lay my head against that pillow. Instead, I sit up in the living room, nursing a cup of once warm hot chocolate. Peeta unable to rest without me in that too large Capitol bed, only catches a few minutes of slumber on the couch, his head just barely slumped onto my lap.

At this point, I’m barely hanging on. White knuckling it until the end of this. Until we can get him home. I can’t let myself consider another possibility. So I stay awake, forcing my tired eyes to stay open, forcing them to register the very real image before me: Owen awake on watch. It’s real. He’s real. That’s real. He’s still alive.

Claudius Templesmith’s voice pulls me from a deep slumber. He’s making an announcement, I realize. But, it takes a moment for my mind to catch up enough to make out the words. A feast? Did he say a feast? I look to Kai, who’s thankfully wide awake on watch, eagerly taking in every word.

“Did he say a feast?” I ask.

“Yeah! Sunset! At the cornucopia!” Kai explains.

The Games Host’s voice departs with another “May the Odds Be Every in Your Favor.” Leaving behind silence in its wake. Silence. No rain. Did it finally stop raining?

“When did the rain stop?” I ask my ally.

“Just a few minutes before the announcement. I was going to wait and see if the sun came out through the clouds before waking you. You were pretty out of it, mumbling in your sleep and stuff.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Its fine. The rain covered it so you weren't putting us at risk. Dream of anything good?”

“Not really.” I answer. “Just the usual, y’know…the horrors.” I vaguely gesture to the world around us.

“Ah, yes. The horrors.” Kai agrees, mimicking my blase tone.

A feast? The audience must be getting bored of the inaction if they’re planning a feast. Unless that been the whole point. These days of rain, storms, flooding, all a distraction to allow them to pull together whatever pieces they need to, craft up whatever mutts and horrors they plan to unleash.

“We shouldn’t go.” I declare.

“What why?” Kai asks. “They’ll have supplies for us. Maybe food.”

“We’ve been doing alright with food, especially with our alliance. Your mentors and mine can pool their supplies, they have been. We’ve been eating alright.”

“Yeah but how long is that going to last?” Kai argues. “And what if it isn’t food, what if its something else?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something we need.” He debates. “Like last year!”

“Last year, they held medicine for Peeta over Katniss’ head to lure her into a confrontation. She nearly died trying to get it. Peeta would have surely died if she failed.” I argue back. “There’s nothing we need that bad. I don’t think its worth the risk.”

“You may be right.” Kai admits. We fall into silence, tension pulling taut between us. Until now we’ve always been on the same page, had the same frame of mind. The boy from Four takes a deep breath, speaking up again. “How about this, we head in that direction, we scope it out and just see what comes up? If its not worth it, its not worth it. But then at least we’ll know and not miss out entirely on it if it is.”

“Everyone else will head that way too. We could run into other tributes on the way, I don’t want to have a confrontation if we don’t have to.”

“We’ll do what we can to avoid everyone else. And if it gets too dangerous, too risky, we turn back.” He suggests.

“We’ll turn back?” I ask.

“We’ll turn back.” He confirms. “Promise.” He holds out his pinky finger.

“What are you doing?”

“It's a pinky promise. Don’t have that in Twelve?” He looks at me shocked.

“No. No, we don’t.” I admit.

“It's a thing we do as kids, hold out your pinky.”

I lift my hand, right pinky raised, as if I’m Effie sipping her lavender tea.

Kai reaches out his own and explains, “then we wrap pinkies.” He demonstrates and I try to mimic the awkward twisting. Once we’re interlocked, he pumps our joined hands once. “There! An agreement struck!” He drops my hand.

“Hmmm…that’s it.”

“Yeah, for the most part. Some people kiss their thumbs but that's usually little kids. Do you have anything like that in Twelve?” He asks.

“Spit Shake.” I recall, an amused scoff slipping past my lips at the memory. Wade Blair teaching it to all the younger kids last year, making them agree to stupid dares in exchange for showing them.

“What?” A befuddled smirk crosses his face.

“You spit on your palm and shake hands. Little less hygienic than what y’all do.” I explain.

“Yeah, I might be biased but I think Four’s is better.” Kai comments with a grimace.

“I might have to agree.” I note.

“So yes? We’ll head in that direction, try to scope it out and if its too dangerous we come back.” Kai suggests again.

“Yeah.” I agree, trying to ignore the pit in my gut. I have a bad feeling. I can’t place it. I don’t like not knowing what twist the Gamemakers are certainly planning. What horrors they surely have waiting for us. But Kai clearly wants to go and I know I can’t let him go alone. “Lets gather our stuff and get going now, though maybe find some high ground near the Cornucopia to keep watch.”

Slipping back down to the stone streets we begin our long afternoon of walking. As we make progress back to the Arena’s center, the sun finally breaks through the clouds. For the first time in days, we’re warmed by its rays. Then we’re too warm. The sun beats down, raising the temperature of the entire arena. It’s hot. Hotter than it's been the entire time they’ve held us trapped in here. We’ve only been walking for about an hour when we both agree we have to take our jackets off, pausing our progress just long enough to shove them in our packs and take a few sips of our waters.

I notice as we switch off on who’s leading that Kai’s usually pale skin is tinting a burned pink. My own feels hot and stings under my hand as I wipe the sweat from my brow. I rarely burn, my olive tones shifting into a deeper tan usually during the summer but maybe the directness of this sun is stronger or more irritating to my skin than normal.

As we walk, it's impossible to not note how much the arena has changed. They have replaced the once gray world with one of green and color. Vines cover nearly every building, grass and moss spills from every crack in the old streets and sidewalks. The eldest of the plant life is beginning to bloom, dark purple and green fruit coming off of some, deep olive green weighing down others. I wonder if they’re safe to eat. They look like fruit, fresher than anything we’d get in Twelve, lush and juicy like the ones they served us in the Capitol and on the train. Are they safe? Or are they another way to lure us into death? Like the nightlock in last year’s arena.

There’s animal life too. Rabbits running under our feet, squirrels hurrying across the ruins, birds taking off into the sky. The arena is more alive than it's been the entire games. As the tributes die off, it seems the natural world is reborn.

“We’re here.” Kai declares, breaking me from my thoughts. We've made just to the edge of the ruins, before us the open plain of the city center, the metallic Cornucopia gleaming in the hot summer sun. The four Tribute Pedestals we pulled the mines from stand out against the other twenty, perfectly preserved.

Kai speaks up once more, “Wanna pick a vantage point and wait it out?”

“Yeah.” I agree, scanning the surrounding buildings until I find one that will give us a good view of the entire space. “There.” I point out one of the taller ones, with a blown out window on the top floor. Providing us with a clear sightline to where the table will appear.

Tightening the straps of our packs, we climb. There’s no overhang or coverage so we’ll be exposed to the sun but otherwise we’re protected. Able to wait it out until sunset and keep the city center in full view. We take turns getting a little extra rest, using our jackets to protect our faces and necks from the blistering heat. We let ourselves dip into our rations, snacking on the last of our bread and sipping lightly at our water. Our mentors will need to send more soon. If we both get through the night and see the sunrise, maybe we can try hunting again tomorrow. The animals seem relatively unbothered and unafraid of us. Hopefully, it will go better than last time.

As the sun floats lower in the sky, the first of our fellow tributes makes their appearance. Annie, from District 11, slinks out from some ruins on the opposite side of the Cornucopia. Her dark hair piled high on her head. Clearly she’s not taking to the heat any better than us. That makes me feel a bit better. District 11’s climate is much warmer than Twelve's. At least, Kai and I aren’t the only ones who are finding the shift in the arena’s temperature less than bearable.

I elbow a sleeping Kai, who pops up next to me to look out the window at my side. We watch her sneak into the Cornucopia, tucking herself out of sight and into position to wait.

“Anyone else, yet?” Kai whispers.

“Not yet.” I confirm.

“Well, it’ll be sunset soon, so lets be ready to move if we need to.” He suggests.

We tuck our jackets back into our bags, collect the rest of our belongings and prepare to go. Climbing down to the second story, we wait. There's a large enough crack in the wall for us to peer through. The sightline isn’t as great, but any lower and were exposed.

The moment the sky becomes that perfect combination of pink and orange, a metallic pinging rings across the arena. Announcing the formal beginning of the feast. It's so familiar, like the bell Matron Green rings to summon us to dinner. You learn quick in the home, the danger of missing that bell.

A table rises slowly up out of the ground in the Cornucopia's mouth, atop it five individual packs, each marked by a clear woven number. One for each district with a tribute still in play. So not food. Usually if it's food and rations that don’t put them in assigned bags like that. They just leave it spread out across the table for anyone to take. Hoping to prompt tributes into a greedy grasping panic, luring them into the center for a confrontation. If not food, though what could it be?

Another tribute risks it, leaping to find out before we do. The black-haired boy from Eight erupts out of some ruins a handful of buildings to our left. He runs. Surely as fast as his legs can carry him, making him the first to reach the table. His hands just snagging the drawstrings of the dark orange pack, marked 8, at the same time the girl from Eleven makes her play.

