Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

            “Move your knight to take his bishop,” I instruct, pointing to the spot on the board that I refer to.

            “Well what if I want to move my rook to take that pawn instead?” Ronan challenges me.

            “If you do that, then Grant will do that, and then you’ll have to respond here, and then he’ll do that and you’ll basically be done for,” I explain, gesturing rapidly around the pieces.

            “But I can work with that,” Ronan protests, stubborn as usual.

            “Fine,” I relent, knowing that I can’t force him to do anything.

            The game is over in minutes, Grant reigns supreme once again. After months of the two of us trying to teach Ronan to play chess a bit better, we both are on the borderline of giving up. Ronan’s smart enough to learn strategy, but almost always allows himself to overestimate his ability to get out of a sticky situation. What was at first entertaining has now become tiresome. Ronan’s sour face is proof that nobody’s heart is really in it anymore.

            “Maybe next time, Ronan.” Grant, as usual, doesn’t have the heart to criticize his friend.

            We retire to the less contentious activity of idly playing cards. Ronan nearly always beats us at poker, so it’s sure to restore his good mood. Blight joins us to play as our dealer, ready to show his face now that his best friend isn’t sorely losing at chess.

            Our group dynamic is very different here, chit chat begins almost as soon as our first round does. It’s been almost a year since Grant and I started learning how to play from the two older men, so it doesn’t take nearly as much focus as it used to. At least the conceptual part of the game doesn’t.

            “Fara quite obviously has some combo that is going to wipe us out,” Ronan says, raising his eyebrows at Grant.

            “You don’t know that,” I assert.

            “You’re still doing that thing with your nose when you have a good hand and try to fake us out,” he argues.

            “At least she stopped giggling when she had a bad hand.” Grant procures a goofy smile. “Or the blushing when she wasn’t confident which way it would go.”

            “I’m not doing anything anymore!” I insist crossly, covering my nose with my hands.

            “You’re getting better, but I can still read you like a book.” Blight chimes in, putting the final nail in the coffin.

            The two other men fold, and I’m left to lay my royal flush on the table.

            “Fine!” I admit. “I really am trying, though.”

            “We know,” Ronan assures me, putting his hand on my back to rub soothingly. “Blight is right, you are getting better.”

            Playing cards is fun, but there’s an incredibly important undertone to the games we choose. Ronan insisted on teaching us to play poker when he learned how bad Grant and I were at lying. He asserts that we must learn to handle ourselves better in order to handle any sensitive information he might pass along about our brewing rebellion.

            He’s always been careful not to cut us too close into the fold, and I suspect it’s not only because of our inability to lie. The same goes for Finnick, who seems to be receiving about as little as we are. We all suspect that it has more to do with our age than anything else. That fact has resulted in a comedic overstating of our maturity in every possible scenario. Around Ronan and Blight, each conversation is sure to contain a mention from Grant that age twenty-five is actually when researchers believe the brain is fully developed; Finnick often asserts that twenty-two is the age when fishermen are allowed to apply to be crew captains; and I’m left to meagerly assert that I’m a very mature eighteen-year-old.

            Quite immune to our goal of wearing him down with annoyance, Ronan seems quite amused by our efforts. Despite our efforts, our line of communication tends still to be incredibly one-sided. To his credit, Ronan is always careful to ensure that we all receive ample praise for our efforts. While the other two find it to be patronizing, I quite look forward to Ronan’s kindness when I deliver particularly pertinent pieces of intel. That fact tends to counter my claim that I’m extremely mature.

            When Ronan finally beats me and Grant in our game of poker, I excuse myself for my afternoon workout. In private spaces, Finnick likes to joke that it took the threat of a revolution to get me to commit to even minimal levels of physical fitness. While the looming idea of rebellion does serve to spark my interest in taking care of myself, I tend to think that it has more to do with the fact that I finally have mentors who I respect more than school gym teachers.

            A few months ago, I took Finnick’s advice to train in self defense and fitness. I told our group the half-truth that I just wanted to learn how to handle myself for safety reasons. All of the victors seemed to be of the same mind - that Cashmere would be the best fit coach for me. All, that is, except Gloss. He turned out to be spot-on with his assumption that she would be far too impatient to be a good match.

            After only a day, Cashmere had to give up. She’d only been a successful teacher to me in the past because she was teaching concepts and behaviors under the lens of sex work. While I felt like a fish out of water in my job at first, she reflects that I’d learned very quickly in the grand scheme of things. I have no such talent for anything of the exclusively physical variety.

            In a most surprising turn of events, Gloss has been the only one with the temperament to handle my ineptitude. His ability to remain unbothered by even the most extreme circumstances works to his advantage. So it’s him who waits for me in the training center when I step out of the elevator.

            “You’re late,” he comments, entirely unfazed as usual.

            “Ronan got his feelings hurt playing chess so I had to stay back and let him beat me at poker to make him feel better,” I explain.

            “Understandable. Take a few minutes to warm up and then we can step into the ring and box.”

            I groan. “Can’t we climb the rock wall instead?”

            “No, because you’re actually getting better at climbing. Once you make progress in fighting we can move on.” He speaks as if I’ve told a particularly unfunny joke.

            “I think we can just give up on it,” I huff, nonetheless beginning to stretch. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be any good at fighting.”

            “What would you do if someone attacked you?” Gloss sits to stretch beside me.

            “Die, I guess,” I respond with cheek. “But the only ones attacking me are my clients, not random people on the street.”

            “Wouldn’t it give you peace of mind to know that you could stop them if it went too far?” Even with the serious sentiment, Gloss somehow still infuses snark into his words. “I never seem to have issues with clients getting dangerous,” he adds as an afterthought.

            “I wonder why?” I inquire dryly.

            Gloss is one of the most formidable-looking people I’ve ever met. With the height of Ronan and the build of Finnick, he greatly overshadows all of us in terms of sheer size. His dark black hair and beard cast his whole image as rugged and intimidating. It’s a good thing that he’s got no temper to speak of, considering he could probably snap my neck just by looking at me.

            Not willing to humor any more of my complaints, he offers me a hand up. I have no choice but to join him in the ring. I ready myself for our usual gauntlet of training drills, assuming a neutral position to await instructions. My head hits the padded floor quicker than I can realize what’s happened. Gloss pulls back from his leg-sweep and lowers himself to the floor as well.

            “I’ve actually decided that we’re going to start on the ground today,” he explains.

            “You could have just told me to sit down,” I say, rubbing the back of my skull.

            “That wouldn’t have been as fun. Plus I figured it might wake you up. We’re going to try something a little different. Have you ever tried Jiu-Jitsu?”

            “You know damn well I’ve never tried Jiu-Jitsu.” I don’t bother looking over at him.

            “Well, you will today. Jiu-Jitsu is the little person’s fighting style. Even Gaia beats me at this.”

            His words don’t have the desired effect. Gaia might be tiny at just over five feet tall, but she’s a veritable ball of aggression. I don’t doubt that Gaia could and would whoop my ass on any given occasion. I don’t think that her success with this suggests that I’ll be any good at it.

            “I’m not a little person.” I continue to be deliberately obtuse. “I’m pretty tall actually.”

            “You’re the little person when you’re up against me.” His word is final.

            What started as a lot of laying down turns into getting yanked around the floor by the hem of my clothing. The concept is simply enough: gain leverage and keep it. It’s just as exerting as the other methods we’ve tried, but it’s definitely easier for me to understand. Just like rock climbing, this turns out to draw heavily from self knowledge of anatomy. Having intuition about the nature of joints and the physics of movement lends to the ability to exploit them. Pushing with a straight arm is much easier than pulling with a bent one.

            When I start to gain confidence in my ability to maneuver on the floor, Gloss starts to turn up the heat. He first shows me how to get away from a basic pin, making it look easy every time he pushes me off. When we reverse and I have to push him off, I end up getting choked out before I can ever get away. Even when he allows me to try one round where he only uses his legs to fight, I end up with my head locked between his thighs.

            The only thing that keeps me from getting too frustrated to continue is his constant humor.

            “If you were in that position in the real world you could just bite the guy’s dick off.” He says, releasing me from his legs.

            “Great idea, I’m about to start winning some fights today.” I wipe my sweaty forehead and grin.

            “If you bite my dick I will kick you in the face,” he asserts.

            “That won’t magically heal you though, you better watch your ass,” I insist.

            “You little shit.”

            He takes me by surprise and pins me in an instant. I pretend to move to lick his face and he lets go in a hurry.

            “That is not Jiu-Jitsu. Cut it out.”

            “But it’s working.” I arch a brow.

            For the next few moves he teaches me, he takes care to keep my face far away from any part of his body he cares about. I try my best to seriously learn from our session, all jokes and gags aside. I’m not good by any stretch of the word, but I can at least recognize and understand the advice Gloss gives me. We pause for breaks frequently, giving me time to catch my breath before diving back into it. I can tell that Gloss is satisfied with me by the time we call it quits.

            “Do you have anything else to do today?” He asks as we dismount the padded floor.

            “Not until later this evening, why?” I feel the beginnings of regret bubbling in my stomach.

            “I really think today would be a good day to go over some weaponry basics.”

            “No,” I say very clearly.

            “You don’t even have to pick them up, you could just-”

            “No,” I say again. “I told you at the very beginning of all this that I didn’t want to use weapons.”

            “Hear me out for a minute. I know you’re anti-violence or whatever, but a weapon on its own doesn’t kill people.” Gloss cards a hand through his sweaty hair.

            “It can be the second that it’s in somebody’s hand. That’s a moot point.”

            “I don’t mean to debate about semantics here. The fact is that you and everyone else around you are safer if you have a basic understanding of weapons. Of both the dangers and benefits they possess.”

            “I don’t know,” I say.

            The second I express doubt, Gloss knows he’s found his way in.

            “You can just listen to me lecture for now, you like that kind of stuff,” he insists. “At the end of it, you can teach me anything you want. I know there’s a few stations around here that you’ve got to know something about.”

            He gestures at the training facility around us. Though much of it has been updated and refined since my own games a year and a half ago, many of the same pre-games training stations are still erected. Why they leave them open year-round for the Victors I have no idea, but it certainly is an interesting proposition.

            “Fine. But I’m holding you to those selling points. I don’t have to do anything with the weapons and I get to teach you about robotics at the end.” I point an accusatory finger in his direction.

            “Whatever you say, tech . Hmmm no, not quite.” He shakes his head distastefully.

            He’s been trying for the past few weeks to coin a suitable nickname for me, claiming that my full name is too prim and proper and that my shortened name is boring. I allow him to do so freely, it has no bearing on me other than being particularly insulting at times. I’m just happy he’s moved on from pointing out my “most pronounced” physical features. Things like freckles and legs weren’t too bad, but the more crude references were a rough period to get through.

            True to his word, Gloss doesn’t push me outside of my comfort zone during his lesson. I find myself hesitantly accepting the fact that the history of warfare and weaponry is an interesting topic. He certainly has an impressive arsenal of knowledge on it, so I indulge him by asking questions.

            When I become fixated on the topic of metal alloy customizability, he tosses one of the spears at me to hold. It’s heavy, definitely heavier than I could see myself ever choosing to wield. It’s got a matte finish everywhere except the very tip, which shines with careful polishing. Gloss tells me this one is made from bronze, then passes me one made from steel which is considerably lighter.

            There’s obvious trade-offs in weapons manufacturing materials. The bronze is durable but heavy, and the steel is lighter but much more expensive to craft. If I remember correctly, steel is composed of iron and carbon with trace amounts of manganese, chromium, and vanadium. While the added components aren’t classified in the category of rare-earth elements, they certainly aren’t the easiest to obtain. Especially when one considers that the primary allocation for these metals in Panem is in electronics. Our reliance on our technology drives consumption at an entirely unsustainable rate.

            My grandmother’s primary area of research was rare-earth element extraction. Though I have very few memories of her, the ones I do possess all contain lengthy explanations of rare  metal recyclability and extraction from waste material. Once we stopped speaking, I never bothered to follow her advancements. I’m led to suspect that it hadn’t gained a whole lot of traction considering the mines in District 1 are still active in my most recent recollections.

            It’s tough to be sure about my assumption considering the unfortunate fact that the mere presence of unwealthy mine workers in District 1 is quite taboo. Perhaps even too taboo for the clinically unbothered man I share company with now. I decide to take my chances when we move on to the robotics station for my lesson.

            “How much do you know about the mines in District 1?” I raise the question casually.

            “Not much. The mining sector is small and about as far as you could get from where I lived.” He’s not phased in the slightest.

            “So they’re still operating?”

            “Fuck if I know, I don’t exactly keep up with the mining practices of a tiny town on the outskirts of my district. I’m not you,” he teases.

            “Okay, fine, forget I asked,” I playfully respond.

            I move on to teach Gloss the basics of circuitry. He’s a surprisingly quick learner, and we’re able to make substantial progress over the course of an hour. It seems a bit unfair considering this was supposed to be my payback for being a hopeless disaster as a pupil. I don’t allow myself to get too hung up on it, instead making sure to dish out praise where it’s deserved. When we’re done, I make a note to return to the station in my spare time. I can feel myself getting rusty on my design skills.

            By the time I get back to the District 4 floor, Genetty is already there waiting for me. During the 73rd Hunger Games, my team of three shrunk to one with the necessity of styling new tributes. Genetty volunteered to devote part time work to the tribute team and part time work to me so that I wouldn’t have to get used to another person invading my privacy. It’s a decision that has endeared me to her fiercely, despite the fact that she remains a nominal political adversary. Her offer to become my full-time stylist still stands, but Giovani adamantly rejects it. He remains stubborn about the fact that he will be the only one who designs my clothes, no matter how much overtime he has to put in.

            The dress that Genetty brought for me is quite obviously his work. Giovani’s most obvious tell is that he always lines the insides with a thin layer of nylon after hearing me mention my preference for the material once. I greatly appreciate his attention to detail, as it makes my clothes much more resistant to ripping. Aside from giving me something intact to wear back from appointments, it also provides the immense pleasure of entertainment from watching grown men getting flustered by their inability to tear a dress.

            There’s no need for careful alteration for the client I’m visiting tonight though. After countless times at the Crane manor, I know not to expect too much destructive behavior. Seneca fancies himself too dignified for the rough sex I often find elsewhere. With him it always starts with a game, moves to the bedroom, and contains a large amount of conversation afterwards. Though my first experience at his estate was horribly traumatic, each subsequent returning visit has become easier. I find myself at a point where I’m actually relieved to see his name on a booking rather than another.

            Tonight is no different. He allows me to choose the game, so I pick out monopoly. He usually wins at it, which always leaves him prone to talking longer later. I began the tactic a while ago, much to Ronan’s elation. According to Ronan, it’s quite possibly the best thing I’ve been able to do. Having the Head Gamemaker wrapped around my finger certainly has its benefits where the act of gleaning information is concerned. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, Seneca actually shows me ideas and designs for future arenas. He says he’ll only continue to do this as long as I don’t take up the role of District 4 mentor, though he must know that I’d pass any pertinent information along to the current mentors regardless.

            Once he’s won at monopoly and he’s reached his happy ending, he’s more eager than ever to show me his most recent work. This time it’s not designs he shows me, but a notebook full of scrawled text. He brings it over to the bed and I move to rest my head on his bare chest so that he can read it to me. He sighs at the contact, but it takes all of the effort in my body not to shrink away. Though he’s one of my better clients, it doesn’t mean that I’ve gotten rid of the ever-present layer of disgust that shrouds my appointments. Every time I find myself endeared towards the small efforts he makes for my comfort, I hurriedly recall his many transgressions. As if the physical transactional nature of our relationship isn't enough, he keeps evidence of my stays in the form of photographs that he stores in his night stand.

            “These are just rough drafts of ideas, I haven’t actually selected any winners yet. It’ll be President Snow who does most of the decision making anyway.” He bites his thumb nail as he often does when he ponders unfinished work.

            “What type of ideas?” I ask.

            “Quarter Quell ideas, of course. I know it seems pretty far into the future for someone like you, but for us Game Makers it’s been an ever present looming date.” He’s sweetly condescending, as usual.

            “Well, read them out and I’ll give you honest feedback,” I urge, feeling my pulse spike at the value of information I’m about to possess.

            “You always are honest. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” He leans down to kiss my forehead. I cringe away only after he’s back to thumbing through his journal. He clears his throat. “Here’s my top ten so far. Tributes will be selected in numbers proportional to their district number as a reminder that each district holds a particular function for Panem.” He waits for my approval.

            “Wait.” I sit up. “Aren’t those details supposed to be predetermined and sealed away in some box of envelopes from the founders?”

            “Faraday.” He looks at me incredulously. “You can’t honestly believe that we choose to take direction from men who wrote those that long ago. They have no idea of what our current political climate is or what we find entertaining.”

            “I guess that makes sense.” I lay my head back down onto him, but every one of my senses is on high alert.