Kai and I can do nothing but watch as they slam into eachother, both tumbling to the ground at the impact. Reed rears back, shuffling himself on his hands across the dusty stone. We can see from our vantage point the moment they both consider it, attacking the other, before reaching the same silent conclusion and taking off in separate directions, their foe left unharmed.

The Gamemakers will be disappointed. Feasts are supposed to force confrontations, promote bloodshed, weed out tributes as the Games wind down. But all five of us are still here, still standing, still alive. Will they find some other way to take it out on us? Are they setting some other trap for us now?

“We might as well go for it.” Kai suggests. The sun is sinking fast. They said sunset. If the sun disappears under the horizon, I’m assuming the packs will disappear with it.

“Its just us and Two now! I don’t see her!” I note. There’s no sight of Minerva, no sight of mutts or another threat. What could be in those packs? It might be worth it. If it's not then, oh well, no harm right? The sun is getting low, if we don't go now, we'll lose our chance entirely. “You go after ours and I’ll guard. Deal?” I decide. Trusting Kai’s instincts, I hold out my pinky for my friend.

He loops his finger with mine. It's easier this time, less awkward. I might just be getting the hang of this friend thing. A resolute, proud, smile crosses his face. “Deal.”

Kai rises to his feet, leaping down to the first floor as I follow half-a-second behind. He takes one cautious step out of our hiding spot. Seeing no one else, he bursts into a run, focused entirely on our targets: the dark gray and deep blue bags labeled 12 and 4, respectively. Tightening my pack, and gripping my sword, I follow, matching his pace as my eyes scan the surroundings. Kai is only a handful of meters from the table when she appears.

Charging out of the ruins Minerva makes straight for us. Her silver-blonde hair, whipping behind her like a white flag of surrender. So at odds with the fierce determination, the anger, painted across her face as she flies in our direction.

“Kai hurry!” I call, spinning on my heel to face our attacker.

Kai grabs the bags just in time as the sun dips below the horizon, effectively ending the feast. He flies past me, screaming "Go!" and I take off after him. Feet pounding hard on the stone, making my mostly healed thigh smart in pain.

“No!” The girl begs leaping for her disappearing pack as the table sinks into an opening in the ground in the Cornucopia. “NO!” She yells again, having fully lost her chance.

“Catch!” Kai shouts, tossing my pack to me as we reach the edge of the center. Bursting back into the maze of ruins. Another set of pounding footsteps makes themselves known. She’s chasing us, I realize. The girl from Two. What is she doing? It’s two versus one.

“Four!” She shrieks. “Come on out and face me!”

We remain frozen, hidden behind the wall. As she runs past us, still calling out, Kai tucks his thumb into his pouch’s drawstring working it open. He pulls the contents free; the moonlight revealing a silver series of connected poles, a gleaming blade at one end. Minerva’s voice is still echoing around the stone but further away now, wandering as she attempts to discover us.

“What is it?” I whisper.

Kai examines it closer, then a look of realization crosses his face. He shifts his grip and holds out the gift, the small metal poles click into place forming into a spear-like weapon. “A harpoon.” Kai answers, an intrigued smile on his lips.

A harpoon? Is that used in fishing? Is it a weapon? It looks like one. Kai’s certainly eying it with interest, shifting it back and forth in his hands as he examines the balance.

I pull the strings on my gift, and suddenly the rattling sound makes sense. Dynamite. Four sticks of dynamite. Yeah, a harpoon is definitely a weapon. So that’s what the feast was for. The Gamemakers, the audience, they're getting bored with us all being chummy, keeping to ourselves, playing defense. They are ready to end this.

They’ve given each of us the means to attack, themed to our home districts. What was in the District 2 pouch? The boy from Eight grabbed his. The girl from Eleven got hers. What weapons are now in their possession?

“FOUR!” The shrill voice of Minerva fills the air again, closer. I shove the gray bag and its dynamite into my pack, regaining a hold on my sword.

“Come on four! Come out and face me like your little friend did!” She taunts with a cold laugh. His little friend? “Maybe you’ll have better luck than she did!”

Daria. She means Daria. Minerva is taunting Kai. She’s telling him she killed Daria, challenging him into a confrontation. She can’t be that stupid can she? It would in theory be two versus one. Is she really that pissed about missing her bag in the Feast? Kai’s not dumb enough to rise to it.

Kai shoves himself off the wall and takes off running toward the girl’s voice. Fuck! I take off after my friend.

“Say it again!” He yells. Tracking the pounding steps of his prey as he follows her at a full sprint. “Say it again!” He repeats.

“I killed her!” She confirms, her voice giving away her location, bouncing off the buildings to our left.

With a loud growl, Kai follows the sound. I lose sight of him as he weaves through the labyrinth of buildings. “Kai!” I warn. It’s not worth it.

She’s just taunting him. She…she screams. All bravado gone.

I rush to keep up, desperate to find them, to get Kai out of here. Stumbling around the corner, I'm met with an awful image. The pale-rapidly paling-face of Minerva. The harpoon sticking out of her stomach, blade embedded deep. Her wide, shocked ice-blue eyes, her fear, her disbelief. That broken, last, ragged breathe cracking through her lungs as she stumbles and collapses to the ground.

A cannon sounds.

Kai staggers backwards, face immediately turning white, nearly as white as the girl's hair. He spins on his heels and drops, his knees slamming into the stone. The contents of his stomach making a sudden reappearance in the newly growing grass.

Chapter Text

“Kai?" I step forward cautiously, like I’m approaching a frightened animal. A currently very panicked, frightened animal, shoulders shuddering as he gags. I quickly tuck my sword into the strap of my bag. Reaching out my hands, I make to touch his back.

Even just that brush of contact makes him lurch back. “Get away from me!” He yells, and I finally get a clear look at his face. His eyes are wide in fear, unshed tears threatening to spill.

I hold my empty hands up in surrender. I’m not a threat to him. But he’s so overwhelmed that I’m not sure if he really knows that right now. “Kai?” I try again. “We need to go.”

They can’t collect Minerva with us still right here. And it's not helping ease the terror in his eyes to keep catching a glimpse of her. I shift myself, placing my body between him and the fallen tribute. That sea-green finally finds my silver. “Kai, try to take a breath.” I instruct. “We need to leave. Let’s find somewhere to rest for the night.”

“No!” He yells, leaping to his feet. Face flushing a furious red. “No! Get the fuck away from me Owen!” He shouts.

“What?” I ask. “No. Come on, let's go. It's dark and it's late.”

“No! Leave! Go!”

“What are you talking about?” I plead.

“It’s over! This little alliance is done!” He shoves me backwards, hard. I barely manage to stay on my feet as he issues another screaming demand. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

“No! I’m not leaving you behind!” I yell. It’s only after the words - the vow - has left my lips that I register where it came from. Mira. It came from Mira. It was when I sent her away, tried to make her separate from me, that's when it all went wrong.

“You have to!” He argues. “There’s four of us left! So just go! Get the fuck away from me!”

He’s right. Four tributes left. Only one of us is leaving this arena alive. The rest will end up just as dead in the dirt as poor Minerva. But…I can’t. I can’t leave him behind. Not right now. Not like this.

“I’m won’t hurt you Kai.” I promise.

“Well, I’ll hurt you!” He shoves me again but there’s no real strength behind it. It’s all bravado.

“I don’t believe that.” I admit. “And you said it yourself, there’s four of us left. Still four of us left. Why don’t we head back to rest and in the morning, we can re-evaluate. Maybe we hunt and part ways then, or we can wait it out until there’s only three of us. But let's not end things like this! Not now.”

I see the moment I convince him. The moment it clicks. The moment he gives in. Dropping his defensive anger to let himself accept my olive branch, my open arm, my confirmation of our friendship. Cautiously, I try to approach him again.

His face falls, the weight of what he’s just done hitting him. I don’t know why; I don’t know where it comes from; I don’t even know why he lets me, but suddenly I wrap him in my arms.

I try to mimic Peeta. The quick hug he gave me before the games. I’ve received so few in my life that the closeness always feels foreign. But Peeta with his broad shoulders and steady presence, that is the comfort I try to channel.

I must not be as awful as I assumed I’d be, because Kai’s arms return the embrace, his tears finally falling. Shoulders shuddering once again. Not from illness, but from grief, from disappointment, from particularly potent self-hatred. A feeling I know too well. So I let him stand there and cry as long as he needs. My hand coming up to rest against his head, cradling it like Peeta did mine in that last moment before we parted.

When Kai stills, catching his breath, he moves to step out of my embrace. “Ready to go?” I ask. I know he doesn’t want to talk about it. He won’t meet my eyes as he reaches down to retrieve his pack and sword, shoulders stiff and slumped in shame with every movement. I don’t judge him. Not for any of it, really. I know the best thing I can do for him right now is to just let him move on.

“Lets go.” He answers, voice still wet with emotion. He coughs to cover it up, crossing his arms over his chest. I let him lead the way. Following half-a-step behind, as we leave the body of Minerva, just some girl from District 2, in our wake. Finally, the waiting hovercraft makes its descent.

Kai is visibly feeling lighter after a good night's rest. I didn’t wake him for watch. He needed to sleep, needed the small escape for just a few hours. He chides me when he realizes how late it's gotten as we rise. But I brush off the concern, arguing that he did the same for me during the storm.

“Owen.” He speaks softly, shyly. Putting a pause in the work of packing our bags as we get moving for the day.

“Yeah, Kai?” I turn to him, to meet his eyes with mine.

“Thank you. For…for yesterday. For not leaving me behind.” He stutters out.

“Friends don’t leave friends behind.” I answer, looking back down at my bag, hoping to hide my emotion as I almost stumble over the words. Mira was right. She was right, and I failed her, but I won’t fail Kai.

“Friends.” He agrees, holding out his pinky for me to loop with mine. I don’t need him to prompt me to pump our interlocked fingers this time. This small, childish, act of promise, of responsibility, to each other.

“Come on.” I force myself to swallow around the lump in my throat, shove down the impending sadness and forced separation I know is inevitably coming. We don’t need to part ways just yet, there’s still two others. And if we do part, at least I know we’ll be able to do it as friends. “These animals are far too comfortable around humans, lets hunt ourselves some dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kai agrees, beginning to climb down to the ground from our hiding spot.

We aren’t too far from the river; I realize. Kai beats me to the suggestion though, and we set off in its direction. The animals will probably prefer to stay close to the source of water anyway, and the noise will help cover our movements as we hunt.

Just as the sound of the rushing current reaches my ears, Kai catches sight of a few rabbits bouncing after each other. When they notice our approach they split, each diving in different directions around a narrow set of ruins.

“You go that way and I’ll loop the other, meet at the river.” Kai suggests.

“Sounds good.” I agree, eyes following the fluffy tail of my designated prey. “See you in a minute.”

“See you in a minute.” He answers, adding with a light laugh. “Bet I catch a rabbit before you!”

“You’re on!” I answer the challenge, taking off after the dove gray rabbit, my last knife gripped in my hand, ready to throw. I follow the small creature, jogging on soft steps as it leaps through buildings and tries to hide. After a few turns it freezes, clearly attempting a different tactic. One that almost works, the gray of its hide nearly identical to the buildings in this section. The rushing water covers any soft sound its movements or nervous twitching might have made, and covering my own.

With a silent flick of my wrist, I launch the blade, closing my eyes in a last-ditch attempt to block the quick flash of Veloura’s blonde ponytail whipping to eye me with shock, surprise, and accusation. But the bunny doesn’t look at me like that. Doesn’t look at me at all. I missed. And the rabbit took advantage of my brief blindness to take off somewhere into the ruins, effectively escaping for the day. Oh well, at least I didn’t injure the thing and have it try to take off with my last knife. I retrieve it from where it's clattered to the floor. Maybe Kai had better luck.

A shriek of panic shatters the otherwise calm afternoon air. Almost inhuman, desperate. “OWEN!” A voice begs. I burst into action, chasing the sound. The sight I come across is one that will haunt me until I die. No matter how soon or how long it takes for me to meet my death, I'll never forget this. The sight of all that blood. Too much blood.

Our tribute screens doesn’t show it, but Finnick’s does. The main screen certainly does. A front-row seat to the attack, the eels, those mutts ripping a young boy's throat open for all of Panem to see.

Owen stumbles with each step, in complete disbelief. Eyes tracking the sight before him, trying to process the horror. “I…I don’t…I don’t know…what can I do? I don’t know what to do!”

He drops to his knees before his friend. This boy. This child. The Mayor’s son, choking on his own blood, hands grappling for purchase trying to stop the flood of it spilling onto the stone, onto his clothes, onto Owen.

Our tribute lurches forward, throwing out his hands to try to stop the bleeding, pressing down on the wound like I taught him. Like my sister taught me. Like my mother taught her.

But I don’t need to be Prim or my mother to know that there’s nothing that can be done. It’s too late. The boy's lost too much blood already. Is losing more far too fast. Only the Capitol Doctors and Medical Techs could save him now. But it's the Capitol who put him in the position. The Gamemakers who orchestrated every part of the attack.

No matter how many times Owen screams out for “HELP!” To the sky. No one is coming. I think I hear him even call my name amongst the mess, pleading, begging, breaking over the syllables.

“I…I can’t sing…I don’t know how to…” His voice echoes from the main speakers in the hall. Rue. He’s remembering what I did for Rue. He…he wants to do the same. He wants to let his ally - his friend - die with dignity, like I tried for Rue.

I feel Peeta shudder, his hand coming to cover his mouth at the sight, the blood, the gore. I can’t breathe either. But it’s the familiarity of the act that’s bringing me to tears, forcing my throat closed in panic, in grief. I…I’m a coward. I can’t watch. Instead, I press my face into Peeta’s neck, trying to hide. Trying to flee. I can’t flee. Not again.

A humming comes through the speakers, filling the Mentors' suite with that same familiar song. Deep in the Meadow, under the Willow. Owen doesn’t sing, but he hums. He knows the melody. Knows only some of the words, the occasional lyric slipping past his lips as he moves through the tune. But, I know all the words, have had those lyrics memorized for as long as I can remember. So, in my mind, I sing along. Joining him to enact this silent, secret duet.

There are no flowers this time. No blooms of yellow and violet. Nothing to cover the ugly wound. To wreath his face. No bright, happy, colors to weave through his sandy-blonde hair. Just red. Red against the gray stone floor. Red against the tan of his jacket. Red against the boy’s sun-kissed skin. Red against once white fabric.

My mind projects itself back to last year, when this same song was sung for another tribute. Another child undeserving of their fate. I had wanted to give Rue her dignity, but I also wanted to shame them, to make them accountable, for killing that little girl. To show them, show myself, that Peeta was right. To show the Capitol that there is a part of every tribute they can’t own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. Owen is doing the same. He is making them see what they’ve done. Making them see that even here, they cannot change who he is. Who Kai is. What their alliance was. No matter what they do. Who they hurt. They cannot destroy true friendship.

The world waits. The Capitol citizens silenced at the display. The Mentors frozen in awe. Peeta stays still, blue eyes unmoving from the screen before us, tears resting on his eyelashes as they threaten to fall. I hold my breath.

Only when Owen reaches out with a blood-soaked hand to close his friend's eyes, those now unseeing sea-green eyes, does time start moving again.

A cannon sounds.

Our boy breaks. My chest twists in pain when it comes, remaining tight and unyielding with every attempt at a breathe. I missed Owen’s reaction to Mira’s death, too lost in my grief to bear witness to his own. But if it was anything like this, then Peeta is absolutely stronger than me, as if I needed anymore confirmation of that truth.

This broken, abused, angry boy shatters before all of Panem. No care for the cameras or the audience, as we all watch his heart breaks into a hundred tiny pieces. Pure, unhindered, human, grief. Heartbreaking, unshakeable, compassion. It’s dangerous. Rebellious.

This boy being ripped apart over the death of his friend, his ally, his fellow tribute, a boy who has to die for him to live. But Owen doesn’t care about any of that. Because to Owen, this boy is only his friend. In another world, a world without the Games, they’d be free to exist only as that. Friends. Allies. Companions. Brothers. Whatever they choose. Regardless, they’d at least be spared this.

This grief is not the kind you come back from. I know.

All I can do is watch. Watch as he presses his forehead into his friend's bloodied chest, shoulders shuddering, wail echoing. Weapons discarded, unguarded, unprotected, unaware. Grief. Pain. Loss. That is the only plane he can exist in right now. The only thing that feels real.

After what feels like an eternity he forces himself to his feet. The shadow of the hovercraft appearing over the pair. Owen forces himself with much difficulty to step away, visibly steeling himself to let the hovercraft take his friend. His teary silver eyes scan the sky until they find his target, a camera, our camera. He slowly lifts his blood-soaked left hand, pressing the three middle fingers to his lips, staining them red. He lifts his hand high into the air for all of Panem to see. His own personal moment of District 12 rebellion. His act of thanks, of admiration, his genuine goodbye to someone he loved. And they are showing it on the main screen. They didn’t show mine in the recap but they showed it live. Everyone, everywhere, will see this moment, this act of kindness, of inter-district unity.

They will see the anger on his face, the accusation in his eyes. And they will see the blood of a fifteen-year-old child, ruthlessly murdered by the Games, as it drips down Owen’s arm and onto the stone.

It takes everything in me not to lift my own fingers to my lips. To join him in this last righteous act of revolution for his friend. But it would only hurt people. Owen, most likely. They might hurt him even without my interference.

But in this moment, I’m proud. I’m so proud of him.