            “So what do you think of that one?” he asks.

            “Increasing the number of tributes that much makes it seem repetitive of the second ‘Quell’s doubled batch.” I don’t really care that it’s derivative, I just can’t bear to think of that many more children being sent to their deathbeds.

            “Shit, you’re right. How did I not see that?” Seneca curses. “How about this one: only pairs of siblings can be selected to represent their district to signify that nation loyalty runs deeper than familial bond.”

            “That one’s better.” But my heart turns as I say it, wondering if I’ve just condemned siblings to fight to the death against each other. “But still not great. You’d get less variety of tribute alliances, not as entertaining for the viewers.” I change my answer to rectify my fear.

            “Hmm, maybe. I’m very fond of that one.”

            It continues like this for the next hour. He shares more than his aforementioned ten ideas with me, choosing to go on to brainstorm countless others. He’s most partial to the idea of the sibling tribute pairs, though it’s a close competitor with having previous victors choose the tributes. Every option he presents is appalling enough that I find myself protesting every one. He catches on to my squeamishness towards the end of our time.

            “If this is too much for you, we don’t have to keep going.” He shuts his journal and places it on the bedside table.

            “No, no! I enjoy hearing your ideas, I really do. It’s interesting to see the way your mind works.” I try desperately not to lose my most valuable source of information.

            “We can be done for tonight at least. I know it must be hard to hear me talk about the games so callously when you were a part of them only a short time ago.” 

            He walks me to the door without any more talk of the third Quarter Quell. He kisses me goodbye and says that he hopes to see me again next week. I do my best to keep a hopeful smile on my face until my cab pulls away. When it does, I lose myself to the chore of mentally cataloging our entire interaction.

            I head straight for Ronan’s room when I get back. He opens the door after my first knock. He knows to expect me. He has a glass of water waiting on his nightstand for me, which is an incredibly thoughtful touch. I drink the liquid quickly and sit beside him.

            “I have news.”

Chapter Text

            It turns out that the knowledge of the Quarter Quell brainstorming session isn’t as much of a surprise as I thought it would be. Ronan very vaguely indicates that he’s known for some time about the less than scrupulous following of rules. He’s much more interested to hear about the specifics of what Seneca divulged to me. I provide everything I can remember, which is nearly everything word for word. My recall has only grown throughout my espionage efforts.

            Ronan thanks me profusely for my attention to detail and asks me to probe as much as I can for more information regarding plans for the Quell and future game arenas as well. He says not to bother with the upcoming 74th games, as all of it has been planned out already.

            The fact that he has such a complete knowledge on both the Quell protocols and the current construction of the new arena leads me to believe that he must have contact with one of the lesser gamemakers. Unlike the behavior that Seneca displays towards me would indicate, the nature of Hunger Games information is actually quite tight-lipped.

            “Why does your gamemaker contact not already know about Seneca’s ideas? It seems like they won’t know for a while if you’re this pleased to hear about it.” I ask him calmly.

            “How did you-” He cuts himself off mid reaction and stills, looking intently at me. “Did Blight tell you that?

            “Blight hasn’t told me anything. Is it Heavensbee or Burcatch?” I ask after a careful scan of the gamemaker list in my head. “No, nevermind, not Burcatch. He’s got that bit of debt to Snow for getting his daughter into that art school. Maybe Lervian as well? No, no, not her. I guess it’s got to be Heavensbee.” Throughout the course of my rambling, Ronan’s face remains impassive.

            “Why do you think that?” He prompts me to explain myself.

            “It’s really just a matter of elimination. I researched all of them a while ago, it seemed a pertinent background for Seneca. The more I knew about his entire sphere, the more I could figure out how to milk him for anything important, you know? I just went through it all now to figure out who couldn’t be your contact. By the process of elimination it simply has to be Heavensbee.” I grin at Ronan’s irritated face.

            “You’re a pain,” he says.

            “So I’m right?” I ask.

            He looks at me a long moment before nodding. When I pump a fist in the air in a gloating gesture, he snorts a reluctant laugh.

            “You know I have reasons for not telling you these things,” he says when I’ve resumed a normal posture. “I want you to have as much plausible deniability as possible.”

            “I get that. But if I’m able to figure these things out without you telling me, it’s your fault for not covering your tracks better.” My tone is light, but I do hope to convey my genuine worry in the words.

            “You’re not wrong,” he agrees, looking at me thoughtfully. “I want you to do some digging, let’s see what else you can find out. Then maybe you can help us fix those loose ends.”

            “Deal, but you have to tell me if I’m correct in my findings.”

            “I can do that, to a reasonable extent.” He nods.

            “For now you need to work on getting Heavensbee dirtier, there’s literally no rumors circulating about him. It’s kind of obvious that he doesn’t like the Capitol culture of the filthy rich. Get him to buy some prostitutes and embezzle a bit. Murdering the prostitute would be even more perfect.” I wave a hand in the air, pairing the embellishment with a lack of seriousness.

            “You’re spending too much time with Gloss.” Ronan tuts at me. 

            “He says he’s good for me, he takes credit for making me lose the stuck-up attitude,” I argue.

            “You lost the stuck-up attitude because you’re growing up.” He moves to ruffle a hand through my hair.

            “Thanks, Dad .” I mock him, but can’t deny that I glow under his endearment.

            “You’re welcome, sport .”

            I pull away from him in mock offense and move to leave. Before I’m fully out the door, Ronan calls a few more words of praise. I let it click shut behind me before allowing myself a smile. When I reach my own floor, Finnick is eating a late dinner in the large open dining room. The sight makes my own empty stomach rumble in anticipation, so I waste no time in joining him. As we each recount the tales of recent happenings, I satiate myself with the leftovers of the meal Finnick ordered.

            I’m intentionally vague about my own past few days, not wanting to give too much away in a room that isn’t secure against Capitol monitoring. Finnick quickly catches on that there are more components to my story that I’m not telling him. When I move onto discussing my progress in training with Gloss, Finnick nods in approval. He agrees that I should give weapons training a shot, arguing only slightly when I deny my commitment. When we tire of our mild spat, he naturally takes the lead in our conversation. 

            He tells me that yesterday he spent a full day and night with an elderly woman who only wanted his company. They ate dinner on a river boat and then spent a quiet night at her home putting together puzzles and watching television. He can’t seem to understand why she’d pay such an exorbitant amount of money on booking him and leaving a generous tip just to have him around.

            I shake him off with a bit of feigned annoyance 

            “She’s obviously lonely,” I explain, confused at his confusion.

            “I don’t understand how someone could feel that type of loneliness. Simply step outside into the world and you won’t be lonely anymore,” he says dismissively.

            “That’s not how it works. Lack of companionship goes beyond being physically in the presence of people,” I protest.

            “Maybe we just don’t get lonely because we’re forced to be companions so often,” he wonders aloud.

            “I get lonely.” I surprise myself with my willingness to be honest. My work towards self honesty is starting to pay off. “I think I’m inclined towards loneliness.”

            “Woah, really?” He turns to examine me as if I’m a particularly fascinating exhibit.

            “Yeah.” My hands find each other and my fingers work to intertwine, trying to remain undefensive amidst my sudden uncomfort..

            “You could always just head to the lounge when you feel that way, there’s usually someone in there during the day,” he suggests.

            “It’s the times right when people leave that I feel it. I’ve never liked spending the day with someone and then having to retire to separate quarters. If I had it my way, I’d spend the whole night with them too. It feels more natural to leave when you actually have something to do.” It’s good to put it into words after thinking about it for so long.

            “That… That actually makes a lot of sense.” He looks thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “You’ve felt that way for a while, haven’t you?”

            I make a noise of affirmation.

            “I’m sorry I never got that. I’m not great at that kind of intuitive stuff.” He waves his hands through the air dramatically.

            “I’ve noticed,” I chuckle at his behavior.

            I’ve learned that Finnick is the type to shoot first and ask questions much later. He often makes decisions based on nothing much at all aside from his own quick judgment. He tends to have luck in the fact that his method works most times, if for nothing other than full hearted commitment. However, the times where he does fail typically have weighty consequences.

            It took him over a month to apologize to me after shooting down my admission of feelings for him. That month was perhaps the loneliest I’ve ever been. He avoided me like the plague, always rushing away with claims of plans and appointments. It forced my hand into expanding outwards, landing me down the path of training with Gloss. Only once I’d found that new avenue for company did Finnick finally come to me with an explanation.

            He said that I’d startled him with the suddenness of my claim. It was hardly satisfactory, but I welcomed it regardless. I suppose I was desperate enough to regain our friendship that I was ready to accept any excuse he pedaled. As time went on, his sporadic apologies became better thought out and more meaningful. Now, his course of action is almost fathomable to me. Almost.

            I try to give him the benefit of the doubt that he genuinely had no clue how I felt. Hell, I didn’t even know for the better part of our time together. Yet something tells me that there’s more to his story of surprise than he’s willing to tell me. In the beginning I held out for the fruitless hope that he secretly felt the same way about me, but I’ve since grown to abandon the thought. I’ve adopted the view that he was scared to lose our friendship and lashed out when it was threatened, which is a much more realistic conclusion to draw from his behavior. Regardless of the process of getting here, I’m glad to be back.

            Memories of our brief estrangement freshly rehashed, I relish in the fact that we spend the rest of the evening together in easy company. When I offhandedly check my tablet to jog my memory of scheduling, I’m thrilled to find that tomorrow night’s booking has been canceled. Cancellations are rare, I’ve only had one before. It’s even more exciting when Finnick reminds me that Giovani had invited me to go to his runway event tomorrow night, and that that booking was the only thing standing in my way.

            It’s Giovani’s first one of the like and he was beaming with energy when he invited both of us to attend. We recently had to break the news to him that our night’s schedules were marred against our will. When I call him now to break the happy news, the excitement in his voice almost erases the disappointment I know he must have felt before. He instructs me to wear black to blend into the audience, joking that this is the one night that won’t be about me in his career. I agree with a bit of my own cheeky teasing.

            Unfortunately Finnick has not fallen into the same streak of luck that I have, his obligation still stands. He brushes it off easily, saying that he’s not very interested in fashion runways anyway. When I ask what to expect, he relents and says that I’ll probably enjoy it because it’ll essentially be like a moving art gallery of Giovani’s creations. I feel a spike of pride when I think about that concept. Having a full show dedicated specifically to Giovani’s craft must be an epic achievement for him.

            Not wanting to elicit jealousy about my newfound evening off, I move away from the topic of discussion. I strike up a game of twenty questions, which we’ve been enjoying quite a bit recently. I choose my subject, and Finnick wastes no time in starting his line of questioning. Surprisingly, Finnick is usually better at the game than I am. Though it seems that careful contemplation would be a cornerstone of a guessing game, it can actually serve as quite a hindrance. I pigeonhole myself into semantics much to easily.

            He guesses correctly that what I’m thinking of is ice cream within twenty questions. I’m unable to guess his selection of “tapestry” in my own turn. He is unable to guess my selection of “elephant” and he subsequently calls me out for cheating. I digress and choose a different prompt. We’ve long since decided that we aren’t to choose things that are completely unknown to the other player. While I’d thought that an elephant was a common enough animal in historical reading, it turns out that the creature had never been mentioned in Finnick’s District 4 upbringing.

            We play and talk to each other late into the night. When we become slap happy with our humor, we finally put the game to rest and retire to our own separate quarters. As usual, the silence that greets me in the empty room is suffocating. I ignore it and try my best to fall asleep without overthinking anything.

            The notification comes through early in the morning. The cancellation that left my evening wide open has been filled with a new booking. My spirits sink with the knowledge that I’ll no longer be able to attend Giovani’s runway event. I don’t bother to check the details of the appointment before I get out of bed and get ready for the day. When I’m out of the shower and into a towel, I give Giovani a call to break the now unfortunate news.

            Never one to make a fuss, he tells me not to worry. I can see right through his cool response that he’s quite disappointed, so I let him know that I’ll make sure to watch whatever recording the Capitol decides to broadcast in the following days. He brightens just a bit at my remark and tells me to pay close attention at the very end of the show. After a few more brief updates back and forth, we hang up without any trace of sadness between us. I’m glad to have had to cancel plans with Giovani instead of Fierian, I tend to have to do a substantial amount of groveling when it comes to flaking on the other Landcomb cousin.

            The shirking away of guilt leaves me clear minded enough to approach the tablet for details on my booking. For the first time in my life, I feel a sort of intrigued excitement as I gaze upon the information at hand. I’ll be staying overnight at a client’s home for the first time ever, more specifically: staying the night at Heavensbee manor. The instructions he has input are oddly vague. Arrive on an empty stomach and an open mind . Easy enough to follow, but quite lacking in the department of wardrobe and prep work. Genetty will likely be having kittens trying to find a last minute combination of Giovani’s designs that will suit me for the evening.

            My anticipation makes the day crawl by at an infuriatingly slow pace. During training with Gloss, I’m so distracted that I tie myself into the climbing wall rope incorrectly twice.

            “You’re going to break your neck if you fall without being tied in.” Gloss shakes his head.

            He grips onto the harness strapped around my waist and yanks me over towards him, pulling me off of my feet momentarily. The jerking motion is enough to center my thoughts on the present. I grin red-faced up at him as he works the thick rope through the loops at my front.

            “I’m bad with knots even on the best of days.” I spin the excuse at him.

            “Which makes you abysmal on the worst of days.” He ties off the knot and shakes his head at me amusedly.

            After another moment of scrutiny, he stoops to tighten the straps around my thighs as well before he permits me to begin climbing.

            “You’re getting careless with your equipment preparation. You used to at least make sure that you were properly strapped in before we started.”

            “I guess I just got less scared of dying from falling,” I say, already halfway up one of the colorful routes. “You always catch me.”

            “I can’t catch you if you’re not attached to the rope,” he presses, though his heart isn’t really in the scolding.

            While our session starts on a low note, it ends on a high one. Gloss was correct yesterday, my aptitude for the rock wall has increased significantly since we started. My nervous excitement for the evening combines with my newfound skill to make a very productive session. We part ways with each other after I offer a high five and he turns it into a disgustingly sweaty hug. 

            I spend the rest of my day doing my best to research everything I can find on the Heavensbee family. There’s certainly no lack of history in the Capitol culture books I find in the lounge. Their family line goes back as far as the historical timelines are written, seemingly always being an affluent fixture in society. From what I read, I gather that the current political pull the family carries is considerable, both in the financial and social realm.

            Having been appointed as one of the elite members of the gamemaking committee could very likely have as much to do with talent as it does with influence. There’s no doubt in my mind that Heavensbee is the one who heads the entire Capitol side of the revolution effort. He’s a very dangerous weapon to keep in the arsenal, I just hope Ronan knows how to use him. My experience with Capitol men has been incredibly varied, but I know that even the best of them can be deft and frivolous to a point of concern.

            At least he doesn’t actually want to sleep with me. There have been precious few appointments I’ve had where I haven’t been expected to have sex with the buyer. Those times often end up being just as unsettling, with people who enjoy either receiving or dealing out pain enough to finish on it.

            I suppose I shouldn’t be too hasty to assume that I won’t be expected to have sex with Heavensbee. I deflate a bit at the thought. He could very well still be expecting to get his money’s worth regardless of whether he desires me or not. At the very least, I don’t picture him being destructive. If his clean bill of behavior suggests anything, he’s not one for dastardly tastes.

            My assumption that Gennetty would be stressed over my last minute engagement was correct at least, so my track record for the night's predictions are off to a good start. She presents an outfit with very little confidence, requiring me to voice my support to fill in for her insecurity. My assurances aren’t totally unfounded, the dusty pink jumpsuit genuinely is quite pretty. She explains that she gets the feeling that Heavensbee is classy enough that he won’t want me showing up in a bandage dress.

            She goes light on the makeup as well, fretting for only a few minutes with putting my hair into well groomed curls as a last minute touch. All in all, she’s shown quite a bit of restraint. She has no idea what to expect from my newest buyer. Nobody does.

            His estate is the first clue into his life that I get. It’s a long drive out, at the end of a very secluded road surrounded by acres of unmanicured forest. Definitely not like the typical love nests I’m used to frequenting. To my delight, I spot a small herd of deer just at the tree line. I have to refrain from asking the driver to stop so I can get a better look. These deer are much larger and healthier than the ones I grew up seeing in District 3.

            The house itself follows in the same vein of semi-naturalism. While the architecture is astounding, the colors are mainly neutral and heavily feature wooden paneling. The lights from the inside glow yellow out through the many large windows set into the walls. At the end of the long gravel driveway stands the man of the hour. No servant sent in his stead to greet me, just himself, dressed in an unextraordinary white suit. I step out of the car and greet him in the same manner I usually do, gushing about how flattered I am to be here. He closes the car door behind me with a chuckle.

            “Dinner’s waiting for us. I’ve arranged to have it on my balcony, I hope you’re not opposed to eating outside.” He smiles politely.