“Well, that’s me done for the year then.” Finnick Odair breathes out, capping closed the rising anger in my gut. Oh. Oh Finnick. Finnick who has been shocked-still until this moment, unable to tear himself away from the screen, unable to react. A forced smile mars his usually handsome face. “May the Odds be in your favor. If you’ll excuse me.” He stands, still stunned, still unbelieving. No mirth in his eyes. No flirty joke on the tip of his tongue. No, those sea-green eyes are haunted. I now know that face, what that feels like. It’s the same face the reflective surface of the elevator presented to me after Mira’s death.

Before Peeta or I can offer any word of kindness or condolences, not that I have any idea what I could even say in this moment, Finnick Odair is gone. Fleeing with much more composure than I did all those days ago.

When my eyes return to Peeta’s, I realize even he doesn’t have the words. He offers me a small smile, a thumb brushing across my cheek, swiping away the tears I had not realized had slipped free. I lean into the touch, letting myself have that singular moment of comfort before I need to be strong again.

There’s only three tributes left. Owen is so close. We’re so close to bringing him home.

“We need to do something. Send him something.” I state, clearing my throat and sitting up straight once more. “A note, maybe.”

“Soup.” Peeta declares. “Like for Mira.”

“Yeah.” I agree. “Bean and Ham Hock.”

Peeta sets about pulling up the options for a sponsor gift, finding the same mourning meal he sent all those days ago. “What should we say?” He asks me. How odd. Peeta, of all people, looking to me for the right words.

“Hmm…” I think on it for a moment, leaning forward for the keypad. “Maybe something like this.” I try a few versions, Peeta makes a small adjustment here and there. It’s expensive, almost prohibitively expensive. But it's worth it. For this loss. For today’s pain. It’s worth it.

“Happy with that?” Peeta checks one more time.

“Yeah.” I agree. “That’s good, and he’ll know what it means.”

Peeta presses send, and we sink back against the couch to wait. After a time, longer than ever before, we finally see the parachute appear on the screen above his head. He's slumped against the stone wall, drenched in the blood of his friend, his eyes empty and vacant, lost in his mind. That silver sparks back to life though when the gift lands right in his lap. He eyes it with reverence, another few tears falling down his cheeks.

Finding his water, he rinses his hands and washes his face the best he can. Now somewhat cleansed of the blood, he finally reaches for the package. Collecting it with care, he rises to his feet and finds a place to tuck away for a while. Only once he’s up in the ruins, safely hidden away from the world, does he open it. That sad smile reappearing at the sight of the familiar mourning soup. Reaching for the tag he finally reads my note: That was a beautiful song. Get home for him and for Mira. - Kat.

His eyes track the sky for a camera and finding one he looks down the lens, that knowing smirk appearing on his face, tucking the notecard into his jacket he mouths two words: Thanks…Kat. That nickname I chided him for on the train. He’s earned it now; the right to call me a stupid nickname. If we can get him home, I’ll be so grateful he can probably convince me to let him use whatever condescending petname he wants. We just need to get him home.

Owen savors every warm, hearty, spoonful of his dinner. Leaning all his weight against a wall, he pulls his hood up over his eyes to hide any further evidence of his grief. Then…then he rests. Clutching his pack to his chest, gripping his sword, propped against the stone, he succumbs to his exhaustion.

As the day drags on, the mentor’s suite only empties further. So few join us now, so few have tributes left. I’m nearly giving in to my own need for sleep, when a new face appears.

She’s tall. Taller than I expected. Her long strawberry-blonde hair tucked into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Shining emerald eyes peering down at us with curiosity. “Hello.” The woman states.

“Hello?” Peeta answers, cautiously, sitting up tall and shifting himself protectively between this woman and I.

“My name is Talia Ray.” She states. “I’m one of the mentors for District 4 this year. You’ve been working with my partner, Finnick.” The woman explains, as if we need the reminder.

“He…hello.” Peeta stutters out. “Its nice to finally meet you. My name is Peeta, and this is…”

“Katniss.” My name slips from her lips. “Yes. Yes, I’m aware. But I’m not here for introductions.” She sits herself down on the edge of our couch without an invitation. Her green eyes find my gray as she explains the true reason for her sudden appearance. “Miss Everdeen, do you remember last year during your games, District 11 sent you some bread from their district?"

“Yes. Yes, ma’am, I do.” I admit. As if I could forget it. That act of kindness, of thanks, of rare inter-district unity. As far as I know, it had been the first time a District had funded a sponsor gift for another District’s tribute.

“Well, I have received word, requests, from some old friends in Four. They would like to do the same. For Owen. As thanks for the kindness he paid to Kai.”

“Four, would like to send Owen something?” Peeta questions.

“Yes, Mr. Mellark. Yes, it would.”

“How does that work?” Peeta asks.

“Well, people in Four have pooled some funds, which they have passed along to Finnick and I. We will pass those funds to you. To send him something. I thought bread, as Eleven did for you Katniss. I believe he’ll recognize it. From the gift you two and Finnick sent them after Ada’s death.”

“Yes. I think he’d recognize the District 4 bread.” I confirm.

“Perfect. Then we’d like to fund however many rolls we can buy for him.” The woman declares. She passes a crisp white notecard into Peeta’s hand, and when he flips it over, a number is revealed in crisp, sharp handwriting. Finnick’s handwriting. The number is enough to buy a very full basket of the salty, green rolls so commonly associated with his home district. Wow. The thought of it brings another tear to my eyes. Owen moved them. He earned their respect. Their admiration.

“Will that do?” Talia speaks once more, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.” I answer for us all: myself, Peeta, Owen. “That is very generous. Thank you.”

“If Finnick is to be believed, then I am sure, in time, we shall all be old friends. Consider this a first act of friendship and gratitude."

“It's understood. Thank you.” Peeta answers, almost cryptically. There’s a deeper meaning there. Something the woman from Four seems to register. But something I can’t quite place. I don’t have time to explore it now. Once, I’m back in Twelve, maybe. Once Owen is back in Twelve.

“It was lovely to meet you both. I’m sorry it was under such circumstances.” Talia states, rising to her feet and departing with a swift clacking of her heels on the marble floors.

Wordlessly, Peeta slips the sponsor card into our terminal. It takes a moment to read it, to register the pledge of funds. The money they’ve donated is enough to fund more than just bread for Owen, but out of respect we use as much of it as we can in the act.

The result is a full basket of teal-green rolls fluttering themselves down to land before Owen. He looks at it wide eyed, awed. Those silver-gray eyes taking only half-a-moment to register the significance - the message - of the gift. He finds that camera once again and repeats his earlier action, hand rising high in the moonlight. A small District 12 act of rebellion to answer a similar act of District 4.

Chapter Text

I wake to a parachute landing in my lap. Heavy, laden with several packages. Hanging right in front my eyes when I finally force them open, another white crisp notecard. Flipping the card stock over I read the words of my Mentors' message: Told you we’d get you to August, now let's get you home.

Sitting up, I examine the gift closer, opening each item, one by one. The first is bread, with the nuts and berries, as usual. I still have plenty of bread from Four left over, but maybe they wanted me to have that taste of home. The second is broth, no not broth. Stew, thick and sturdy, the rich aroma filling my nose and immediately making my mouth water. The third is a fresh bottle of water. And the last is something else. A small rectangular box. Matches. I realize. To set off the dynamite I still have in my possession. That lovely gift from the Gamemakers themselves. It clicks for me then, the hidden message, the deeper subtext of what my Mentors are telling me: Do whatever you have to, just get home.

I’ll need to force him into a confrontation. I know I’ll have to kill him, Reed. The Gamemakers won't let this end any other way. I could only kill Arden because he attacked me first. I had no choice. It was him or me. I was trying to protect Mira.

I could only throw that blade, kill Veloura and Lennox, because they attacked me earlier. The knife, the landmines, they made the whole thing feel distant. I wasn’t killing them. I wasn’t trying to blow them sky-high, or crush them under collapsed rubble. I was simply trying to hit the target, land my throw. I was trying to protect my friends. I was trying to protect Ada and Kai.

So if I’m going to get home, if I’m going to survive for them like I've promised: for Mira, for Ada, for Kai. If I’m going to get back to Katniss and Peeta? If I’m going to make them proud? Then I need to kill Reed, this boy from District 8. And I can’t do that unless I can force him to attack me.

It’s August 1st, apparently. I’ve been in here since July 11th. That’s twenty-two days. Twenty-two days too long. Twenty-two days of horror, and death, and pain. Surely the Gamemakers will want to end this soon. Maybe they’ll help me force a final battle if I make it clear that’s what I’m trying to prompt. But how?

How do I lure him into a fight? Do I try to bait him like Minerva did Kai? If so, with what? I have no secret slight to hold over his head. No District partner I killed or injured. I never even crossed paths with the girl from Eight. So, maybe I don’t lure him into it with words and lies. Maybe I give him no other choice.