            “That sounds wonderful,” I reply, not lying in the slightest.

            The short traverse we take though his home is quiet but not silent. I make unimportant comments about admiring decorations and he thanks me with small explanations of each piece. Naturalism is not entirely preserved in here, infected just slightly with typical Capitol flippancy. Flexes of wealth sit on top of manicured log stands, highlighted with gentle lighting. It’s not apologetic in the slightest, but feels less brash than usual.

            The balcony is more akin to a deck, with wooden paneling suspending us thirty feet in the air over the picturesque forest. The table sits at the very edge of the railing, making for a spectacular view. It’s adorned with a feast of epic proportions. Glazed orange chicken sits atop beds of long grain wild rice and bright green sprigs of vegetables. Two empty wine glasses sit beside each plate, while the large bottles reside in stout metal buckets filled with ice.

            We settle down to eat in the same quiet vein of meaningless conversation. I’m buzzing with the urge to question him, but I try to keep my mouth filled with food often enough to quell the urge. While we’re eating, Plutarch (as he tells me to call him), points out another herd of deer. I speak more quietly in hopes of not scaring them off. He tells me not to worry, that these deer have never learned to be scared of humans, having never been hunted before. How lucky they are , I think to myself, I wish I had the same fortune .

            When we both finish off our plates, Plutarch shatters the small talk by placing a dark grey object on the table. It’s sleek, smooth plastic with small wires barely visible through seams. A blunt antennae sticks out from the top.

            “Can you make more of these?” he asks, sliding it over to me.

            I pick it up to examine it.

            “It’s a signal disrupting device.” He further explains.

            “I don’t know.” I answer honestly. “I’d probably have to pull it apart to find out. Do you just have the one?”

            “Unfortunately, yes. I picked it up from a woman who’s recently been put out of commission.” I don’t stop to mull over what put out of commission implies.

            “I don’t know if I’d have the supplies.” I bite the skin of my lip.

            “Let me worry about that. Tell me what you need and I can get it for you.”

            “Why can’t you ask Garnette?” I ask, still not looking up from the device.

            “Garnette is under heavy scrutiny right now. That and this is different from what she’s got working here and in your tower. What she does now is broadcast mundane signals of pre recorded voice loops to audio listening devices. That requires the effort of finding good quality noise to send out, which makes it only possible to do for a static set of locations. This little guy can be activated anywhere. It looks like a glitch in the system, just a blip for a few minutes at a time.” He’s surprisingly thorough in his knowledge.

            “Do you have tools here?” I ask, already looking for the best way to pry it open.

            “We can worry about that later. You’re spending the next day here, after all. For now, we can swim and chat.” He gestures to the large pool that sits off to the side of the balcony.

            I tense only slightly. “I didn’t bring swimming clothes.” And I’m not willing to strip down to my underwear, though I’ve done so in client’s pools before.

            “There should be something suitable in the pool house.”

            I reluctantly rise and approach the small building attached to the side of the main house. I’d found myself relaxing entirely once given the assignment of engineering. How naive of me. These Capitol  men are all the same, rebels or not. They all want to get their fill of the young victors. He’s got to get his fix before he sends the whole system toppling down I suppose.

            Though I’ve become more desensitized to the process of whoring myself out, I still tend to get rather nervous when put into situations with new clients. Will Plutarch be gentle? Or will he choose to take what he wants with no sense of serenity? My heart begins to beat faster. I picture the veritable dungeons I’ve encountered at the worst of my appointments. While few and far between, their presence plagues my thoughts every time I enter a new household.

            Maybe he’ll hold back if he wants to remain in Ronan’s good graces. I certainly can’t picture a continued amicability between the two if Plutarch chose to send me home in a wheelchair. Despite my reasonings, my breath begins to come in fast gasps. I throw a hand over my chest, trying to keep the panic at bay. I open the pool house door and let it shut behind me before I let myself take a moment to double over and hyperventilate in earnest. I can only afford a few seconds though, so I sternly force myself to straighten up and take a look around once I’ve stabilized.

            The room is essentially a large bathroom with a bulky storage closet. On the counter sits a folded pile of fabrics. I approach slowly, hoping against all odds that it’ll actually be something that’ll cover my body. When I pick the fabric up to examine, I find myself laughing quite airily. I slap a hand against my forehead and try to prevent myself from falling into hysterics. He’s chosen to supply me with a swimsuit that would be modest even by District 3 standards. It’s a quite unremarkable set of black shorts and a grey compression shirt.

            I grin to myself stupidly as I shirk my jumpsuit to don the new outfit. I find enough humor in the subverted expectations that I nearly wish to admonish him. Is he grossed out by me enough that he wants me completely covered? My fondness for him is cemented by this small choice, quite aside from his obvious heavy participation in our brewing revolution.

            When I return to the outdoors, I hold my arms out to my sides and make a show of modeling the swimsuit. He claps his hands at me, humor twinkling in his eyes. He’s dressed similarly, already seated in the large round hot tub. I traverse my way down the small set of steps that lead from the main deck to the slightly lower pool deck and join him. I seat myself a respectful distance away and take a moment to ogle at how clear and bright the water is.

            “I take it you’ve never seen a pool before?” Plutarch pulls my attention away.

            “No, I have. Just here in the Capitol though, and they still baffle me. Before I came here, I’d only been in ponds and rivers and the ocean.” I inform him. “It’s never not bizarre to see such a great volume of water at drinking level quality.”

            “Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t want to drink this water. It’s got chemicals in it to keep it sanitary.” He rushes to explain, as if worried I’ll pull up a glass and start chugging.

            “Is it iodine? Or chlorine? I guess it could be bromine too,” I muse.

            “I think chlorine,” Plutarch says, not sounding sure at all.

            “Makes sense. It’s probably the easiest to mass manufacture. You’ve only got to electrolytically separate it from a chlorine salt.”

            “Okay.” His dull response leaves my feeling that my rambling was in bad taste.

            “So, what else can you tell me about the observation situation?” I ask, moving us along.

            “I can tell you that it would be a major help to get that device made. Beetee is working on bigger picture things right now and I don’t want to burden him with it. It’s also a lot harder to get into contact with him without arousing suspicion.”

            So my suspicions are confirmed, Betee is involved in this. Quite heavily it seems. I can vaguely remember him speaking about some type of political privacy at his home. A lot of my memory of that visit is blurry and the rest of it is simply gone. Organized rebellion wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind that day.

            “I’m alright at robotics, but not excellent at coding. If there’s any programs to write for this type of thing, I’ll need a reference manual or something. That and a device to do it on.” I watch his impassive face as I talk.

            “Anything you need. We might have to meet again soon if that’s the case, I don’t have that type of stuff on hand.” He jokes.

            “Anything else I should know?” I ask, feeling as if he’s holding back.

            “Keep it quiet.” He states it simply but firmly.

            “I know that much. I’ve been keeping my mouth shut about everything by Ronan’s orders.” I dismiss his concerns.

            “Keep it quiet from everyone. Ronan included.” He amends. When he sees the confusion on my face, he clears his throat before continuing. “Ronan doesn’t want you involved at all in this sort of thing. He doesn’t want any of the young ones to know or do anything too incriminating.”

            “And you disagree?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

            “You’ve all been through hell already. Recently. That type of fire should be used, not put out.” He pulls a bottle of wine from the steps behind him and extends it towards me in a toast before taking a long drink.

            “I’m not good at lying, neither is Grant, Finnick has a temper.” I hedge, trying to see how stout his faith truly is.

            “Trust me, I’ve heard all about your shortcomings. I’ve also heard that the three of you in particular have come a long way and supplied valuable support to the cause.” He dismisses my claims. “I’d bet anything that you’ve got tighter sealed lips than Haymitch when he’s wasted, or Chaff for that matter. And trust when I say that Finnick’s temper is nothing compared to Porter’s.”

            Beetee, Haymitch, Chaff, Porter. All names now confirmed for involvement with our rebellion effort. Haymitch and Chaff, like Beetee, are no surprise to me. They’ve publically harbored no love for the Capitol for years. Porter is more of a surprise. When I met her on my Victory Tour in District 5, I only seem to remember her sharp tongue and harsh glare. I suppose that corroborates Plutarch’s assertion of her temper.

            “Are Gloss and Cashmere involved?” I ask directly, this is one thing I’ve been dying to know.

            “No, Ronan’s advice has been not to approach them. On this, I will follow his lead.”

            I nod. Cashmere’s always been prickly about anything regarding talk of unrest, even when it comes in the form of Ronan’s absurd comedy sets. Gloss is harder to read. I suppose his apathy towards most things wouldn’t exactly lend to the likelihood of joining a revolution. Hearing these confirmations of more names only drives my greed for more. Plutarch can tell.

            “We have thirteen victors working with us right now. I won’t tell you any more names just yet, so don’t ask yet.” He has a light smirk on his lips. “From what I hear, you’re probably clever enough to figure it out on your own if you put your mind to it. Ronan tells me that you’re a ‘persistant little fucker ’, enough to figure out that I was involved without any slipped secrets.”

            “That wasn’t very hard.” I blush a bit, embarrassed at the phrasing. It does sound exactly like something Ronan would say, but it seems foreign on the tongue of the posh gamemaker. “I just listen to the gossip my patrons tend to spread.”

            “Regardless, you made us aware of a point that we had never thought about before. I appreciate it greatly. Hopefully word will get out about our long appointment tonight. Maybe you can do some gossiping of your own. Or I could just murder you, it seems you were inclined towards that idea.”

I ignore his mention of my killer joke to Ronan. “Your employees are a liability, they have eyes and minds of their own. Spreading converse rumors might put more eyes on you than before. They’re bound to notice that dinner and swimming both involved being fully clothed and proper. Not that I mind that in the slightest.”

            “My house workers are all avoxes, there’s nothing to worry about.”

            His words find me like a punch to the chest. It’s been so easy to forget about Plutarch’s Capitolite status, I’ve tried far too hard to align him with my own sensibilities. Of course someone with his upbringing would see voiceless servants as the perfect solution to sensitive information leaks. I turn away from him, looking instead at the deer that still graze at the treeline.

            “I worry you’ve misunderstood me.” Plutarch demands my attention again. “I don’t mean that they won’t be able to spread gossip. You don’t need a voice to communicate, as so many of my fellow countrymen seem to forget. I simply imply that my employees have more reason than most to align themselves with a cause against our nation's oppressors. They won’t contradict you because they understand exactly why you’re here right now.”

            I turn back to him and eye him appraisingly.

            “I mean it. I wouldn’t be trying to overthrow this system if I wasn’t disillusioned with it.” He urges me to accept.

            “No matter how disillusioned you may be, you’ve been indoctrinated in it since your youth. You can’t pretend that you don’t still carry influence from your upbringing.” I feel the need to push his resolve once again.

            “I suppose I can’t argue against that.” He raises his eyebrows. “Any other wisdom you’d like to impart?” It sounds like a taunt but I can tell he’s genuinely curious.

            “This rebellion is going to be nearly impossible unless you have a secret artillery of weapons and a massive hideout. The Capitol has enough firepower to wipe out every single district in the blink of an eye. They have enough intelligence in their military to know exactly how much can be left remaining to feed and supply the Capitol citizens and then they’ll leave the rest to burn. We have to have a safe headquarters to operate remotely from. We’d need our own army, not just a bunch of angry District Citizens. I don’t mean to say that riots in the Districts won’t be a powerful route, I just wish to impart the importance of a safe rebellion HQ.” My voice is strained.

            I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. It’s been the only thought that has ever deterred me in my quest for my nation’s freedom. We simply don’t have anywhere where we could set up a place to head our efforts. Every single piece of land in the districts is squeezed tight by the fist of the bloated governmental body or left in wild conditions far too difficult to tame in a reasonable time frame.

            I’ve been researching geography quite heavily in the wake of my realization. Any region that isn’t secured by our adversaries isn’t just strategically improbable to build necessary facilities in, but also completely unrealistic to fight anything except guerrilla style warfare in. Our lack of land makes us the underdogs in any feasible circumstance. On top of that, all weapons and supplies would have to be stolen from the existing Capitol military force, which will not part with them easily. I hang my head even now with the overwhelming weight of “ the vantage problem ” as I’ve dubbed it.

            When I look back up at Plutarch, he has his own war waging within his eyes. His eyebrows rest low on his forehead, shadowing his face in an entirely new fashion. He’s conflicted about something, something he deigns incredibly important. Have I scared him with my newfound hole in the plan? I would have pegged him as the type to take it in stride, not the type to brood.

            “I’m going to tell you a very long story now. When I finish with it, you better have figured out a way to lie flawlessly.”

            Plutarch spins a tale that’s almost too far-fetched to be true. Yet, it’s the outlandish bounds of it that makes me believe it instantly. It seems impossible that an entire district has been able to survive underneath the ashes of former civilization, but in a roundabout way, it makes perfect sense.

            Of course the Capitol would be hesitant to engage in further aggressive negotiations with District 13. Nuclear research, while incredibly beneficial in terms of clean energy, can be a formidable opponent when it comes to weapons manufacture. It doesn’t seem in the Capitol’s nature to let sleeping dogs lie, but I know for a fact that it’s the most sensible decision.

            From Plutarch’s description, it seems that the underground bunker could house a sizable headquarters and have space still for refugees. Not nearly enough for every single district citizen, but it’s something. It’s a beacon of hope, which is what really matters in the realm of mobilization of individuals.

            Plutarch broaches the topic of hope when his story is mostly finished, explaining that Ronan had mentioned that I had strong thoughts on centralization of cause. So instead of asking questions about District 13, as I would have preferred, I end up giving my own lectures on the psychology of group think and adversarial war. I make sure to add in occasional disclaimers that I’m far from being an expert on the topic and that these are my own personal convictions, not fact. He doesn’t seem to take much notice of them at all.

            “Who would our central figure be? It couldn’t be me. In their minds, I still represent what the districts despise. How about Ronan?” He leans in to ask, masking excitement beneath his cool exterior.

            “It couldn’t be Ronan either for that specific reason. He trained as a career tribute for the Hunger Games, and he’s been living part time in the Capitol ever since.” I dismiss this idea.

            “How about Beetee? He’s about as far removed from the Capitol as possible.”

            “Not Beetee. Could you really see people rallying behind him? No. It needs to be someone they can see themselves in.” I haven’t put much thought into the actual individual symbol for the rebellion, which makes it difficult to properly articulate.

            “You, then. You’ve only been in the Capitol for a year, not enough to cement you into the culture. You’re likable.”

            “Absolutely not,” I say as quickly as possible, feeling heat come to my cheeks at the mere thought. “I’m the pacifistic, meek victor who only won based on stupid luck. As much as I love the idea of peaceful protest, that’s not going to do the trick in this situation.”

            “I think you have more feisty charisma than you give yourself credit for.” He smiles gently.

            “In scenarios of fight or flight, I’ve never once chosen to fight. I have to be honest with myself and recognize that I probably never will. Working behind the scenes for your rebellion is where I’d be best utilized, definitely not at the forefront.” I bear the truth to him in hopes that he’ll give up his idea.

            “Okay.” He finally digresses.

            “Finnick is the best option out of what we have right now. I know a lot of the districts probably resent his position as one of Panem’s sweethearts, but if we let him talk honestly with them I believe they could rally behind him.” Maybe I’m biased, but I believe every word of what I say.

            “We have a long time before we have to decide on anything, so we don’t have to sweat about it just yet. Keep it in your head, though,” Plutarch says.

            “How long do you think?” I ask.

            “Years, probably.” His statement is expected, but it crushes me to hear it. “The Quarter Quell has potential to drum up more support if it’s cruel enough. Maybe a few years after it’s over we could have enough momentum to get somewhere.”

            “Maybe it’s my youthful hubris , but I tend to think of the rebellion more as a matchbox than anything else. All it takes is one spark to light the whole thing on fire. Just the right combination of events.” I test out the waters with my theory.

            “You’re not alone in thinking that, trust me. Blight tends to think of things on that sort of timeline. He still acknowledges that it could be some time before the right set of circumstances light everything ablaze.” Plutarch is surprisingly kind about my proposal. “In that case, the slower part would be feeding the fire and making sure it doesn’t die out.”

            “True,” I say.

            My brain begins to tire, stretching to envelope all of the new information I’ve learned. I let out a short breath of air through my nose and begin silently cataloging everything away. My exhaustion must register on my face, because Plutarch suggests that we head inside to get some sleep - in separate rooms he assures me.

            The guest room he leads me to is large, larger than my own room in the tower. It has a vast floor to ceiling window that looks out onto the forested lawn, with the bed facing at a perfect angle in the corner to look out at the bending bank of a stream. There’s more clothes laid out on the comforter, similarly tailored towards excessive modesty in dark neutral colors. After I shower and dress in them, I find that they’re incredibly comfortable and well tailored for my measurements.

            When I examine the inside of the sleeve hem, I spot the tiniest swath of bright pink material. It stands out like a funky little flag, demanding attention. When I run my fingers over it, I discover that it’s nylon. Giovani. The find stuns my already overworked brain. The meaning of this tiny stitch of clothing is monumental. It looks like nothing more than a manufacturing mistake, but I know that it can’t be. This is a very intentional message, meant for me alone to find. 

            The color of the nylon is no mistake either. Just days ago, when I attended a river boat cruise with the Landcmob cousins, Fierian had shown up with freshly done hot pink hair. I’d teased him about it in passing, joking that I’d probably die if Giovani ever included the color in my wardrobe. Giovani and Fierian are in on it. Of this much, I’m certain.

            I find myself falling asleep surprisingly quickly. There’s no brainpower left within me to ruminate on my thoughts for long at all. It doesn’t matter that I’m in a stranger’s mansion, I’m simply grateful for the opportunity to get a good night’s rest.

Chapter Text

            I head home with empty pockets and a full mind. My examination of the disruption device has ensured that I’ll have to visit the game maker's home again soon, so I try not to let my spirits drop at the thought of leaving. Despite my initial concerns, the overnight stay ended up being a valuable respite from my rotating schedule of clientele. 

            My afternoon is booked with a simple luncheon hosted by Cesar Flickerman. He’s never been one to pursue sex during my appointments, the furthest he’s ever gone has been cheeky flirting and a few kisses on the cheek, both met with playful chastisement from his wife. His company is borderline pleasant, and his events are usually full of important people. I make use of the event to network a bit and find out mildly interesting information. I harken back to what Plutarch said and make sure to drop a few subtle hints about spending a wild night yesterday at his mansion.

            My evening is thankfully quite free. When I head to the victor’s lounge, I find that I’m not the only one to have found a break in the action. Gloss and Cashmere are sitting together watching a nature documentary while Grant and Finnick play chess at their usual table. They all greet me with various levels of attention when I enter. My timing is perfect apparently, Grant takes Finnick’s king just as I find a spot on the open loveseat placed beside the siblings. Finnick wastes no time in abandoning Grant to re-sort the chess pieces alone and comes to sit beside me. We chat about our days, each dropping casual hints that we’d like to talk more in privacy later.

            Cashmere pulls us into a greater conversation by mentioning that she attended Giovani’s runway show on a date with a client last night. When she clocks my interest in her retelling, she makes sure to embellish it with plenty of details. From what I can gather, the event was a hit. Pride swells in my chest when I think about Giovani’s success, exacerbated perhaps by my discovery of his involvement in the rebellion cause.

            While Cashmere speaks, Gloss pulls a tin from his pocket, obviously not paying a whole lot of attention. From inside, he pulls out a dull brown wrapped item. When he puts it up to his lips, I realize that it’s a cigarette of some sort. As he cups his hands around his face and sparks a lighter, Cashmere stops talking to slap her brother on the arm.

            “How many times do we have to tell you not to smoke in here?” She demands crossly.

            “Relax, Cashmere.” He groans. “I listen to this boring shit better when I’m high.”

            “Is that marijuana?” I ask, eyes widening in surprise.

            “ Is that marijuana? ” Gloss mocks, doing a horribly offensive impression of me. “Yes, you square.”

            “I’ve never seen it before,” I defend. “Drugs and alcohol were super taboo in District 3. No kid would have been caught dead using for fear of social ostracization.”

            “Well everywhere other than District 3, it’s normal as hell. Which is why it’s unreasonable for Cashmere to harp on me for simply lighting up a joint on a Tuesday afternoon.”

            “Just take it outside,” Finnick says. “You know she doesn’t like the smell.”

            “God, fine!” He exclaims, laughing. “Every single one of you has a stick up your ass right now. You all need a good smoke more than I do.”

            “Are you saying that you’re willing to share?” Finnick reverts from scolding party to guilty party almost immediately.

            “With you, my friend? Always.” Gloss beams and stands. After pulling Finnick up, he turns and offers me a hand as well. “You’re coming too.” He directs it to me as an order.

            “Is that really a good idea?” Cashmere asks incredulously.

            “It’s okay. I’ll just go and watch,” I say in response, though I feel slightly guilty for abandoning her in the middle of our conversation.

            I’m just genuinely curious to see how it’ll work. I’ve caught Giovani and Fierian smoking cigarettes occasionally, but only glimpses. They seem to intentionally avoid doing so in my presence, stomping the ashes out on the ground when they spot me lingering.

            “Uh huh.” Cashmere sounds doubtful but doesn’t try to stop me.

            “It’ll be good for us. She can supervise,” Gloss says, not dropping his wide smile.

            Our party of three becomes four as we walk out of the victors lounge, Grant has evidently eavesdropped from the other side of the room. On the elevator ride to the roof, Grant and Finnick roughhouse enough to accidentally press a few extra buttons. The extended trip only serves to give them more time to wrestle, much to me and Gloss’s amusement. By the time the doors pop open at the top, it seems they’ve gotten out a bit of their excited energy.

            We settle around one of the coffee tables near the back railing. While Gloss lights the cigarette, Grant orders a pitcher of water from a tablet inlaid into the wall near the elevator. The three of them take turns breathing in the white smoke, passing it along with each hit. Grant coughs once or twice, mumbling about his weak lungs and downing a glass of water.

            It’s peaceful. There’s a breeze, just as there always is at this height, but it’s gentle enough to remain unintrusive. The boys strike up a conversation about each of their first times getting high and I’m content to sit back and listen. I learn a decent bit about proper slang and accouterments through their conversation, evidently I shouldn’t be calling what they’re smoking a cigarette. By the time they’ve consumed it down to a small nub, Finnick and Grant have mellowed significantly.

            The sun has barely begun to set just below the horizon, dusk won’t set in earnestly for at least another hour. The moon is already up, bright and full in the sky with no care for following a schedule. I find myself smiling slightly, happy enough to bask in the evening air despite the fact that it smells quite odd. I catch Gloss staring at me out of the corner of my eye, so I turn to look at him. He doesn’t back down, instead smiling his disarming smile. To my surprise, he pulls out another brown paper roll and lights it. Instead of putting it to his lips, he extends it out towards me.

            “Oh, I just came to watch,” I parrot my statement from earlier.

            “Go on, I know you want to try.” His playful insistence warms me to his cause only slightly.

            I spare a glance towards Finnick and see that he’s looking at me as well now. I raise my eyebrows only slightly, searching for some kind of guidance. Gloss’s fingers snap in front of my face, jarringly pulling my attention away.

            “You’re a big girl, you can make your own decisions,” he says. He looks over at Finnick as well, shaking his head and allowing a small grin to play on his lips.

            “He’s right. Your choice.” Finnick instructs, putting his hands in the air to shrug.

            I contemplate for a moment, staring at the lit end of the joint. It has only a spindle of smoke lifting from it, disappearing gently into the wind. My first thought is that my mother certainly wouldn’t approve. My second thought is that my mother didn’t spend her teenage years in the Capitol being bedded by all manner of freaks.

            I pinch it and pull it from Gloss’s outstretched fingers. I cautiously inhale, only allowing the barest flavor of smoke into my mouth. When I exhale, I see no billowing cloud come from my mouth like I did from the others. They instruct me to breathe deeper and draw it further into my lungs. I do as they say, but upon exhaling I know I must have done something horribly wrong.

            I cough so hard I feel like I’m going to pop a lung. Grant pulls the blunt from my fingers and smacks a hand against my back. Laughter echoes around me, which serves simultaneously to soothe my nerves and irritate me. At least I know I haven’t done anything harmful, but the least they could do is say something to help.

            When they’ve quieted down a bit, and my coughing thins out, Gloss pours me a glass of water and tells me that drinking it will help. Between sputters, I sip on it. It doesn’t do all that much to quiet my coughs, at least not quickly enough that I notice. By the time I’m breathing normally again, the joint has made it around the boys’ rotation twice. Once again, Gloss extends it towards me in invitation.

            “Should I have more?” I ask, feeling concerned by my reaction to my first hit.

            “If you’re going to do it, you ought to do it properly,” he insists. “Everyone coughs their first few times. Even Grant still has his moments.”

            “That’s true.” Grant bobs his head up and down before pushing his shaggy blonde hair out of his face.

            So I give it another shot. Once again I double over with the sensation of fire in my lungs. This time instead of laughing, Gloss gets up and pulls my shoulders back, forcing me into an upright position. He pulls my arms up over my head once I’m coherent enough to stay sitting up on my own.

            “You’ve gotta let your lungs expand, not crush them sweetheart ,” he says in a dry tone. He snaps his fingers in the air after a second. “That’s it, that’s what I’m calling you. Just like Haymitch said during your victory tour. It definitely works.”

            My alarm sobers me from hacking up a lung for a moment.

            “I do not-” I pause to cough. “Want to be called that.” Pause again. “Find something else.”

            “That’s the thing about nicknames.” He moves to sit back down in his chair, evidently satisfied with my posture. “You don’t have any say in them.”

            When I look to Grant and Finnick for defense, neither of them supply it. Grant just looks a bit uncomfortable and Finnick appears soured. The passing thought flows through my head that he might be jealous, but I wave it away as quickly as it comes. He made his thoughts very clear, he finds me nearly repulsive. When Gloss presses me with another hit, I take it without question. I sincerely hope that the effects of the drug will take away the sadness that has begun to leech into my system.

            Grant, perhaps feeling that the tension has not dissipated, rouses Finnick to go wrestle on the small garden plot of soil in the corner. They reassure Gloss that they won’t tread on any of Cashmere’s newly planted saplings, but Gloss doesn’t seem to care much either way. As they turn to run off, I decide against my better judgment to call after them.

            “Finnick, don’t punch him in the nose if he happens to call me a whore!”

            Finnick stops to let out a fierce bark of laughter. “I learned my lesson last time, don’t worry!” Then he pivots to chase Grant the rest of the way there.

            Their wrestling is more akin to puppies playing than shallow water sparring, so I highly doubt anything contentious will arise on this occasion.

            “What happened ‘last time’?” Gloss asks, pulling my attention away from the boys.

            “Finnick got drunk and decked some stupid boy.” I write it off in a manner that indicates the story isn’t worth rehashing.

            “As one does.” Gloss nods his head in casual agreement. “Do you feel anything yet?” he asks, leaning over to lightly smack my arm and grin conspiratorially.

            “I don’t think so,” I respond.

            “Here, have some more.” He offers yet again.

            My scorched throat protests yet again, but I manage to control the desperate coughing much faster this time. Gloss claims that what I’ve had should be enough and puts the lit end out on the table. He places the third that’s left into his tin and slips it back into his pocket.

            “I still don’t feel anything,” I say after a minute.

            “I think it’s pretty common not to feel anything on your first time, actually. It’s been a while since I’ve popped anyone’s weed cherry though.”

            My breath catches in my throat at his statement. My mind immediately conjures up images of Seneca Crane against my will. It’s not the picture of our board games or long talks, but that first night. The one where he had to grip my neck to keep me from screaming so much. I touch fingers to my throat, sore now in an entirely different way. My hand runs down to my wrist where I swear I can still feel the metal cuff that kept me secured to his bed. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

            “Bad wording.” Gloss leans forward into my frame of view to meet my eyes. “Forget I said it.”

            How people always seem to know what I’m thinking before I even know myself will never cease to baffle me.

            “I do actually want to hear about that story of Finnick ‘decking’ a child if you’re willing to tell it.” Gloss brings it up again.

            To my surprise, I do tell it to him without much discomfort. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of Santiago, but that time seems to have given me enough apathy to describe it as a comedy rather than a tragedy. I find myself giggling particularly hard when I describe how I was so out of sorts that I went to Wade for advice. By the end of the retelling, I clutch my stomach with the severity of my laughter.

            “And then I never heard from him again,” I say shrilly and slap my thigh.

            “You’re so high right now,” Gloss shouts, wiping his eyes which well with tears from his own laughing fit.

            “I’m not!” I insist.

            “I don’t take you for the type to laugh at shitty situations normally, you’re a cryer for sure.”

            “I’m not a cryer!” I resent his implication. “And I’m only laughing because that was back when I was a dumb kid.”

            “Just last year you were a dumb kid, but you’re a full adult now?” he asks sarcastically.

            “After a year of this career, anyone would become an adult.” I’m not joking anymore.

            “You’re not wrong there, sweetheart .” He smirks, obviously hoping to rile me. When I don’t rise to meet his taunt, he relents. “It usually takes about six months for the new victors to grow up. Six more to become fully fleshed out people.”

            “God, I hope Achilles gets to that point soon.” I groan.

            “That one might take some time to bake.” Gloss digresses.

            The winner of the 73rd Hunger Games, Achilles Scott, has yet to reach any point of maturity. Though he’s technically a few months older than me, the difference between our demeanors is stark. He’s loud, brash, and obnoxious whenever possible. He seems to take genuine pleasure in clearing out the victors’ lounge with his hollering. It doesn’t help that Augustus only stokes his fire, encouraging the boy whenever possible.

            The only voice of reason Achilles heeds is Enobaria. Whether it’s because he respects her as his former mentor or because he’s scared of her remains to be seen. Finnick often shakes his head condescendingly, lamenting about how uncivilized District 2 career tributes are in comparison to District 4 or 1. I have little frame of reference, being that Enobaria and Brutus rarely find the occasion to stop and chat with me. I’ve taken Finnick’s word at face value, and now I add Gloss’s own annoyance to my list of evidence.

            “Achilles isn’t the only thorn in our side that we’ve had in the past. Don’t let Finnick fool you, he took a very long time to even out,” Gloss says after the long pause. “He won so young that he didn’t get shipped here right away. From what little he says, I don’t think he moved back in with his parents. It seems like Mags ended up raising him for those first few post-winning years. Then he got here and realized we wouldn’t let him get away with as much as that old woman did.”

            “I can picture that.” I nod. “He’s always been a pusher. He doesn’t care much for boundaries unless they’re his own.”

            “True. Cashmere couldn’t stand him at first. She’s a brick wall and doesn’t respond well to being tested.”

            “She’s softer than people think,” I argue gently.

            “Not to everyone,” he corrects. “I’d argue that she’s just as self interested as she claims to be except in rare cases like me and you."

            “You’re her brother, that makes sense. Why should I be any different than Finnick?” I ask.

            “She got fairly close with James, at least as close as any of us could. James Lockwright, that is. You know, the one who killed himself a few years back? I think you remind her of him.”

            It’s a shocking statement to hear.

            “Why would I remind her of him?” I consciously quash the defensive inclination in my chest.

            “Because James didn’t come in swinging and neither did you. Gaia was a bat out of hell, so was Augustus. Grant and Finnick were less aggressive, but they were pushy and irate at the whole fucking world. Since Cashmere and I won, it’s only you and James who’ve walked in here tail tucked and no teeth bared. It was pretty damn unsettling to see you do the same thing he did only two years after he bit the dust.” Gloss shudders just a bit, but falls back into easy confidence almost instantly. “But you made it past the initial learning curve, so cheers.”

            In a mock celebration, he re-extracts the partially smoked blunt and lights it once more.

            “It’s coming up on one year since I got here,” I say. “At the end of the week, it’ll be official.”

            “No shit, that’s great.” He blows out a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face. “Are you expecting a party or something? Because we haven’t planned anything.”

            “No, I’m not expecting a party.” I redden slightly, he passes me the lit joint and I accept.

            “You don’t want to do something fun?” He teases.

            “There’s nothing fun to do here,” I say, knowing I sound whiny.

            “Well there is fun here if you know where to look.”

            Gloss’s dark hair falls into his face as he looks down over the railing to his side. When he looks back at me, his brown eyes peer through the curtain. His full eyebrows lift just slightly, propositioning me to argue with him. It suddenly feels a bit difficult to breathe, though I don’t think I can blame it on the smoke anymore. It takes a moment before I build the courage to respond.

            “I’m not sure I believe you,” I challenge.

            “We’ll go somewhere fun tonight then. Call it an early celebration.”

            I consider this. I’ve nothing else to do for the evening, no engagements to speak of. Though having a night off to myself is tempting, I’ll admit I’m intrigued by his claims. Nothing much to lose.

            “Alright. Where should we go?” I ask.

            “We’ll go where we go,” he says, purposefully leaning into the vague nature.

            “What should I expect?” I press, “I’ve got to have something to go off of to figure out how to dress.”

            “I’m wearing gold and black.” Is all he gives me, paired with a smirk.

            He’s figured out exactly how to get under my skin in all regards. Though he can be deliberately obtuse at points, he ultimately holds an incredible skill level of people reading. I’m the furthest out of my element when I don’t know information down to the dot. Cashmere hates when she has to take care of someone, so he feigns incompetence to rile her. It’s a horribly irritating skill.