Slowly the pieces come together in my mind. The steps count themselves off, one by one. Yes. Give him no choice. Give him nowhere to hide.

We’re so close! Just two Tributes left. And against all the odds, Owen is one of them. He seemed to be in just as much disbelief as us when her face appeared in the sky, Annona, the girl from Eleven killed in the Windstorm that kept them trapped in place yesterday. Her death confirms it. The final two. Just him and the boy from Eight. Owen had spent the day, hiding from the storm, wallowing in his grief over Kai. He’ll find no judgement or anger from me for it, no chiding over wasted time. But it's obvious people are getting antsy. The Gamemakers are getting ready to wrap this up.

The Hosts are already calling this, a year for the Underdogs; so many of the surest bets were out in the early days, so few Careers even made it halfway. In the end, Kai had been the longest lasting Career. But in the beginning, he had been a bit of an underdog too. Younger than Career tributes usually are, a little smaller, choosing to make alliances with Twelve and Three, all led far too many to underestimate the Mayor's Boy. But when they attacked the pair from District 1, the narrative changed. He began getting the spin of a Career, some even started calling him the next Finnick Odair. A compliment Finnick wore with such obvious pride. Spinning it expertly to earn Kai even more sponsors.

Kai’s reaction to killing Minerva, though, halted that characterization in his tracks. Finnick had become cold in his games, unstoppable and unfeeling with every stab of that gleaming trident. I remember watching it as a kid, finding him terrifying. I think he even invaded one or two of my childhood nightmares. Then after his Games, he returned to that personality of a charmer, and as he got older a playboy. It worked. It kept him alive. It kept him in the Capitol’s good graces. It’s part of why I suggested a similar facade for Owen. But Kai was not unfeeling in the face of death, of having to kill someone.

Meeting Finnick, getting to know him over the last few weeks, revealed a deeper truth. He was not the cold, unemotional, brutal killer from my nightmares, hunting me with that expensive trident and his net. Nor was he the ever-flirtatious, charming playboy he’s become known as in recent years. Sure, he’d joke, make a little comment here and there. Especially when Katniss returned. It seems he enjoys making her blush. Not the shy, faint pink I sometimes earn when I tease her, but an angrier, more embarrassed red that burns out from beneath her olive tones. After a day or two of his attempts to break her down, to make her laugh, he realized it wasn’t going to work. He dropped the bravado, and I watched as Katniss let herself learn to like him.

I saw it too, in those first days we were working together, his determination, his quick-wit, his genuine faith in his tribute. In both our boys, when it was just the two of us trying to keep Owen and Kai alive. Kai. No, don’t let yourself think about Kai. Don’t let yourself think about that broken, shattering moment, when the cannon went off. When Finnick realized all hope was lost. If I didn’t already believe the bravado was all an act, a defense mechanism, that would have done it. Owen found a true friend in Kai. And maybe I’m being too hopeful, reading too much into his kindness, but I think I found a friend in Finnick too.

It's rare for me, to not know what to say. But when I think about how to offer him my condolences, to extend my gratitude, to share my admiration for that boy. To thank Finnick for his kindness over these last few weeks, his friendship. Well, my mind goes blank.

As the morning drags on, the other Mentors make their returns. Most of whom we haven’t seen since the deaths of their respective tributes. Yes, the Gamemakers want this done. They are gearing up for something big. A finale. Talia enters alone though. I still don’t know her well. It seems District 4 handled mentoring the more traditional way. The female mentor handles the female tribute and the same with men. What Katniss and I did, how we approached our new position was odd, almost radical. No one would have questioned it if Katniss didn’t return after Mira’s death. But her and I have always been different. We made a promise, to not make each other do this alone, to stay together, always. As Owen and Mira, would say, to not leave each other behind.

This is going to end today. So we use a larger chunk of our funds than normal to send him a hearty meal, some water, and at Katniss’ request, a message and some matches to drive it home. Once he’s eaten, he rises, a look of determination on his face. A plan formulating behind his silver-gray eyes.

Climbing down from his hideaway, he finally learns what the rest of us learned this morning: the consequences of that windstorm. Those consistently growing vines had spent the last few weeks slowly overtaking the ruins - gray and stone, succumbing to a wave of green - well, the windstorm put an end to that. Those vines now lay scattered across the ground, covering the streets in ripped down and shredded foliage.

He pulls out our gifted matches, counting them quick in the box. Slipping them back into his pocket, he begins collecting the vines, piling them into a mound in the center of the intersection. Once he’s happy with the height, he pulls those matches out again and uses them to set the collected vines ablaze.

The smoke they emit isn’t normal. Something about the makeup of the plants, doesn't produce the typical black and heady smoke that District 12 coal or Seven’s pinewood is known for. No, this smoke is pale gray, marbling, like shifting shadows. Ironically, so much like the now infamous capes, Cinna and Portia first presented our tributes in. Owen leans forward to sniff at it. An eyebrow arches in question. He mouths a word I can’t quite make out but it seems to be a silent guess of: Roses?

He doesn’t ponder it long, stepping away from the flickering flames to continue his work. But Katniss does.

“Did he say roses?” She leans in to whisper against my ear. I dip my chin in response exactly once, hiding the act by leaning over to kiss her cheek immediately after.

When she shifts back her hands loop my arm, holding tight. Her silver eyes are dull for once, muted by the fear that’s clearly flooded her veins. But they remain facing forward, tracking Owen as he moves out of the intersection, collecting more vines as he goes.

Katniss remains stiff and tense at my side with every step the boy takes, every sound of the arena, ever glimpse of game. Bracing herself, she’s trying to brace herself for something horrible. Roses. The calling card of President Snow.

No. No, they can’t. Can they? What am I thinking of course they can!

It's clear now, Snow’s entire plan. Every chess move and play he’s been making from the moment we stepped on that train. A push and pull. Give us just a little bit of hope and then take it away. Isn’t that cycle the entire point of this? The Games. The Victors. Taking twenty-four district children and dangling a life of a luxury before their eyes. The money. The home. The extra rations for the entire population of their home district. But, only if you become the Victor. And you only become a Victor if you suffer. If you survive.

It’s why Katniss and I were so dangerous to him. I see that now. Truly understand it now. Two Victors. Victors “in love.” Its too much hope for them to control.

We helped nothing on our tour did we? This was always his plan. Make us fall in line, play the perfectly loyal, Capitol-loving Victors, because our true punishment was coming. Is coming.

Owen’s so close. So close to winning. So close to getting home. But that boy is never coming home. Never even stood a chance. They’d never let another District 12 kid win. Not yet. Probably not ever. Owen Sparrow will die. Snow will ensure it. And it will be all our fault.

It’s late when his plan finally comes to fruition. The sun long gone. The anthem long over. He hasn’t slowed down all day. Just collecting vines, piling them high, setting them ablaze. Collecting vines, piling them high, setting them ablaze. Filling the arena with that shifting silvery smoke. Making entire sections uninhabitable. Driving the animal-life further into the center. And according to the main map at the front of the room, doing the same for Reed.

Despite the late hour, the mentors’ suite remains full. The sponsor hall beneath us packed to the brim with preening, pressing Capitollites. The watch on my wrist, a birthday gift from Portia, ticks on and on.

It’s 11:49 PM when Silver eyes meet Indigo. The last two human heartbeats in the arena beat in tandem, frozen a handful of feet apart. Waiting for the other to make the first move. Knowing this is the end.

I see the moment Owen hesitates. The moment his eyes truly register the boy, likely remembering the last time he saw him. At the feast. Reed had the chance to attack the girl from Eleven. He didn’t. I see the moment it clicks for Owen. This is just a boy. Just like him. Reed has done nothing to him. And I know he can’t do it. Reed seems no more interested in attacking Owen. That same understanding clear on the boy from Eight’s moonlit face. How does this end?

Their stalemate is broken. Not by the lunge of an opponent, or the swing of a sword, but by the descending screeching symphony of birdsong.

Fuck. “Run!” I shriek. “Reed! Run!”

I picture Ada as I lurch forward. The silver snakes overwhelming her. I picture Kai. The dark teal eels slinking back into the river. Their jobs done. Their prey killed. And now these birds. Diving low, pecking at our skin, our hair, anything they can reach. But who is their true target?

I stay only half-a-step behind Reed as we sprint through the ruins. I realize he’s leading us back to the center, to the Cornucopia. Back where this all began.

When we reach the metal horn, I follow as Reed dives forward into its mouth. I swing blindly with my sword, my free arm covering my eyes from the birds persistent, deliberate, attacks. I don’t know how many I hit but the shock that flies up my arm tells me I've hit a few. Still, no matter how many I injure or kill, their numbers seem to just keep rising. My back hits Reed’s. He’s just as frantic as me. Swinging his own weapon through the air, using a makeshift shield to block some of the blows.

Fuck! How do we get out of this one? The birdcalls echo and rattle around the metallic Cornucopia, forming into a terrifying, unyielding, nightmarish chant.