            Finnick and Grant have returned, panting and red in the face with exertion. They finish off the pitcher of water and inform us that they’re going to go bug Ronan to bake them a dessert before dashing off. They look so young trotting towards the elevator that I feel my heart ache with happiness for them. It’s hard to feel like our lives are entirely bad when that type of reckless abandon is still possible.

Chapter Text

            Gloss leaves without addressing me, but I know he expects me to be ready when he is. I make my way down to my room alone. It feels odd to get prepped without the final touches of Genettey. I decide to let my hair air dry into waves after the shower. Though Lucia tried and tried to teach me basic hairstyling techniques in the past, I’m still a hopeless case. It’s the same as the knot tying booth in my Hunger Games training days; I understand what needs to be done, but can’t seem to translate the knowledge into my hands.

            The truly overwhelming part comes when I dress myself. I can’t remember the last time I’ve picked out my own clothing for a day spent outside of the tower. I sift through options on the tablet implanted into the closet door, desperately looking for anything that’s versatile. With no inkling of what to expect from Gloss except a color palette, I end up choosing something that hopefully won’t stick out somewhere black and gold. A plain black dress with woven straps is the first thing I come across and I click on it indiscriminately.

            It falls out of the chute, perfectly pressed and wrinkle free. It fits snuggly, hugging my skin down to my waist, then loosening at the base. It’s comfortable enough that I feel like I’m wearing nothing. I decide to aim for comfort with the shoes as well, opting for flat heeled lacy gold ones that come up in the top of the feed in the menu.

            Though advice for hair hasn’t sunken in yet, the makeup lessons from Genetty have been quite manageable. I apply metallic golden eyeshadow in the way she taught me, then try to steady my hands enough to work with the eyeliner. I end up withing a striking, yet presentable look. It’s easy to tell it’s been inexpertly applied close up, but I remain proud of my effort. My overall look is both bland and brash. The black dress is set off by the gold touches above and below it.

            Though I’d just disputed Gloss over the possibility of having fun in the Capitol, I find the excitement building in my stomach as I think about a night out on my own accord. Finally, when I’ve started pacing out of apprehension, I hear a knock at my door. I leap to open it, expecting to see Gloss waiting in his promised gold and black. Instead it’s Finnick, dressed in grey sweatpants and white shirt, evidently having failed at convincing Ronan to bake for him. Both of us eye each other, surprised by what we see. “Are you seeing a client tonight?” He asks, squinting.

            “No. Just going… out.” I answer.

            “Out?”

            “Out.” I reaffirm.

            “Ah, I was going to ask if you’d like to watch Giovani’s runway recording tonight on the television together. Are you going out with Gloss for the evening?” His arms weave together over his chest with an air of disapproval.

            “Yes.” I hold my ground and match his body language, feeling cross at having to defend my choice. “You could join us if you wanted. You’d have to hurry though.”

            “Gloss doesn’t go out to places that we enjoy.” Finnick’s nose wrinkles.

            “I guess that remains to be seen,” I snap. My finger taps like a metronome against my bicep.

            “If you need anything I’ll be in the common room.” He walks away as swiftly as he came.

            I blow a hot breath out through my nose. His standoffish energy from the rooftop has evidently followed him down here. It serves only to infuriate me. He could come tonight if he wanted, I extended the invite, but instead he chooses to stalk off without a proper explanation. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why I feel so nettled for a moment. I stew on it, not wanting to spend my night out with a thorn in my side.

            After a few minutes of honestly examining myself, I come away with the knowledge that I’m nervous that I’m making a bad decision. If Finnick had questioned me while I was doing something mundane and solid, I’d laugh him off. It’s only now that I feel I might be doing something unwise that I get defensive. I’ve been working so hard to stop reacting with fits of temper when I feel insecure, but it’s not always easy to identify while the interactions are in progress.

            Cashmere often tells me that she thinks I wasn’t wrong enough as a child. She proposes that I only started to find myself clueless and unaware once the stakes had already risen to a towering level. It certainly explains why it feels like life or death every time I have to defend myself from a simple questioning of my actions. I resolve to apologize to Finnick. The only way I can get better is by admitting those times when I am out of line.

            He’s exactly where he said he’d be. His face is unreadable when I sit down next to him, only softening a tad when I place a hand on his shoulder.

            “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I felt threatened and I took it out on you.” I try to stay as true to my thoughts as possible.

            “It’s alright.” He accepts, adding his hand overtop of mine on his shoulder.

            “You genuinely are welcome to come, I did mean it when I said that.” I put my other hand on his, creating a stack of sorts. He puts his remaining hand overtop so that we’re fully interlocked.

            “And I meant it when I said I don’t like Gloss’s clubs. Go have fun.” He gestures with his head towards the elevator.

            We let our hands fall away and I embrace him quickly before heading out. I’m very glad to have sorted things out with him, I feel quite calm as I take the short elevator ride down to the District 1 level. When the doors open, I’m greeted by the image of Cashmere in front of me. She’s done up perfectly, obviously ready for a night of working a few clients.

            “He’s in his room. Have fun on your night off.” There’s a twinge of bitterness but no hint of sarcasm in her voice. She means what she says, I realize, but she wishes to go with us.

            “Finish fast and you may catch up with us.” I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back and replaces me in the elevator.

            The District 1 floor is nearly identical to the one Finnick and I reside on. Only subtle differences in decoration distinguish it as different. I pace quickly down the hall leading to the bedrooms. I’ve been to Ronan and Cashmere’s rooms many times, but never Gloss’s. I eye each of them carefully before choosing to knock on the one directly across from Cashmere’s. It pops open after a moment’s delay. No trace of the aforementioned gold and black pairing graces my eyes. Gloss wears a dark purple shirt, unbuttoned almost entirely, revealing silver necklaces draped over his chest. His pants are a dark shade of charcoal, not black, though I’d likely have never made the distinction without Piper’s lessons so long ago.

            “What happened to this color palette?” I gesture up and down at myself.

            “We don’t need to match tonight,” A low chuckle comes up along with his words, “I just thought it would look nice on you.”

            I fight not to roll my eyes at him. He’d deliberately baited me into choosing an outfit he’d like. I’ll admit, the purple looks great on him, making the honey hue of his skin almost glow in the soft lighting. When I next lock eyes with him he’s smirking. With a wink, he makes his message clear: he saw me staring. I fight to keep the blush from my cheeks and try desperately to look impatient instead of flustered.

            I won’t lie and say that I’ve never looked at him and found him attractive, but most of our time spent together is in the gym. It’s quite different to be around him now when he’s not drenched in sweat and smelling like old socks. I push aside the nerves that my thoughts introduce into my system and instead try to engage him in a comment that will surely get him talking.

            “Are you at least ready to go? How you take longer than me without makeup and hair I have no idea.”

            “You don’t do hair,” he calls over his shoulder, grabbing a leather wallet from the top of a small table beside his bed. “But I actually do. You think this style comes naturally?” he asks, whipping past me into the hall.

            “You’re telling me you actually tried to make it look like that?” I force a laugh. 

            In all truth I quite like the swept-back look he sports. Yet again, it’s quite different from the usual band that holds his hair at bay while we fight or the unkempt black fringe that hangs in his eyes when it’s unstyled in times of leisure.

            “Disrespect my hair one more time and I’ll leave you behind.” He jabs a thumb back towards the door.

            Despite his threat, we head down to the front of the building where a line of black taxi cars wait. Gloss opens one of the back doors and slides in, leaving room for me to follow in behind. He gives directions to the driver, which mean nothing to me. We drive for only a few minutes before we stop. The buildings outside are completely unfamiliar to me, but I push the door open without hesitation. Gloss follows close after, joining me on the sidewalk.

            His hand moves to my lower back and gently presses me in the direction of a growing line on the other side of the road. A shiver rushes up my spine and I have to focus hard on walking not to stumble. It’s quite odd that it makes me weak in the knees considering that just days ago I had his head between my thighs and didn’t think twice about it. Amidst my fluster, I turn to head towards the back of the queue, but Gloss grabs my wrist and laughs. 

            “We don’t have to wait,” he states simply and leads me to the front. 

            He addresses the men guarding the entrance by name and after a small bit of banter they allow us past. I’m hit by a wall of humidity the moment we set foot in the building. The next thing I notice is the blinding mixture of light and dark. A dimness settles over the packed room, with moving colored lights brightly breaking through. I groan inwardly, Finnick may have been right, though I hate to admit it. This packed mass of bodies does not seem like my idea of a good night.

            “I know it can be a lot at first.” Gloss has to yell to be heard, though his lips are close enough to brush against my ear.

            “How is this fun?” I have to turn and shout as well to be heard over the booming bass of music.

            “Nobody cares who you are. Make your own fun.” With this, Gloss backs into the mass of bodies, arms held in an exaggerated shrug. My mouth opens to call for him, but I realize it’s futile and instead plunge in after him. I try my best to follow him through the droves of people, but find myself lost in a matter of seconds. I try to call his name, but it’s drowned out as soon as it exits my lips.

            Perspiration from the skin of someone next to me rubs against my arm and I fight to get away. As I edge away from one person, another takes their place pressed against me. It continues until my head is buzzing with overwhelming discomfort and overstimulation. Finally, when I see an opening, I dart over to an unoccupied seating area near the wall. I fall instantly onto the cool leather of the large couch. I dip my head forward to meet my hands and rub at the ache starting to form at my temples.

            The noise splits my head open, rumbling its way into my every thought. There’s no way Gloss can actually enjoy this, right? Just as I’m about to head back outside, I feel a weight depressing the spot beside me.

            “Are you okay?” Again, lips touching my ear in order to be heard.

            “Yes,” I say automatically, spinning to look at my new company.

            It’s a woman, not much older than me by the looks of it. She bears little to distinguish herself as a Capitol citizen aside from heavily pierced ears and dark lined eyes. Most of the people from the crowd seem to be much the same, devoid of the telltale wigs and heavily edited skins. They look almost… real.

            “Then why aren’t you out there?” She gestures to the dance floor.

            “How can anyone be?” I have to remember to lean in to allow her to hear my words.

            “This your first time?” she asks, humor filling her dark eyes.

            “Is it obvious?” I throw my hands up in a helpless gesture.

            “Whoever brought you here sober is a terrible host.” Is her answer. She palms at her pockets on tight leather pants, finding what she’s looking for after a moment. “Luckily for you, I brought extra.” She holds two small green tablets out in the palm of her hand. I don’t move to grab them.

            “What is that?” I ask, filled with a cautious curiosity.

            “It’s just Pinx,” she yells out, holding them up for me to inspect. When she realizes I don’t know what he speaks of, she continues, “It’s like a relaxed cousin of Zingers.” Still, no recognition flickers within me. Finally, with a toothy grin, she proclaims, “It’ll make your night a lot better.”

            When I make no move to accept her offer, she pops one of the two pills in his own mouth to prove their safety. No way this is a good idea. I think of Finnick, his arms crossed in my doorway, predicting the flop of my night out. I grit my teeth at the thought of him watching me come home less than an hour after going out, regardless of our reconciliation. Without another thought I grab the remaining capsule from my leather-clad companion. She cheers and leans into the armrest next to her.

            We sit for a bit after her reassurance that I’ll feel something in a few minutes. My heart races with the spontaneity of the decision. I don’t miss the insane implication that I’ve tried two new drugs in the span of the day. Perhaps the first made it less intimidating to try the second. Everything is moving way too fast today, I need to find a way to slow things down.

            My brain tells me to run out that door and find the nearest taxi home, but my body remains planted on the couch. Thinking becomes more and more difficult as the moments pass. I feel as though my consciousness pulls backwards away from behind my eyes and my reactions begin to feel as though they’re funneled through a tunnel. I raise my hand and wave it in front of my face. When I move it quickly enough, the edges blur like a camera frame-rate low enough to force visual lag.

            “You’re feeling it,” she yells to my ear.

            “I don’t know. I just feel weird.” The words feel thick on my tongue and I’m vaguely aware that I’m not talking loud enough to be heard over the din.

            She grabs my hand in hers and pulls me to my feet. When I’m standing, I’m surprised by how much I have to sway to stay upright. Then we’re moving back into the crowd and I can’t find a reason to dispute it. The music seems much clearer now and it’s almost manageable to listen to. I find myself enjoying the rumble of the beat I feel within my chest. I must be moving quite a bit, because the next thing I know, I feel hands on my hips pulling me to still myself. I spin in time with the music and find the owner of the hands to be the leather clad woman. Her chiseled features draw me in and I find myself shamelessly staring. She has blue-black curled hair, so dark that it must be dyed. It contrasts strongly against her pale skin, creating a dizzying effect with the lights dancing across it. I reach out to touch it, enamored with the liquidy color.

            Suddenly her mouth is on mine. I press back into her kiss, throwing my arms over her shoulders to keep upright. I lose myself into her, not able to tell where my skin ends and she begins. My hands find themselves roaming the skin of her back exposed above her shirt hem without my knowing. I make a map of her form and her beads of sweat stimulate my fingertips. When she presses his tongue between my teeth, I gladly let her in.

            I’m able to revel in the moment for only a moment before she spins me around and pushes me deeper into the horde. I just can make out the words “Sink or swim.” come out of her lips, paired with the same toothy grin and a thumbs up. My mind lags behind my body and I’m forced once again to wobble to keep from falling.

            I’m not left in the parted space for long, people surge against me in waves. I find myself lost looking at the movement of the colored lights overhead. Every point in the distance looks as though it’s breathing, pulsating slightly. I try to sync it with the rise and fall of my chest to no avail. It quickly becomes overwhelming to stare and I have to bring my gaze back to level with the crowd.

            My vision comes to focus on the person in front of me. Her back is turned to me, exposing a brightly patterned jacket in full to my eyes. I become transfixed and stretch my fingers out to trace the swirling shapes. After a few moments, she begins to turn. After what seems like an eternity she faces me fully. For a moment I worry that she’ll be upset that I’ve touched her, but her face is split into a wide grin. Her eyes are brightly reddened around the corners and the smile forces them into a thin squint.

            She reaches extended fingers out towards me and I faintly feel them make contact with my face. She traces the outline of the gold makeup on my eyes down to the lipstick on my mouth, entranced with the same wonder as I with her jacket. I find myself with a smile wide enough to match hers. A laugh bubbles up from inside me and I’m pitched forward by the effort. The woman stumbles backwards as I fall into her, caught only by the extremely close proximity to other people.

            My face finds the floor before I can react. There isn’t any pain, but the cold tile against me is pleasing to my flushed skin. Wanting to escape the stifling heat of the room, I remain pressed against the linoleum. The pressure of a boot on my hand forces my eyes open once again. I yank the hand in towards my chest, causing the person standing on it to topple to the floor beside me.

            My hands reach out to catch the man much too late and I’m left trying to stumble through an apology. I lean as close to his ear as possible in order to be heard, propping an elbow against the ground to keep myself suspended. When he picks himself up from the floor a bit, I see by the look written on his face that there’s no hard feelings. He leans in close to my ear and yells, “This isn’t the place to lay down. You might want to head for a couch!”

            “I don’t know if I can,” I giggle.

            It’s true, my legs buzz with a sort of numbness and I feel as though walking on them will be an impossible task. He shakes his head in an act of disbelief, grinning as he does so. With a speed that makes my head spin, he finds his footing. I see him bend down, but there’s a delay before I realize that I’m being carried. My feet catch on arms and bags as I’m pulled through the throng, but I can’t seem to control where they go.

            I find myself reclined against leather cushions for the second time of the night. The break from the bustle clears my head just a bit. I focus enough to listen to the stream of words coming from my carrier’s mouth.

            “You must be pretty out of it to lay on that disgusting floor. I feel filthy from my brief contact with it,” he says, sipping from a flask in his pocket.

            “It’s too hot in here,” I try to explain.

            “Do you want to catch some air outside?” He asks after swallowing a large swig.

            “I can’t leave. Gloss will worry.” It takes all of my effort to protest.

            “It’s a victor’s night out then?” he asks, downing yet another pull.

            “You know who I am?” I ask, suddenly feeling panic burbling in my chest. My eyes dart around to check if there’s people staring, cameras perhaps, for a second I swear that I see President Snow’s white hair peeking out from the crowd.

            “Not until we came over here and started talking,” he says, calming the rising fear in me. I’m alarmed when he takes another large drink, upending the flask into his mouth.

            “That’s a lot,” I say lamely

            “Everyone seems to be having a lot more fun than me, just trying to reach that level.” He shrugs. “These clubs are all the rage with the younger crowd, I’m trying to chase the high of my fast departing youth I suppose.”

            He doesn’t look terribly older than the rest of the people here. Only the fullness of his sculpted facial hair against manufactured sharp cheeks suggests a different level of  maturity. That and the fact that he’s not nearly as natural as most of the people here seem. He’s covered head to toe in dark winding tattoos that spiral in response to the beat, though I can’t tell if that’s actually my own mind playing tricks on me.

            “I don’t think I like it here,” I offer.

            “Hmm, I don’t think I do either. We’ll see if that changes when the tequila settles in.”

            “I’ve never tried tequila before.” I admit, leaning towards him in my curiosity.

            “It’s an outdated drink, certainly not best sampled from a flask,” he chuckles. “Be my guest though.” He holds it out for me to take.

            I grip it with shaky fingers and sniff the opening. It reeks of liquor, but I decide to try it anyway. Tonight is the night for trying things, after all. I put the rim to my mouth and drink. Though I originally intend to take only a sip, I end up taking a few swigs from the flask before handing it back. When I exhale the breath I held, I can feel the burn in my throat. When I inhale I'm left grimacing. A large hand pats at my back firmly. I turn to look at him and find his face surprisingly close to mine.

            “Should have warned you it has quite a bite.”

            “The taste!” I exclaim, “I need water.”

            “I don’t have water but I can help with the taste.”

            He closes the distance between us and presses his lips onto mine. I lean into him and shut my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids leaves me feeling as though the room is spinning in an orbit around me. I anchor myself by working my hand into his thick green hair. After what feels like an eternity of bliss, his hand reaches behind my back and spins me into a lying position. I feel the weight of him on top of me, pressing me further into the leather. I can feel myself sinking, lower and lower until we must be far below the floor. Smooth fingertips work their way up my thighs, pushing below the black fabric of the dress.

            Rather than the usual sensation of panic that accompanies the movement, I feel a spark of desire. I don’t feel the need to beg him to stop, in fact, I feel quite the opposite. I’m content to sit back and let him continue, I let my eyes slip shut once again and revel in the feeling.

            “Not here,” I say, my eyes snapping open. The realization of where we are comes to me though the fog.

            “Where?” His voice is hungry and loud coupled with the smell of tequila fumes.

            When I can’t find an answer, he stands. He has to grip the back of the couch to steady himself. He offers his free hand to me and pulls me roughly to my feet. When my momentum rocks me into the coffee table in front of me, he tries desperately to pull me back.

            “Need some help?” I recognize Gloss’s strong voice from just in front of us.

            He’s covered in a sheen of sweat and his typically manicured dark locks sit plastered to his forehead. Embarrassment slowly trickles into my consciousness as I try to find my balance. My inebriated companion struggles to a fully upright position as well and thrusts a hand out to Gloss. Gloss takes the extended handshake in stride, grinning at me the whole time.

            “Nice to meet the two of you. I should be getting home,” the tattooed man says, stumbling away at a comedically fast pace.

            I turn and fix a glare at my fellow victor, “Come to scare him off?”

            “Oh absolutely not, I was enjoying watching two drunks fight to have enough coordination to get it on.” He throws his head back in laughter.

            “No lecture?” Though my words sound accusatory, a small flicker of disappointment settles in my heart. I secretly wish he’d have come over to take me for himself. The thought  startles me. The influence of spirits and drug have taken all of my inhibitions from me.

            “Lecture?” He cocks a heavy eyebrow. “When will you learn that I’m not my sister? I won’t stop you from doing what you want. Just as I expect you not to forbid me from doing what I want.”

            “And what is it you want?” I ask boldly. I hold his eye contact and watch him draw in a sharp breath.

            In a moment I’m up against the wall. His hands press my wrists into the concrete and his piercing dark eyes bore into mine. His face pauses only inches from mine. His message is clear: he won’t do anything unless I want him to. I close the distance immediately, crashing my mouth into his. Contrary to the other sets of lips I’ve met tonight, these send shivers of thrill down my spine.

            My wrists cry out in pain through the wave of inebriation as my skin digs into the concrete, but I try not to move in fear that he’ll stop. His tongue pushing into my mouth catches me off guard and I let out a whimper. The effect is immediate. He withdraws completely, dropping his grip on me and stepping back.

            “Too rough?” He asks.

            “Yes,” I admit, flushing with shame.

            A Capitol whore should have no objections to roughness, it’s just part of the job. Ordinarily it wouldn’t matter if I cried out, nothing could assuage the drive of a client intent on taking what they paid for. No doubt Gloss has been through much worse in his years of servitude, he must think me ridiculous.

            “You should have asked me to stop, then. Come on, let’s find another joint, the night is young.” His complete dismissal of the issue surprises me.

            I follow him out of the doors. The wave of fresh night air hits me in a pleasantly sobering manner. Though the mouthfuls of tequila slowly creep up on me, I feel as though the dizzying effect of the drug, Pinx, has run its course.

            Gloss leads us down the sidewalk, not bothering to hail a car. Along the way, he asks if I’ve had more than just alcohol in my system tonight. I answer with honesty, not feeling the worry of judgment. He admits that he has as well and adds that the drug is prolific amongst younger Capitol citizens. The clubs are apparently hotbeds for the rebellious Capitolites bordering and into their 20’s. The low light and crowding encourages them to emerge from their homes sans makeup and heavily done wigs, naturalism is apparently the newest trend among the youth.

            Gloss ends the conversation by veering towards the front of a building to our left. There’s no line this time, we walk right in through the doors with no hassle. This environment is thankfully extremely different from the last. The lights are dim and perfectly stationary. The noise comes only from speaking voices with light music in the back.

            “This is quite… dissimilar,” I say, relieved not to have to yell into his ear.

            “I figured it might be nice to go somewhere more intimate,” he explains, guiding me over to the long counter that takes up most of the large room.

            We each take a seat on a barstool towards the back of the line, far away from prying eyes. It takes a moment for Gloss to catch the attention of the barkeep. If the woman recognizes us, she makes no indication.

            “I’ll take a rum and coke,” he says, then turns to me.

            “Oh I don’t know what's good.” I hesitate to order, having never enjoyed any alcohol beyond my appreciation of champagne.

            “I’ll need to see proof of age.” The bartender eyes me with lowered brows. My head whips over to meet Gloss’s gaze. Though I know that 18 is old enough to drink in the Capitol, I don’t have any sort of ID. My uncertainty seems to have discouraged her willingness to serve us.

            “You’re telling me you don’t recognize who this is? If she’s old enough to survive being hunted in the arena, she’s old enough to drink.” Gloss spins a confident case with impressive ease. The woman’s eyebrows raise as she recognizes us. She simply nods and turns back to me. “She’ll try a lemon drop,“ he orders for me.

            Relief rushes through me when the woman walks away from us. A grin spreads across my face at the thrill of dodging the law. Yet, when I turn to look at my partner in crime, he doesn’t mirror my elation at all.

            “What’s wrong?” I ask, suddenly quite nervous again.

            “I forget myself when I’m around you sometimes.” He tactfully refuses to make eye contact with me.

            “I don’t understand.” I say, voice wavering through my fear at this stark change in mood.

            “You’re only eighteen, sweetheart. It’s easy to forget that in our line of work, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

            “You’re kidding, right? I’ve been bought by sixty-year-olds who don’t seem to mind much,” I laugh, hoping to discharge his fear. His face becomes thoughtful. “Besides, seventeen is the age of adulthood here, and I’m long past that. You’re, what, maybe twenty-one?”

            “I’m twenty-seven.” He fires it at me quickly, the look on his face tells me that this is a test. The clink of glasses being set on the counter reminds me to respond.

            “I suppose I thought you and Finnick would be close in age. I forget that he won his games so young,” I say, backpedaling. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter, Gloss! What you told the bartender applies here too. I’m old enough to make my own decisions, more mature than most eighteen year-olds after my experiences for sure.” I add a note of finality at the end of my sentence to indicate that the conversation is over.

            We both move to grab our respective drinks at the same time. Upon first sip, I pull back in surprise. I had no idea alcohol could be made to taste so sweet. Almost no trace of the harsh liquor taste plagues my tongue.

            “I thought you might like that.” Finally his normal grin takes his face once again.

            When he loosens up enough to carry on a conversation again, we stray back to the topic of the clubs. He tells me that he didn’t offer me any drug before the club so as not to scare me away, convinced I’d say no. I explain how the decision to indulge came about and he laughs along with me at the absurdity. No lecture comes, but he does recommend not taking handouts from strangers in the future.

            As we talk, Gloss orders a few variations of the sweet drink for me to try and I find that they’re quite easy to down. Through the hours, we each find the bottoms of quite a few glasses. It’s only when I stand to find the bathroom that I truly feel the full effects of the alcohol. I have to brace a hand against the wall to traverse the straight line of my desired path. My image in the bathroom mirror moves so discontinuously that it nearly makes me sick.

            When I make my way back to the bar, Gloss is standing. He’s paid our tab and ignores my protests that I must repay him for some of the cost. I find myself leaning on him to stay upright while we wait for a car to pick us up. When we’re finally sitting in the cab, I don’t care to pull myself away from him. When I ask where the next stop is, he tells me he thinks it’s best we return home. He ignores my protests and gives the driver instructions to take us to the tower.

            Impulse overrides thought and I find my hands roaming over the exposed skin of his chest with no regard for the driver in the cab. He makes no move to stop me and his breath grows heavier by the second. When the car rolls to a stop, we hurriedly make our way to the elevators. Once the doors snap shut, we’re on each other in an instant. I taste the rum on him, strong and tangy.

            The layer of stubble on his face tears against me like sandpaper, but the small pain is nothing compared to the paradise of his body against mine. His hand fumbles behind us to press the button to get us up to a room. My pulse grows fast with want unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, not even with Santiago. My hands grip into the thick mane of dark hair on his head, not willing to let go of the moment.

            The only thing that draws us apart is the loud ding of the speaker telling us we’ve arrived. It’s a good thing it did too, because suddenly we’re not alone anymore

Chapter Text

            Finnick stands at the opening, dressed in a fine suit. His whole appearance is too pristinely sculpted to be for usual business, he’s out to see a very particular type of client. He doesn’t make a move forward, eyes raking with condemning severity over the scene in front of him.

            “Going down?” Gloss finally breaks the silence, not bothering to subdue his breath that comes in pants.

            “Yep, you as well?” Finnick asks in return, surprisingly level toned.

            “I’m here to see that Fara gets to bed safely,” Gloss answers with the same coolness, leading us to step out of the elevator.

            “What a gentleman. The matching lipstick is a great look.” He pushes past the two of us into the lift.

            I don’t stick around to talk it out, but instead rush to my room. I head directly to look in the mirror. My dark lipstick is smeared messily around my mouth. When Gloss joins me in the bathroom, I see a similar sight on his face. Tears prickle in my eyes, stinging and unwelcome. When he gets a glimpse in the mirror he simply laughs, loud and brash. Only when he turns to see me does he quiet his reaction.

            “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just bitter.” Gloss reaches a thumb forward to wipe the drop falling from the corner of my eye. I sniffle lightly and nod. “Would you like me to leave?” he asks. I simply shake my head. When I’ve recovered enough to stem the flow of tears, he snorts and tries to make light of things as usual. “I told you that you’re a cryer.”

            After punching him lightly on the arm, I turn to removing the smeared makeup from my face and he walks back into the bedroom. When I finally have a bare face and my mess of hair tied into a thick knot, I join him. He sits on my bed, holding a stout cup of his dark drink in one hand and a tall glass of purple liquid in the other. I take the procured beverage in a couple of gulps, needing to lose the feeling of embarrassment. I take two more of the bright drinks before I remember nothing more.

            The grogginess that greets me when I wake up is unwelcome. The pounding headache that accompanies it is even less so. I let out a thick groan as I pull myself into a sitting position. When my gaze travels down, I find that I’m clothed in Gloss’s dark purple button down shirt. This leads me to look next to find Gloss himself in the bed beside me, back entirely bare. His dark pants are draped haphazardly across the nightstand. I wear no bottoms, only the sheer underwear from the night’s outfit. My heart lurches.

            Gloss shifts next to me, groaning as he wakes. When his eyelids slide open, he meets me with a sleepy smile. “Good morning,” he croaks, voice nearly an octave lower than usual. Unable to find the peace of mind for pleasantries, I blurt out,

            “Did we? I mean did I…” The words don’t come to me properly.

            “Did we what? Did we have sex? No.” He addresses the matter head on. “You pulled the dress off when you said you got uncomfortable in it so I decided to donate the shirt,” he explains.

            “Oh, okay. Thank you.” I try to keep from staring at his bare chest.

            “Now let’s get some food. I’m thinking you’ve got a hangover just as bad as mine, if not worse.”

            He pulls himself quickly out of bed, belting the pants back in place over his grey underwear. I feel a blush settle into my cheeks as I think about the fact that he was nearly unclothed. I head to the closet and quickly pull a pair of dark shorts over my scantily clad legs. I work to unbutton the shirt, but stop when Gloss sucks his teeth behind me.

            “What?” I ask, turning halfway through taking it off.

            “I like that on you, you should keep it on.”

            “Oh… Alright.” The blush is surely visible now.

            He smiles and shakes his head, blowing a deep breath through his nose. The movement dislodges the swept back hair to sit over his eyes. Butterflies settle in my stomach as he fixes me in his gaze through it.

            Once he orders a suitable shirt for himself through the wardrobe tablet, we head out to the dining area to eat from the lunch spread. It’s nearly 2:00 when we finish with the food and anti-nausea medications. We both sit back in our chairs, feeling much better with full bellies and mitigated ailments.

            “Ah, so you stayed the night,” the voice comes from down the hall. I groan inwardly as Finnick approaches the table.

            “Disappointed that the bed was filled?” Gloss challenges openly, only the grin of disregard softening the accusation.

            “I’m disappointed because I thought you had better judgment.” The stinging reply comes quickly.

            “Good thing her judgment is all that matters here.” Gloss asserts, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

            “Do you know how old he is?” Finnick addresses me now, jabbing a finger in Gloss’s direction. “He’s been working here in the capitol since you were learning to tie your shoes.”

            “And where were you then? Dreaming of killing kids in the arena yet?" Gloss gives a disbelieving shake of his head.

            “This isn’t about me right now.” Finnick’s voice rises to nearly a shout.

            “I couldn’t agree more.” Gloss contradicts the volume of Finnick’s voice with an air of his usual cool collection.

            “You should leave,” Finnick spits out from between his teeth.

            “I don’t take orders from you. I’ll leave when she wants me to leave.”

            “Please just go,” I finally say, feeling the tears tumbling warmly down my cheeks.

            Gloss whips his head over to look at me, surprised at my response. I let out a shaky breath when he rises from his chair. Without a word of protest, he heads for the elevator. When he’s finally gone, I grab my water glass with trembling fingers and lift it to my parched mouth.

            “What do you think you’re doing with him?” The glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor.

            My hand flies to cover my mouth, stifling the sob that threatens to break loose. My breath comes in gasps through my nose and I feel the unwelcome pounding of my heart in my ears. God, I hate it when people yell.

            “Fara?” His voice is softer now. His hand jerks out towards me and I flinch away unconsciously. His fingers falter midair, suspended for a moment before he draws them back. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling.” He crouches to meet my downcast gaze. Anger rushes to replace my fear at the gesture.

            “You can’t do that,” I croak out. “You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

            “I just don’t want to see you hurt by making a mistake,” he admits, letting loose a passionate exhale.

            “That’s not for you to dictate, though.” It takes a moment to work up the courage to say it. “The last thing I need is another tyrant telling me where to go, what to wear, who to sleep with…”

            Hurt registers in his eyes, and I immediately regret my choice of words.

            “Is this my fault?” I ask, voicing the concern that’s been plaguing me. “Did I ruin our friendship that night when I confessed the way I felt about you?”

            “No, it’s not your fault,” Finnick says quickly. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re still my best friend, and I hope that I’m still yours.”

            “You are,” I say without hesitation. “But my best friend can’t live my life for me.”

            “Okay.” He looks uncertain.

            “I need to think,” I say, rubbing my temples to punctuate the sentiment. “I’m going to go to my room.”

            I rise and walk away. Thankfully, Finnick does not follow.

            The bright ping of the elevator arrival pulls Cashmere from her glowering stupor. She stands from her spot on the steel gym bench to watch the doors peel back. Her arms cross over her chest in a subconscious show of hostility towards the sole occupant.

            “Cashmere! I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long, I ended up having a bit of an extended lie-in. I figured you’d have started your own workout by now and just skipped our afternoon spar.” Gloss’s arms are spread wide and welcoming, the perfect contrast to his sister’s prickly exterior.

            “You always send me a message when you don’t plan on coming back to the tower. I was up half the night waiting for you to get home, I nearly called a peacekeeper to search for you on the town.” Her lips form a thin line of disapproval.

            “No need to fret Mom ,” Gloss responds, playfully rolling his eyes. “Besides, I did come home. I just spent the night in a District 4 bed.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

            There’s a long pause before Cashmere speaks.

            “You better have spent the fucking night in Finnicks bed.” Her voice trembles with barely concealed rage.

            Confusion registers on her brother’s face. “No, Finnick isn’t my biggest fan right now, believe me.”