We’re not getting out of this one. An idea comes to the forefront of my mind, momentarily allowing me to drown out the din. This might be suicide. This might lead to a first in the Games. No Victor. Oh well, they had two from Twelve last year, so they’ve got at least one to spare. No Victor. Talk about a twist ending.

I duck down, hoping Reed's shield will offer me enough coverage to do this.

As if wading through mud, I free my mother’s pendant from my shirt, where it's stayed this entire time. Right against my heart through every horror, every loss. Well, if this is it, if this is the end, then maybe I’ll learn if Matron Umber is right. Maybe we reunite with our loved ones after death. What did she call it? The Sweet Old Hereafter. Maybe, I’ll finally meet my Mother.

My hands move in seemingly slow-motion as they grip Madeline Sparrow’s pendant in one hand, the dynamite in the other. The carved bird. The one that game me my name, my mother’s name. Her sparrow takes flight up the explosive stick’s textured side, birthing a spray of sparks in its trail. One catches.

As the flame burns down the wick, I watch, as if outside my body, as I throw the dark red rod into the depths of the Cornucopia. I just make out the boy’s distant, frightened, shriek of “No!” His hands grabbing my shoulders, throwing me towards the opening. Maybe an attempt to pull me out of the path of the imminent explosion, or maybe a last-ditch attempt to halt the destruction, our deaths, altogether.

With a deafening boom, myself, Reed, and all those blasted screeching birds are buried under collapsing shards and warping metal, of the once standing Cornucopia.

I leap to my feet the moment the explosion goes off. Forcing myself to remember that I am absolutely being filmed right now. They will project however I react across every screen in Panem. My pain, my futile hope, my fear, all broadcasted for their entertainment. My hands shoot to cover my mouth and the sob that escapes.

A cannon sounds.

Only one cannon. Is it Owen? Was that cannon for Owen? Please don’t let that cannon be for Owen! Nothing happens in its wake. The entire country waits in baited, terrified breath. Silence weighs heavy, suffocating over the Mentors' suite.

Then after a time, too long of a time, the metallic shards begin to shift and a burned bloody hand pull itself free. Little by little the figure emerges and there he is. Our Owen Sparrow literally rises from the ashes of the destroyed city around him, of the shattered image of the Games itself. Owen looks up to the bright moon of the sky, bathing his bloodied and cut face in the same silver as his striking Seam eyes. The clock hits midnight.

Claudius Templesmith finally makes his announcement, “Ladies and Gentleman, may I present the Victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, Owen Sparrow of District 12.”

With this confirmation, I finally let myself feel the wave of relief that crashes over me. I lose complete control over my limbs and distantly, I hear myself let out another cry before throwing myself into Peeta’s arms.

His own joy, his relief is evident as he sweeps me off the ground. Spinning me though the air in celebration, pressing a kiss to my hair. He places me back the ground cupping my face and I can read the same desperate need for confirmation in those familiar blue eyes.

I feel myself nod once, a proud smile crossing my face as tears spill over both our cheeks. We did it. We saved him. That boy from the Seam, that proud, determined, once-broken boy, we saved him. He’s done it. He’s survived the Games. I pull Peeta’s lips down to mine in a smiley kiss, for the cameras, before hugging him once more, clinging to him as tightly as possible with a teary laugh.

“He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.” Peeta murmurs over and over into my braid, voice breaking, still trying to convince himself it's real.

I brush the tears away from my cheeks as one by one other mentors approach to congratulate us on Owen’s victory. Stilted, polite words. Every 'thank you' I offer in answer feels like ash on my tongue. My boy is alive, but all of theirs are dead. I wouldn't want to be congratulating me either.

The only ones who remain seated are the Mentors from District 8, still at their assigned couch in the corner. They had gotten their tribute to the final two, and in the end the boy from the coal district beat him, outlasted him with dumb luck, a suicidal plan, and a gifted stick of dynamite.

Taking Peeta’s hand in my own, I walk us over to them. They rise as we approach and I offer my hand to shake, greeting first the female mentor, Celeste or Cecilia. I can’t quite remember her name but I know now, I’ll never forget her face, the vivid grief so clearly painted on her features.

“Congratulations, Miss Everdeen.” She speaks, emotionless giving me a quick, loose handshake. “And I wish you the best of luck in your forthcoming marriage.”

“Thank you.” I answer, once more. “I’m…I’m sorry for your loss.” I add, now knowing firsthand how easy it is to become connected to these tributes, how difficult it is to watch them fall. The guilt, the pain, the unfathomable depths of pure sadness. But she’s been doing this longer than I have. Maybe she’s learned better coping skills because all she gives me in response is a simple nod of recognition.

Peeta and I switch places and the male mentor, Woof, I think, pulls me into him to kiss my cheek and take me into a quick hug. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I attempt to offer him as well. Trying hard not to instinctually pull away from the unfamiliar embrace.

“He’s not the first tribute I’ve lost.” The man speaks into my ear. “But I do hope he will be the last.” He frees me from his hold. “Congratulations.” The man adds, placing a comforting hand on his fellow mentor’s shoulder and together they hurriedly exit the room.

I’m left standing there confused and frozen to my spot. The last. He hopes he’ll be the last tribute he loses? What does he mean? Is he done as a mentor after this year, or does he hope to be? Why would he whisper that to me like I’d know a secret meaning to his words? I don’t have time to focus on it right now, all I can think about is getting our boy out of there. Getting him home safe.

We watch as the hovercraft arrives on the screen. He looks a mess, still drenched in the blood of his friend. Kai. Well, I hope that's the blood of his friend. But his exposed skin is so torn up, his clothing half-burned away, there's no true way of knowing right now. But he's about to be taken to the doctors. He'll be ok. He has to be ok.

He’s done it. That poor, abandoned, boy from the Seam. Never again will he have to go a day in his life where he’s hungry or alone or unloved. Because he’s done it.

Chapter Text

When the doctors finally release me to return to the tribute center, I have no idea how much time has passed since the Games ended, nor what scene I will be returning too.

I certainly don't expect the first sight I see to be Katniss Everdeen; charging me at a full sprint and throwing her arms around my shoulders before I’ve even made it two steps into our suite. “You did it!” She yells, nearly right into my ear, pulling me into a nearly bone-crushing hug.

When she finally lets me go, she cups my face in her hands, an overwhelming wave of relief and pride pour out of her silver Seam eyes as they bore into my own. “You did it.” She repeats, softer, sadder.

I’ve been doing a really good job of not crying but something about that breaks me and I can’t hold back the flood of tears any longer. Katniss is someone who’s safe. She’s strong. I don’t need to be strong anymore, not when she’s here. In that moment I realize, it's ok to cry in front of Katniss.

Before I can even process the weight of it: the relief I feel, the security she's unknowingly providing, my mentor pulls me back into her arms. I tuck my face against her neck as her voice begins a soft, soothing, pattern of repeated “shhhhs” and “it's ok, Owen” and “let it out, it's ok.” My knees go weak and she holds me up as my tears soak the shoulder of her fancy black dress.

After a minute, I feel a few other people’s presences approach us. A strong hand strokes over my shoulders slowly, the scent of cinnamon and something else added to Katniss’ own fragrance of lemon and pine. When I finally extricate myself from her arms, I see that it’s Peeta who has come over to help soothe my childish weeping.

He gives me a few silent, supportive nods when my silver eyes meet his blue. I notice he has his own tears threatening to spill as he wraps me into a hug of his own. “You did good, kid.” He speaks softly, cupping my head with his hand. Like he did before the Games, like I did for Kai. “We’re proud of you.” A weight lifts from my shoulders at his words. I don’t deserve it, I know, I don’t deserve any of this kindness, but right now I don’t care.

Lifting my face to see the rest of my team, I’m shocked to find no judgement on their faces only sympathy and silent pride. One by one they come up to greet me with a handshake or kind word or quick embrace. All the while, Katniss remains at my side, a silent guard, a protective hand on my elbow, and Peeta’s hands on her shoulders as he stands pleased and proud behind her.

Once I’ve had the chance to reunite with everyone, Effie speaks up through her own choked voice. “Well, we have a busy, busy, evening. Let’s all eat a late lunch and then we can prepare for your interview with Caesar tonight.”

“How…how long as it been?” I find myself asking Peeta.

“It’s August 8th.” He begins. “The Games ended the night of August 1st, just before midnight, so you've been with the doctors for about 7 days. You had a lot of internal bleeding and cuts, some burns, from the Cornucopia’s destruction. They think the fact you climbed out at all is owed entirely to adrenaline. If it had taken the hovercraft much longer to get to you, they aren't sure if you'd have made it. But altogether, the Games start to finish lasted about 22 days.”

“It was a long one, kid.” Haymitch cuts in, a hand gripping my shoulder with a fondness so unexpected from the gruff old drunk. “And you made it out.”

“Lets get some good food in you.” Effie tries again. “Come, they set the table.” Our team finally moves from the entryway, heading in the direction of the dining room.

“Can…can I use the bathroom first?” I hear myself asking.

“Owen.” Effie chides, looking like I’ve asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “You can do whatever you want! You’re a Victor!” She leans forward to place a kiss on my cheek, tapping my face with that same awed pride she greeted me with.

“We’ll wait for you." Cinna promises. "Take a moment.”

I find my room mostly unchanged. Someone has made the bed and put away the clothes I'd left strewn about, but otherwise still the same: too big, too cold, too quiet. I force myself not to look behind me as I step through the open door. I know what I’ll see if I do. Her door. Closed. Hidden behind it, the last warm bed Mira ever had. Only the second time in her life she had a room of her own. That room, that bed, now empty.

I feel myself move, rushing by the my own too large bed with its slick, cold sheets, into the bathroom. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. I’m alive. I’m here. There’s nothing that can be done for her now. Nothing that can be done for any of them. Lurching myself to the sink, my fingers weakly grasp for the cold tap. I splash the icy water on my face. Trying to shake myself from my panic, trying to ground myself, focus on anything else.

When I see myself in the mirror, a different boy looks back. That’s not Owen Sparrow.

Sure the boy has similar dark curls to Owen Sparrow. Those “haunting,” as Effie described them, silver-gray eyes. But this is not Owen Sparrow.

Owen Sparrow has never looked this healthy. Years of malnourishment and poverty wears down on a boy. But when I look in the mirror, there’s a flush to my skin, a warmer, truer tone to the olive tint. Not the kind the prep teams manufactured with makeup, but from somewhere else, somewhere deeper.

And the scars. The scrapes and bruises and cuts from the Arena, they’re gone. Slipping my trousers down over my hips I examine my thigh. Nothing. Not even a blemish. That cut, that poisoned wound, the one that stirred and stretched and ached for days. All that pain. The proof of the injury that prompted Katniss’ act of kindness with the soup, of the resilience that gift inspired in me. All of it, just gone. In its place that same perfect smoothness as the rest of my skin. Unnaturally smooth. Even. Buffed. Almost shiny. As if it never even happened. Maybe once I’m back in Twelve, the sheen will fade. Maybe I’ll be able to find my way back to myself then, back in Twelve.

I’m going back to Twelve.

“Sweetheart.” Haymitch’s gruff voice calls, once we've finished our meal. “Boy!”

Both Owen and Peeta turn at the latter command. “Oh! I guess I’ll need to find some condescending nickname for you too, Sparrow. Now that we get to keep you!” Haymitch remarks belatedly.

“Can I call you sweetheart too?” Our boy, our new victor, turns to me, that sharp smirk appearing on his features for the first time since he re-emerged from the elevator.

“No.” I answer. “You get Kat. That’s more than Peeta gets.”

“What do you call her?” The dark-haired boy turns to the blonde.

“Katniss.” He admits with a shrug. “I just call her Katniss.”

“We can all work out petnames later!” Haymitch declares, sick of us already. “I need sweetheart and the blonde! The new one can stay here. Your prep team will be dragging you away soon enough.”

Haymitch’s hand grabs my elbow before I can object, pulling me from the table and to my feet. He drags Peeta in the same manner, only a moment later.

“Hey!” Peeta protests, just managing to prevent his glass from tipping over the table's edge, as our Mentor begins to pull us down the hall.

“Where are we going?” I ask, twisting my arm to pull it from Haymitch’s hold.

“We’re going to get some fresh air!” He declares, Seam eyes widening just a touch, hinting at a hidden meaning, begging me to find it for once. The roof. I realize, he’s taking us to the roof.

I press ahead to lead the way. The three of us moving in silence until we are back in that familiar greenhouse with its clinking symphony of wind chimes.

“Did you realize what birds those were?” Haymitch speaks first. “The ones at the end.”

“No, they just looked like birds.” Peeta comments.

“Canaries.” Haymitch explains. “They were canaries.”

Oh. The unusual color had distracted me, but he’s right. They were exactly the same as the pictures in our school textbooks. “They were meant to target Owen.” I voice. Like the silver snakes with Ada. The dark teal eels with Kai. Canaries. Black as coal. Red as blood. Canaries.

“Yes.” Haymitch confirms the waking nightmare to us.

“And he evaded the attack.” Peeta remarks.

“Yes.”

He wasn’t supposed to win. He’s not meant to be alive right now. I’m not surprised. I feared it that final day, with the rose scented vines. After his goodbye for Kai, District 4’s gift of thanks. Our own countless mistakes over the last year. Snow or the Gamemakers, someone powerful, wanted Owen Sparrow dead. Tried to play it off like a simple mutt attack. And it almost worked.

“The canary in the coal mine.” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“The caged bird, meant as a final warning of danger.” Haymitch adds.

Peeta voices the dark thought rattling around all our heads. “Snow was trying to send us a message. He intended to punish us by killing him. Warn us that he’s still watching. We’re still under threat.”

“Yes. A reminder, for us all, we’re just caged birds in his games.” Our mentor answers.

“But Owen threw a literal bomb in his plan.” I state.

“Yes, he did.” Haymitch acknowledges, shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. “So we’ll need to be very, very, careful and make sure that boy is very, very, careful.”

“Haymitch? What can we do? How do we keep him safe?” I ask, my voice tipping towards pleading. We just saved him! We promised him we’d get him home! We promised we’d keep him safe! How do we keep him safe?

“Carefully. I’ll talk to him, remind him the same I did you, to play up his gratitude, his humbleness, all of it.” Haymitch attempts to soothe my panic, a gentle hand reaching up to grip my shoulder. “But us three, we’ll talk more when we’re home.”

When he gets me into my place, I freeze. It too familiar. Cinna placing me on the metal plate, waiting for a countdown, wearing too stiff clothes. It smells down here beneath the stage, there’s a dampness, mold, something else, a decay. That clammy sweat forms at the nape of my neck again. This stiff jacket is too close, too oppressive, its fabric too itchy. And the stage hanging over my head. The boards are too weak, its not stable, its gonna fall…its gonna collapse.

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I whirl around stumbling backwards. It’s Katniss. It’s just Katniss. She holds her hands up in surrender, like I’m a child she’s trying to soothe or calm down. “It’s alright Owen.” She speaks, voice steady. But her silver eyes hold a fear in them. Is it me? Is she afraid of me?

She offers her hands out to me, palms up and open. “Take a breath, Owen.” She commands. “With me, alright?”

When I don’t move, she presses on, moving half-an-inch closer to me in those heeled shoes. Those can’t be comfortable. “Owen.” She draws my attention back to her face. “It's ok to be scared, just breathe with me.”

It's ok to be scared. She had said that just before we parted for the Games. I was scared, then. I thought I was doing a decent job of covering it up. But something about Katniss, my fellow kid from the Seam, honed as sharp as her arrows, her aim just as true, allows her to pierce through any and all of my feigned bravado. She saw it then, that I was scared. And she sees it now.

I let her take my hands in hers, momentarily halting their shaking. A manicured thumb brushing back and forth over my knuckles as she speaks. “Deep breath in, hold it for four, then deep breath out.” She instructs.

It takes a minute, for my mind to ease up, to match with the slowed intentional breathing, for my heartbeat to stop pounding in my ears. “There you go, kid.” She compliments.

“We alright?” Peeta Mellark appears. Dressed in his own gray coat, a deep charcoal where mine is a more shadowy, silver.

“Just some nerves.” Katniss admits, squeezing my hands one more time before dropping them back to my side. “You know how I hate being on camera.”

“Well, we just need to get through tonight and tomorrow and then we’re all going home. A lot fewer cameras to worry about there.” Peeta states, as if to answer Katniss’ comment. But his eyes don’t leave my face. Fuck. Maybe Katniss isn't the only one who's learned how to read me too well. “Just one foot in front of the other until then.” He adds.

“Places! Places! Places!” Effies bouncing voice echoes around us. “Come my loves, Mentors stand just here.” She gently guides them to the larger plate of their own, before returning to me. “Ok! Big smile! Lift your chin!” She advises, pulling me back onto the plate then hurrying off to her own.

I stare down at the metal beneath my feet. Surely there’s no bomb in this one, right? No, that would be too great a risk. All those cheering Capitol citizens are here, Caesar Flickerman is here, President Snow himself is here. No, they wouldn’t risk putting a bomb in here. I have nowhere to run, anyway.

As the Anthem blares, announcing the beginning of the event, I begin running through Ada’s instructions in my mind. First, you use the flathead screwdriver to remove the small screw on the platforms far side.

Caesar Flickerman greets the roaring audience, then announces my prep team. I hear a distant hum all the way to my right, and the crowd get somehow louder as Flavius, Venia, and Octavia are lifted to the stage. Second, remove the other screw, allowing the control panel to open.

As Effie is lifted on my far left, I walk my mind through the series of buttons needed to deactivate the mine: First the green, then the orange, then the blue.