            Quick as a whip, Cashmere snatches up a throwing knife from the weapons rack at her side and lets it loose. It happens so fast that it takes Gloss a moment to even notice that he’s been hit. His fingers raise up to the side of his head and come back spotted with blood. The thin red line spans from his cheekbone to the very tip of his ear. He spins to look at the blade wedged into the wall before wheeling back at her.

            “Fucking hell, Cashmere! You could have taken my eye out!” Gloss laughs, still not taking in the gravity of his sister’s wrath.

            “You know I would have if I wanted to,” she spits out. “I probably should have!”

            Finally, Gloss’s brows knit together in an uncharacteristic show of concern.

            “It’s not like I forced myself on her, she was the one who was all over me, genuinely.” His hand reaches forward to rest on Cashmere’s shoulder.

            As soon as he makes contact she jerks away, slapping his hand off in the process.

            “So the eighteen-year-old girl who weighs eighty pounds less than you forced you into her bed?” Her voice is bordering on hysterical.

            “I don’t understand what your problem is,” Gloss snorts, sunny disposition still not entirely marred.

            “My problem is that she’s a child ,” Cashmere hisses. “You’re supposed to be the adult who knows better and lets her down easy.”

            “There are men three times my age who’ve bedded her!” Gloss insists.

            “That doesn’t make it okay. If anything you should have recognized the psychological damage that accompanies what she’s been through.”

            “ All of us have been through that psychological damage.”

            “So you should have been sympathetic to the delusion she has where it’s somehow appropriate to voluntarily fuck a grown man.” Cashmere is on the verge of tears now, rage threatening to spill over into despair.

            “I didn’t even fuck her!” Gloss yells, moved to anger now as well. Cashmere’s the only one who can work him up like this, and she takes a sick satisfaction in exercising her ability now.

            “But you would have if she asked, wouldn’t you?” She accuses, though her shoulders sag just a bit with temporary relief at the thought that he didn’t.

            “I.. I don’t know.” Gloss supplies the hesitant answer.

            Cashmere says nothing more before turning on her heel and stalking to the elevator. When she spins in the compartment to hit a button on the panel, she catches the bewildered look on her brother's face. The doors close on the pitiful view and she has to fight herself to keep from feeling regret at her outburst. The urge is easier to subdue when she pictures him last night, making the conscious decision to pursue their young friend. The fire it starts in her chest is enough to keep her going until the elevator doors spring back again, this time revealing a similarly upsetting scene.

            She has a perfect view of the District 4 dining room, where Finnick Odair currently resides, vehemently throwing glass tableware at the nearest wall. Wordlessly, Cashmere walks to his side. He turns to her, panting, and arches an eyebrow of challenge. He’s waiting for a lecture from her for his tantrum.

            The vase is heavy in Cashmere’s hand, much heavier than the throwing knife she chose just minutes ago. It slams against the wall just as quickly, shattering into pieces on the floor. The act disarms Finnick immediately.

            “I can’t believe she slept with him.” Finnick sits heavily in one of the many dining chairs.

            “You better be blaming Gloss for that, not her,” Cashmere says firmly. “And Gloss says they didn’t do anything other than actually sleep.” She rubs her brow with her fingers harshly.

            “Oh trust me, I do blame him. And I don’t believe a word of that.” Finnick shakes his head fervently.

            “I do. It doesn’t make me less mad, but I know that my brother wouldn’t lie about it,” She insists.

            “I got called out late last night and I saw them coming home. He was practically wearing her makeup when I caught them in the elevator. I never should have left.” His voice shakes with emotion.

            The thought turns Cashmere’s stomach. She pictures it, then vehemently regrets it. She closes her eyes but finds that the image won’t go away.

            “He didn’t even have the decency to act ashamed this morning. He sat here and ate lunch with her and tried to defend his actions…” Finnick trails off when he becomes overcome with frustration. “He’s, what, six years older than me? Which makes him nine years older than her. There’s no way he actually thinks that’s okay, right?” His eyes plead for an answer from her.

            “I don’t know.” Doubt fills Cashmere’s voice. “It genuinely seems like he had himself convinced that it was okay. I mean, she is eighteen. Technically fair game for a year and a half.” She bites the skin at the inside of her lip.

            “Did you chew him out?” Finnick asks.

            “Yes, but with Gloss it’s never easy to tell how he’ll react. Either my message sunk in and he’ll back off, or I could very well see him completely ignoring everything I said and doubling down,” Cashmere responds.

            Finnick groans. Cashmere mirrors the sentiment internally.

            “What do we do if he chooses that option?” Finnick, like so many others, looks to Cashmere for guidance.

            “Ignore it. Gloss’s favorite activity is getting a rise out of people. And as much as we might not like it, they’re both adults.” Finnick opens his mouth to respond, but Cashmere hurries to cut him off. “She is an adult. You’ve got to accept that.”

            “Then why did you call me off her?” Finnick brings up her long ago admonishment of his pursuit.

            “Ah, so you finally acknowledge that you feel for the girl... I told you to leave her alone because she wasn’t even past her first day of sex work at that point. It was a bit much to have you fawning over her on top of all of the confusion that comes with what we do. It wasn’t because you’re old , you’re practically a kid too.”

            “So you’re telling me that the only reason I’ve kept my distance for so long is because you wanted her to have a decent first day of work?” He looks at her, with furious disbelief.

            “What? Did you want my fucking permission?” She lashes at him, unusually crude. “Your conscience is your problem, not mine. Maybe if you actually were older you’d finally start understanding that.”

            “You made it sound like I was horrible for feeling something towards her!” He insists.

            “I will not be blamed for your mistakes.” Cashmere radiates disdain at having to deal out yet another scolding today.

            When she fully accepts that there will be no more productive conversation between them, she leaves. She stands directly in front of the elevator without saying a word to Finnick. When it opens, she steps in immediately and nearly gets plowed over. Magnus Brandywood has apparently decided to make a rare visit to the District 4 floor. He pushes past her with a soft greeting and heads off towards his bedroom. She can smell the strong scent of intoxication in the elevator even when he’s gone. Why are all of the District 4 victors a mess? She questions herself internally.

            It’s a lot of pressure to be the singular role model for the young victors, and she never gives herself enough credit for her efforts. Finnick, Grant, Augustus, Gaia, Fara. The list of her self imposed charges grows with each subsequent year (though even she can control her instincts enough to leave Achilles off of her roster). She tries to lead by example, keeping her hands off as much as possible, it’s not like she’s their mother. Except that she’s failed miserably to keep Faraday at an arm's length. At first, she told herself that her goal was simply to keep the girl alive. Now she admits that she wants her to truly live . It’s led to a lot more meddling than she bargained for.

            She finds that her feet have taken her to her balcony garden without much guidance. Though she’s already done her pruning for the week, she sets to work with her clippers. She wipes a gloved hand over her forehead to catch the beads of sweat that gather after only a few minutes. It’s beginning to warm up outside. The onset of summer brings the knowledge that the next Hunger Games will occur soon. Summer is the time where the academy teachers at home will begin to decide on which tributes will represent District 1 this year.

            From her brief visits to give talks at the training grounds, she has only the vaguest idea of who might be her next mentee. She suspects that the girl will be the one who was drop dead gorgeous. Both for her skill with combat and her obvious potential to be a hit in the Capitol. Her name was Shimmer - no - Glimmer. The male tribute is much less apparent to her. It could be any one of the over-confident young men she spoke to last month.

            It pains her to picture any of their smirking young faces marred by the brutal violence they will face soon. When she and Gloss give speeches to District 1, they boast of glory and honor for their district. Internally, she grieves every single career tribute that she’s compelled with her propaganda. The only way she sleeps at night is by constantly rationalizing the practice. Two (or maybe one if they’re lucky) dead tributes every year is infinitely better than war-torn poverty and child soldiers. She’d much rather live in a district than a war-zone.

            The selfishness of her former mentor never fails to irk her. Ronan complains contritely of the society in which they live, ignoring completely the benefits that he reaps from it daily. He’d have thousands of children dying of starvation rather than send two to battle each year. In District 1, she’s rarely ever seen someone go hungry. There were sparse times, of course. Some families she knew had to tighten down their belts and deal with no dessert sometimes, but that’s the worst of it. She’s inclined to let him rant his cantankerous rants, hoping that it exhausts his urge to do anything stupider.

            She knows that Faraday follows the same thought path, though the girl is smart enough to have stopped talking about it so brazenly. Yet again, Cashmere finds herself trying in vain to influence her by setting an example. Unlike Ronan, Faraday’s usually open to polite discourse, but Cashmere can’t bring herself to address the topic head on. Thoughts of battle and hunger leave her feeling dizzy and uncomfortable. Much better to leave things unsaid.

            She adopts the same sentiment for her young friend’s newfound interest in her brother. It’s obvious that she should leave Gloss alone about it now. What she told Finnick is true, Gloss likes to push whenever he meets an obstruction. But she suspects that a similar approach would be smart with Fara. She’s more mature than Finnick gives her credit for, but she still has a lot of growth to do in the realm of accepting criticism. Even in the best case scenario, Cashmere would likely be met with cold defensiveness and get shut out. It’s a much better idea to express vague discomfort about the idea, but reinforce the thought that the girl can confide in her whenever.

            Cashmere wheels around as she hears the scuffle of a shoe behind her, wielding her clippers like a knife. It’s just Gloss. She lowers the improvised weapon to her side and tries to breathe deeply to control her rapid heart rate.

            “None of us here like being snuck up on,” she snaps. “You should know that by now.”

            “I wasn’t even sneaking, and you left your door unlocked,” he defends.

            “Never heard of knocking? I could have been changing or something.” She’s not willing to concede even though she knows it’s pointless to argue with him.

            “It’s not like I’ve never seen you naked before.” He rolls his eyes.

            “You know I don’t want you to talk like that!” She raises her voice at him for the second time today. “I don’t care how you cope with it, but talking about it casually isn’t okay with me.”

            He raises his eyebrows in exasperation and nods. At least he gives into this one wish of hers now, even if it’s in his own stubborn way.

            “I came to let you finish yelling at me. I figured you had a lot more to say.” He shrugs.

            “I don’t.” She takes satisfaction in the way that she’s stumped him. “I talked to Finnick and we both agree that it’s weird, but you’re adults and your choices are yours to make.”

            “Just like that?” he asks.

            “Just like that,” she confirms.

            “Well that makes things a lot easier.” He grins. “I figured you’d fight me every step of the way.”

            “So you’re actually going to go for it?” she asks, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

            “Oh yeah.” He nods. “I want her, so I’ll have her.”

            “For how long?” She tries not to think of his reputation of jumping from woman to woman with no regard.

            “Until I’m done. Or she’s done. I’m not a monster, you know.” He quirks his eyebrow, trying to pull a laugh from her. “I don’t actually believe that you convinced Finnick to back down. I think he’s jealous .”

            “So you think that the best course of action is to continue making your friend jealous?” she inquires.

            “He should have done something about it earlier if he really cared.” Gloss shakes his head slightly, not faltering.

            She can’t argue with him there. He can tell right away that she agrees. He smacks her heartily on the arm and turns to leave, apparently satisfied with the truncated conversation. She watches his back disappear into her room and out of her door. So much for the path of least resistance working.

Chapter Text

            I wake to the barest of knocks on my door. I look over at my clock and see that it’s just past 2:00 am. I finished my appointments hours ago, there shouldn’t be anyone waking me up to get ready for another one at this time.

            I rub my eyes roughly with the heels of my hands and try to get myself to wake up entirely. It’s probably Finnick, come to argue that I’ve had enough time to think on my own. I try to work to prepare myself for a debate, taking a deep breath before I open the door a crack. Deep brown eyes peer inwards, meeting my own after a second of peering into the darkness.

            “Can I come in?” Gloss asks.

            “Uhhhh…. I guess,” I say quite eloquently.

            “I’d expect a secret late night visit to make you swoon. I guess you’re unique, not as easy to impress as other women, especially for your age,” he says as he steps inside.

            “Don’t pit me against other women like that.” I deflect. “It makes you sound unintelligent to try to paint a whole gender in a dull broad stroke of mediocrity. It’s not an effective leveraging tool.”

            “Ouch.” He holds a hand up to his chest.

            “Sorry. It’s two o’clock, I’m not exactly feeling very hostlike.” I say, yawning.

            He takes a seat on my bed and I rest on the edge beside him.

            “Did you get scolded when I left earlier?” Gloss asks.

            “Finnick tried, but I wasn't feeling all that meek this time around,” I admit.

            “Attagirl.” Gloss beams at me. “Cashmere tried her hand at reprimanding me too, but I think she realized she was out of line.”

            “You told her?” I can’t keep the distress out of my voice.

            “Sweetheart, you’ve got to know by now that I’m not exactly the most discreet person in the world.” He fixes me with a deep, open stare.

            I groan and nod.

            “I did give it a shot with the whole sneaking up here in the late hours of the night, though. It’s kind of thrilling, pretending that I have to be subtle. Must be exhausting to keep secrets every day, though. Easier just to be an open book.”

            “Why did you choose to sneak here?” I wrinkle my nose, glancing once again at the clock.

            “I figured we could pick up where we left off, see what would have happened today if we hadn’t been interrupted.” There’s a devious twinkle in his eyes that takes me by surprise.

            “We would have finished eating lunch.” I laugh at his behavior.

            “Then what?” he asks.

            I pause to fully take his whole image in. He’s wearing a very similar outfit to the one he had last night, but this time his shirt is bright pink instead of dark purple. It’s unbuttoned almost all the way, just a few points near the bottom strain to anchor it to him. His push towards an initiation of a much deeper conversation shirks the casual atmosphere we basked in this morning.

            “What changed since I last saw you?” I ask the question directly.

            “I don’t like when someone tells me no.”

            His response sends a cold shiver down my spine. I rise to a standing position, not wanting to be so close anymore. The door lies to my back, only a short distance away. But Gloss is large, fit, and fast. A high pitched ring sounds in my ears.

            “Not like that.” He chuckles. “If you told me no, I’d walk right back out of that door. I don’t like when someone else tries to take a choice away from me.”

            Still not convinced, I don’t settle back beside him.

            “Nothing changed.” He insists. “It just made me realize a whole lot faster what exactly I wanted. I’m still the same Gloss.”

            “And what is it you want?” I shoot him the exact same line I did last night, except this time I don’t end up pinned to a wall for asking it.

            “You. If you’ll have me.”

            He states it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His shoulders raise and lower in the smallest approximation of a shrug. What he doesn’t seem to realize is how world changing that simple line is.

            Nearly a year of reflection on my past attempts at relationships has left me nearly completely sure that there’s something wrong with me. I wasn’t enough for Santiago or Finnick, but Gloss would have me believe that I’m enough for him. Gloss, who is older and wiser, sees something in me that’s worth caring about. My heart thumps rapidly in my chest as I stare at the man before me.

            Whether he desires me because of his perspective of age, or because he doesn’t mind my flaws quite as much remains to be seen. Either way, I feel that there’s no time to be wasted. For all I know, this could be the only person in Panem who thinks of me as anything other than a pay-per-visit whore.

            I move back to sit beside him finally. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and leans in to plant a rough kiss on my cheek. I feel the bottom of my stomach drop out. It was much easier to shirk apprehension when I had the potent concoction of intoxicants in my system last night. Was I this nervous around Santiago? I don’t think I was.

            “The others won’t like this,” I say, not sure if I’m looking for reassurance or to dissuade him.

            “That’s kinda what makes it so hot,” he explains. “It’s like breaking the rules just a little bit. Which is why I’m guessing you’re suddenly so tense. It’ll do you some good to break the goody-two-shoes routine.”

            Gloss has always advocated for me to stray away from being so uptight, and so far he’s been right. I’ve come far enough to look back on my former self and laugh at how prudish I used to be. He’s been one of the best teachers I’ve ever had, I shouldn’t stop trusting his judgment now. When his arm drops to rest around my waist, I don’t move to stop him. His lips which were before just touching my cheek before now stray down to my neck. Goosebumps prickle on my skin. Heat rushes to my cheeks when I realize how good it feels. Electric nerve signals fire off at random in the trail he leaves, stirring something deep within me.

            “Relax,” he whispers.

            That word so long ago used as a weapon by the first man who ever took me to bed, serves now as a signal of salvation. I move to wrap my arms around his chest and anchor myself to him. He wastes no time in using his newly gained leverage to lower my back onto the bed. He stands slightly to straddle me, feet coming to rest on either side of my own on the ground. His teeth scrape across my collarbone, evoking a small noise from my lips. My eyes fly open in surprise, and he raises his head to meet them. There’s a sly smile on his face, as if he knows that I’ve never made a sound like that genuinely before.

            He goes back to the same spot and repeats the motion. I squirm below him, pressing my lips firmly shut. He looks at me again and, this time, he’s not nearly as satisfied. One of his hands flies up to my mouth and traces a finger around my lips before prying them apart. He takes my mouth with two of his large digits, settling them to rest on top of my tongue before speaking.