Cinna is next, disappearing from the corner of my eye. Then once it's deactivated, you can pry open the side. A knife works fine if you can get it in there at the right angle. I can hear Ada’s voice in my head, every syllable drawn out in that smooth, casual, confidence she carried on every word.

“Owen!” Peeta’s voice reaches me over the din of the crowd. Over the encouraging, calming, voice of my friend in my mind. I whip my head to face him, careful to keep my feet planted. “We’ll be right here. The whole time!” He promises.

With that last vow, their own platform begins to move, lifting them into the air towards the stage. If I thought the audience was loud before, it's nothing compared to the deafening applause they unleash at my Mentors’ arrival.

It takes a while for Caesar to calm the crowd. I’m just getting to the part where we extract the mine, when the metal shifts under me. Earthquake! Now it's Kai’s voice that bursts into my mind with the warning. No. Not an earthquake. I’ve left the arena. I survived the arena. I’m back in the Capitol. I’m under the stage. I’m the victor. I’m here for my interview. I need to breathe. The world goes silent. I’m blinded by a blaze of light. But no cannons follow this time.

Thunderous, clamoring, pandemonium. Slowly, my eyes adjust, my hearing returns, and I finally register the too-bright smile of Caesar Flickerman. His unnaturally shiny silver hair. His attempts to guide me to my seat. When I don’t move, he at least has the tact to not acknowledge my visible panic and offers his aid. Wrapping an arm around my shoulders with a gleeful laugh, he pulls us both to our places center stage. The chairs angled just so to face both each other and the audience.

The ornate chairs. I know this ornate chair. Every year the Victor sits here to deliver their Victory Interview. I’m the Victor. It’s time for my interview.

“Mr. Owen Sparrow!” Caesar begins. “I’ll admit it, the last time we spoke I wasn’t totally sure we’d get the chance to speak again!”

Somewhere, deep in my mind, it finally clicks into place. The guiding voices of Peeta and Katniss during my first interview prep come flooding back, drowning out my panic, my disbelief, my nerves. Leaning myself back against the uncomfortable wood, I draw my lips up into that well-practiced smile. “Well Caesar, I warned you! I’ve made it quite a habit, y’know, proving my doubters wrong!” The callback gets the crowd’s roaring approval and we're off.

The recap is first. The recap. I forgot about the recap, or blocked it out in my mind. I don’t want to watch the recap. Don’t want to watch the horrors I already experienced first hand played out again before my eyes, with all of Panem watching my every reaction, my every move. My heart pounds once more, nearly drowning out the words of Caesar Flickerman as he introduces the reel. No. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to watch this. I want to go home. I just want to go home.

It’s then I realize that the way they’ve placed Peeta and Katniss means I can see them. Silver Seam eyes find mine. She directs a single nod my way. That silent acknowledgement, silent validation, silent understanding from the legendary Katniss Everdeen. My mentor, my ally, my friend. Kat. She is lending me her strength. It’s ok to be scared. And I’m scared. But Katniss is here. Peeta is here. Their hands intertwined tightly on her lap, their sides pressed completely together. I’m not alone. They didn’t leave me behind in the arena. They will not leave me behind now.

The story they spin this year is one of resilience, of wits, of charm, and I see almost none of it. With each passing horror, each mention of her name, each time his voice comes through the theater’s speakers, each moment of friendship and joy with them: with Mira, with Ada, with Kai, through all of it I force my vision to stay on Katniss Everdeen, Kat, and those silver Seam eyes.

The version they show of the Games is so obviously edited, cut up and pieced back together, full of hand-selected camera shots. How is anyone believing this? They watched the Games with their own eyes. Is this what they showed? How much of what I really went through was shown to Panem? To Katniss and Peeta?

I come off friendly, sure, open to allies, but only as a means to an end. I’m calculating, willing to do whatever it takes to get to victory. It’s so…so untrue. The only reason I’m still standing here with any semblance of sanity is because of my allies, my friends. Sure, I wanted to get home. I really want to just go home right now. But, I wanted them to live too. I did everything I could to keep them alive too, to keep them sane. We helped each other. We trusted each other. But they show none of that.

When the Capitol tells the story of their Victor, they focus briefly on my time with Mira, a lot on my time with Ada and Kai, our planning and execution of the attack on the District 1 tributes, and very, very, little on my time alone with Kai after. They show nearly nothing of his death, my grief, just cutting ahead to my last day in the Arena. My plan to force Reed into a confrontation, my suicidal last-ditch effort to save us, to flee the birds. The final shot shows me rising from the rubble, cut up, bleeding, exhausted, still clutching my mother's pendant in my hand, as Claudius Templesmith announces me as the Victor.

“Ladies and Gentleman, we have a slight addition to tonight's program! What do you say, Owen, why don’t we bring out your mentors!?” Caesar calls, once the audience has calmed themselves down from their sickening glee over the recap. “May I present, the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!”

My mentors rise to their feet as the crowd loses their minds once more, clearly overjoyed at this surprise interview with their favorite new Victors. Katniss approaches me first, opening her arms to give me a hug, using the excuse of a kiss to my cheek to whisper, “You did good.” She steps back to let Peeta embrace me next, turning to greet Caesar.

“Girl on Fire.” Caesar calls, giving her a quick overly-friendly kiss to each of her cheeks. “You look beautiful as always, do you need to be giving us a spin this time?”

“Not this time!” She answers with a laugh. “No flames tonight. Your excessive hairspray is safe for the time being.” She jokes, earning that sharp barking TV laugh, Caesar is known for.

“Oh you kill me, Miss Everdeen!”

“And I don’t even have my bow!” She throws back, making him and the audience laugh harder. I don’t know how she does it, smile and joke and play along. It’s so un-Katniss-like. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about her during this experience, it's that she emits this overwhelming earnestness. We all have our parts to play. Haymitch’s reminder bounces around my mind.

“Mr. Mellark!” Caesar greets Peeta with a firm friendly handshake.

“Caesar!” He answers, mimicking the host’s tone.

They settle onto the plush red velvet couch that’s appeared, centered between Caesar and I. Once again sitting almost too close to each other. Peeta’s hand resting on her leg, her own fingers covering his to let the too-large engagement ring sparkle in the stage lights.

“So! Tell me!” Caesar requests. “When did you know he could win?”

“From that first day on the train.” Katniss declares. “I turned to Peeta and said, ‘this one has potential.”

“And as usual, she was right.” Peeta jokes.

“Ahh, very good, Mr. Mellark!” Caesar joins in on the jest. “I’m sure any of us married folk in the audience would tell you the first rule of a successful marriage is to remember that your wife always knows best.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that!” Katniss answers, her own practiced smirk of mischief crossing her face. “But if you’d like to believe that, darling, you're certainly welcome to.”

The audience loves the exchange, only urged on in their fawning when Peeta leans over to press a kiss to her cheek. That wide, proud smile remaining painted across his face.

“So what will life look like in Twelve for you now?” Caesar asks my mentors next.

“Well, it’ll be nice to have some new neighbors in the village.” Peeta answers. “It can get a little boring with just us and Haymitch.”

“Not that Haymitch is bad company!” Katniss defends their old beloved mentor. His face appears on the large screens, sat amongst the other Mentors and Victors in attendance. A silent raise of his flask is his only response, earning further laughs from the audience.

We’ve done it. We fought, and begged, and worried, and kept him alive. All to get to this moment. And yet, I can’t help the shiver of fear that crawls up my spine when he appears. Our Good President Snow. Here to crown another Victor. But before he approaches our boy, he greets his favorite Star-Crossed Lovers.

Unfortunately, he reaches out to me first. Tucking me into a loose embrace, clearly uncomfortable for us both. As I attempt to pull back, he speaks, freezing me in that moment of half-hug, half-flight.

“Congratulations, Miss Everdeen, now you have one more person to keep safe from me.” He whispers, metallic breath cresting against my ear. Until finally, he lets me go, a smile that doesn’t reach his snakelike eyes crossing his face as he turns to shake Peeta's hand. “I so look forward to your wedding.”

As soon as Snow has removed himself from our space, I grasp desperately for Peeta's arm, hoping it reads as love and pride in our tribute, our Victor, to the roaring crowds rather than the unfettered panic threatening to swallow me whole.

Peeta’s gaze whips towards me at the force of my hold and I try to communicate my fear in my eyes when they meet his. It seems to work, because his camera-ready smiles falters for just a moment. He gives me a minuscule nod of acknowledgment, easily missed by anyone but me, before he rights himself and turns back to witness Owen’s crowning.

Always knowing how to best soothe me, Peeta lifts loops his hand with mine, resting them together his elbow, subtly shifting himself more between me and Snow. Allowing me to press myself into his strong, reliable, shoulder.

As I watch the Golden Laurel of Victory descend towards Owen’s brow, it takes all my wavering self-control to stay still, maintain my smile. All the while a single, terrifying, question consumes my mind: Did I just doom this boy too?