            “I want to hear you.”

            The words alone are enough to pull a second gasp from me. I like this . I realize with fresh embarrassment. The overthinking doesn’t last long, as his teeth find my collarbone once again. I shudder violently as his free hand moves to brush against the overly-sensitive skin.

            “You’re wound so tight that I think I could break you without doing anything else.” His low chuckle rumbles against me and he pulls his fingers from my mouth. “Relax.”

            “I can’t,” I say shakily.

            “Do you want me to stop?” He pushes his weight completely onto his feet so that he stands on the floor in front of me.

            “No.” I hate the desperate undertone in my voice.

            This is nothing like anything I’ve experienced before, not even my first time consenting to a partner. While my time with Santiago was nice, this feels nothing short of necessary. There’s a need in me that has never existed before. It seems something has snapped and I’m scared that I’ll never go back to the way I was before. Somehow I know that I will be separated into Fara before Gloss and Fara after.

            In response to my simple plea, he bends over me and takes my shirt by the hem. He waits for me to sit up to pull it over my head. He wastes no time in unclasping my bra right after, leaving me completely exposed above the waist. He doesn’t move once he tosses the clothing away, choosing instead to stare at me for a moment. My hands weave self consciously over myself under his intense gaze. He gathers my wrists in one of his hands and pins them against the bed.

            “Can we turn off the lights?” I ask, whimpering slightly.

            “No.” His harsh reply silences me. “I told you before that I wanted to hear you, I’ll tell you now that I want to see you too.”

            So the lights stay on as he descends with his mouth onto me again, roaming the newly exposed skin. My tension doesn’t subside and I find my hands gripping tightly into his hair to keep myself from shaking once he releases my wrists. I can’t seem to believe that this is really happening. Apprehension turns to fear when I feel his hands leave my body and the sound of his pants zipper fills the air. The sound is so familiar that it continues ringing through the air long into the silence. I’m left staring at the white ceiling, fighting to keep my composure. He senses the change immediately and disengages. Once again, he’s standing up straight in front of me, zipper pulled back up.

            “If we’re going to continue, I need to know that you’ll tell me when you actually want to stop.” There’s no trace of lightheartedness in his voice right now, he means what he says, no question about it.

            “I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly, hoping to assuage any frustration on his part that may lurk below the surface. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

            “It was just the one time in District 4 before me?” He asks and I nod in response. “I’m not a fumbling boy, I know what I’m doing and I’m okay stopping if you want me to.”

            “Okay,” I say, and I do understand. “Please keep going.”

            “Well, when you ask so nicely...”

            The heart-to-heart is over.

            He grabs my pajama shorts and pulls them off in one smooth motion. He’s obviously surprised when he realizes that I wear no underwear below them. I feel a small tug of satisfaction to see the shock on his face, enough to nearly cover my perpetual self-consciousness. He falls to his knees in front of me and I’m left wondering awkwardly why he’s moving so close. Is he trying to get a better look? My discomfort is turned into panic when I feel his stubble against my inner thighs. I jerk backwards, scrambling backwards onto the bed in a very obvious signal to stop.

            “What are you doing?” I ask very quickly, trying to recover from the start.

            “Trying to help you unwind. Figures nobody ever has before. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

            After a moment of consideration I nod. He kicks his shoes off and crawls onto the bed to where I’ve moved in my effort to get away. At his urging, I lay back, knees still tented in front of me. He pulls them apart and moves between my legs. He looks at me one more time to register my nod before trying again. The feeling of his mouth against me draws a yelp from my lips. My reaction draws a rumble of laughter from him, the peculiar feeling of which only serves to push me further into incoherence. Gloss is quite obviously a practiced expert at this, which makes me feel simultaneously shy and reassured when I find myself reaching climax after just a minute of his work.

            “Better?” he asks, cupping a hand against the side of my burning hot face.

            I simply nod, breath coming too heavily to respond properly. It’s much better . He was correct in assuming that it would help me unwind. I feel entirely undone.

            His lips find mine, locking into a forcefully passionate kiss. I return it greedily, reigniting my desire despite the exhaustion that fills me. Gloss undoes the few buttons that hold his shirt in place and shrugs it off to the side. He watches as I take in the image of his now entirely exposed chest, smirking knowingly. Rather than trying again himself, he places my fingers at the hem of his pants, giving me the control. This time the sound of the zipper, now in my hands, does nothing to rattle me. He helps me to shirk his bottoms so that we’re both completely exposed to each other.

            I feel another twinge of fear in my chest when I take all of him in. Everything about him is larger than life. Rather than leave me to flounder in apprehension he moves to kiss me again, much more gently this time. I run my hands across the skin of his back, needing something to preoccupy myself. He runs a calloused thumb across my ribcage in circles, compounding my comfort until there’s no trace of fright within me. His lips draw away from mine and he moves to look me directly in my eyes.

            “Do you want to keep going?”

            “Yes.” There’s no hesitance in my response.

            “Hold on to me,” he instructs and I comply.

            As he enters me, my fingernails tighten on his back in a grip that must be bruising. He groans, but no trace of pain graces it. He moves slowly at first, cooing words of praise into my ear. Then, when there’s no pain on my end anymore, he pulls me into a position where my back is pressed into his chest. When he begins taking me with no reservation, expletives leave his lips as frequently as affection. He builds me up and tears me down with a condemning severity in the span of a single breath. It fills me with intoxicated passion.

            He maneuvers me easily around, seemingly not wanting me to move a muscle unless by his ministrations. He growls when I try to move to gain leverage or spin to see him, locking a punishing grip around the back of my neck. I never once feel the inclination to tell him to ease up. In fact, I find myself acting up more often just to get the aggressive rise from him. Each time I move to deviate, he snaps to pull me back to where he wants me.

            It takes a long, long time before he finishes, leaving my own pleasure to run laps around his. I can tell that this fact invigorates him. When he collapses to lay at my side, he vocalizes his ragged breaths and throws his arms to lay above his head.

            “Shit, that was good,” he says between pants.

            I don’t understand how I made it good for him, all I can seem to remember doing is antagonizing him through half of it.

            “You enjoyed keeping me in line?” I ask it as an attempt at lightening the mood.

            “Yes, very much.” He doesn’t take it as a joke.

            I consider it for a moment. I suppose it would be possible for him to take an opposite sort of pleasure in my actions. We seem to have stumbled on a very lucky bit of compatibility.

            “I hope we didn’t wake your neighbors,” he says very suddenly, turning to grin cheekily at me. “You’re pretty loud.”

            “No I’m not!” I defend.

            “That’s not a bad thing.” Gloss moves to disarm me immediately, planting a kiss onto my forehead.

            Just as I make the decision to scoot over into his bare skin, he slips out of bed. He pulls his underwear and pants back on in a second. He stuffs his feet back into his shoes just as quickly, but doesn’t bother to put his shirt back on, instead slinging it over his shoulder casually. His flushed skin still glistens with sweat and I see a bead of it run down dangerously close to the draped pink fabric. He begins to walk towards the door.

            So that’s it. We’re done, so he’s going to leave.

            He smiles genuinely and tells me he hopes that I can get back to sleep quickly enough, all with his hand resting on the doorknob. Then he twists it and walks out, whistling a gentle tune. He doesn’t close it behind himself, forcing me to wrap myself in the sheet to get up and shut it. When I reach it, I hear him bark a laugh in the hall.

            “Sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.” Gloss addresses someone quite boldly.

            I close the door as quickly as I can without making a sound. I choose to believe that Magnus Brandywood is the one who he speaks to, not allowing myself to think of the other man I share the floor with.

            Though I shake with exhaustion, I force myself to shower before I get back into bed. It doesn’t do much to clear the smell of sex from the room, the sheets still reek of it when I lay down. I can’t bring myself to get up and order a fresh set from the tablet in the wall. I fall asleep too quickly to be bothered much by the dampness of our intermixed sweat below me.

            The next day, he pretends that nothing happened. When we meet in the training center, he greets me with nothing but a high five and an instruction to head for the rock wall. It’s shocking enough that I don’t even bother to register it as offensive.

            It’s hard to focus much, even when Gloss hollers at me to concentrate on my footwork. Climbing grades that I usually flash in one try are too difficult to even attempt today. When Gloss finally accepts that an overly-mental sport won’t be quite my speed today, he relents to have us do Jiu-Jitsu instead.

            That lasts all of about two minutes before we find the glaringly obvious problem with that.

            The first time he pins me, my breath catches in my throat. He laughs at my reaction, but is humbled when our next spar ends with me straddling his hips. When his arousal makes itself known, he has no choice but to give up the pretense of training me. In no time at all, our clothes are shirked onto the mat below us and we begin a very different kind of physical workout. It’s not until we finish that it becomes evident to me how public the gym really is. Anyone could have come down here at any point.

            “We can’t do that again,” I tell him. “I don’t want to do things like that again.”

            But we do.

            Just hours later, we find ourselves alone in the victor’s lounge and Gloss makes it known that he has no fear of being caught. At first, when he sneaks his hand around me on the couch, I chastise him. He listens, withdrawing back a bit, but after a few more minutes spent watching TV he’s on me again. This time I don’t tell him to stop.

            When I’m pulling my pants back up and smoothing my shirt, I shoot him a glare.

            “I mean it. This isn’t how we should go about this. Our friends already don’t like it.”

            “Fine, then let’s go to your room.” He smirks.

            “Haven’t you had enough for the day?” I ask incredulously.

            “Have you?” He arches an eyebrow and I feel my stomach flutter.

            “We can go back to my room, but I am done for the day. I’ve got an appointment in a few hours.” I assert confidently.

            That front lasts for about fifteen minutes before I cave again.

            Every time I swear him off, I wind up rescinding it in record time. After the third day, he finally spends the whole night with me instead of leaving right after he finishes. He even tolerates my propensity towards pillow talk, which is more than he’s obligated to do.

            “What was it like to grow up on the west coast?” I implore, rolling from my back to look him in the eyes.

            “You literally live on a beach in District 4,” he says, radiating disbelief.

            “I live on the gulf coast. It’s very different from the west coast,” I protest.

            “I didn’t live on the beach, so I don’t know. The academy was inland.” He gives me a nonanswer.

            “But what was it like?” I press.

            “Shit, I don’t know.” He deflects again.

            “Okay. What’s the best picture you’ve ever taken.” I turn the topic to something easier, having seen him talk for hours about his hobby before.

            He just shrugs.

            “Where did you end up going last night after you left my room?” I ask, hoping that this less abstract question will garner a real answer. “I saw you coming back to the tower on my way out to an appointment in the morning.”

            “I went to a club.” That’s a start. “I found the hottest girl in the room and convinced her to take me home with her. Pretty proud of that one, she was a total bombshell.”

            Ouch.

            “Oh wow. Congratulations.” I try my best to sound genuine.

            “I know, right? It was a good night.”

            “Speaking of good nights, I think I should say goodnight myself.” I force a hearty chuckle. “I have to go spend the morning with Seneca Crane pretty early tomorrow.”

            I spin onto my other side and allow silent tears to fall from my eyes. I carefully monitor my breathing so that Gloss won’t notice it when he slings his arm around my waist. This time I’m absolutely sure that I’m done with Gloss. I never expected him to act like he was my boyfriend or anything of the like, but I also hadn’t figured he’d brag about having sex with another woman to my face. Despite my own insistence that Gloss is a casual thing for me, I feel my heart break just the tiniest bit.

            Once again my resolve to cut things with him off is tested when he comes back only twenty-four hours later with a gentle knock on my door. I only open the door a crack, peering out at him standing in the dark hallway. Red lipstick smears a bright outline around his mouth and I narrow my eyes in distaste.

            “Are you going to just stand there, or am I coming in?” Gloss asks, lowering his eyebrows in a way that admittedly sends shivers down my spine.

            I want so badly to tell him no. Hell knows he doesn’t deserve to come into my space tonight. Yet, it’s the fact that it’s entirely my choice that persuades me to let him in. I do at least make him wash his face in the bathroom before I let him into bed with me. The satisfaction he brings me is enough to convince me that I’m fine with his lifestyle. Who cares what he does in his free time if he wants me enough to keep coming back?

            I’m convinced that if evil incarnate stood eye to eye with Gloss, it would confess every single one of its sins. His eyes alone could bring me back from the dead, but kill me all the same. I simply can’t fathom him. Yet, it seems that touching his skin is the only thing that keeps me grounded into reality anymore. When he leaves each time, I have only a moment of clarity to chastise myself before I smell him in my sheets or catch a glimpse of his dark hair in the shower and I’m enamored again.

I have a feeling that it’ll be a long time before I forget about Gloss Nightingale.

Chapter Text

            “Faraday, stay with us.” Ronan snaps impatient fingers in front of my face.

            I pull myself out of the lull I’ve fallen into.

            “I hope our company isn’t really this boring to you,” Grant says.

            “I’m awake, I just zoned out,” I lie, blinking hard to clear my drowsiness.

            “You know, I almost believed you. Maybe poker is working after all.” Ronan looks at me overtop of his hand of cards. “It might have convinced me if I didn’t wake up to the sound of Gloss letting his door slam shut behind him almost every night for the past two weeks. Doesn’t seem like either of us is getting uninterrupted sleep lately.”

            So much for Gloss’s promise of trying to exercise subtlety in his visits. I knew it was a long shot to expect him to actually deliver, but I can’t help but to feel disappointment regardless. I’m glad that our group is the only one in the lounge, I can’t imagine having anyone else hear this conversation.

            “Aww, look at her blush.” Grant reaches out a finger to poke at my pink cheeks.

            “Maybe you should try coming to visit him in his room instead, I doubt you’d be so inconsiderate. Unless that would mean that other noises would keep me up instead.” Ronan sighs dramatically and the corner of his mouth quirks upwards.

            “Leave the kid alone.” Blight comes to my rescue.

            “I think this is the appropriate level of teasing for this topic,” Ronan defends. “I can’t sit idly by and bite my tongue as I watch the most bizarre pairing I’ve ever seen do the midnight dance every night.”

            I bury my face into my hands, cards long forgotten on the table below me.

            “It makes a lot of sense to me.” Grant’s eyebrows wiggle at me, attempting to pull me out from between my fingers. “He got you into drugs and clubbing, what’s sex on top of that but a next step?”

            “I’m not into drugs and clubbing, I tried each of those once,” I protest.

            “That’s not what the media is saying.” Ronan shakes his head.

            “What?” I do drop my hands now.

            “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it on the TV programs,” he says, disbelief gracing his features. “They’ve got a whole camera’s worth of pictures from that night out the two of you had together.”

            “I don’t watch that kind of TV.” My mouth is parched. 

            Usually I rely on Fierian to keep a finger on the pulse of my public image, but he’s been busy with Giovani’s press in the aftermath of the fashion show.

            “I’d recommend that you don’t choose to start right now.” Grant cringes.

            “What images do they have?” I insist.

            While both Blight and Grant shake their heads discouragingly, Ronan makes quick work of searching up a tabloid on a nearby tablet. He hands it off to me after only a few clicks. I’m greeted by the image of myself taking the bright pills from the girl in the beginning of that night. My heart drops. I scroll next to see the image of her and I kissing through the throngs of people. The next few are me drinking with the tattooed man and ultimately ending up pinned below him on the leather couch. Somehow even more unsettling are the pictures they have of me and Gloss, first kissing in the club, then sharing drinks at the bar.

            How much of this is being broadcasted to the districts? Is Piper seeing these? Or my father? As my level of panic rises, I find myself even thinking that Diego must be feeling completely justified in his evaluation of my character. This in turn leads me to picture Santiago’s face, which is somehow heartbroken though I’ve never seen that look on him before. It’s mighty bold of me to assume he’d even care at all.

            “I don’t feel very well.” I set the tablet down in front of me and dismiss myself.

            “No harm’s been done. This is actually a good thing in terms of cover for your involvement with the cause,” Ronan says, but I don’t stop to listen.

            I keep walking away through his reassurances until I’m out of the lounge and I hear him trail off from the hallway. Tears well in my eyes on the short journey back to my room. When I’m finally in my private quarters, I allow myself to weep unimpeded.

            It’s so horribly unfair, but so completely my own fault. I behaved irresponsibly and now I have to face the reality of consequences. Somehow through the high of continued rule breaking with Gloss, I never once paused to think about how my actions might be interpreted by a world greater than our small social circle. Knocking interrupts me before I can delve further into the destructive thought pattern. I wipe the tears from my face with the sleeve of my shirt before getting up to investigate. My visitor is not an expected one.

            Blight stands in the doorframe with hands stuffed deep into his pockets and shoulders scrunched up to his neck. He’s the spitting image of uncertainty, which is somehow reassuring to me. I open the door fully for him to come in, but it takes a moment before he makes the decision to move inwards. When he finally crosses the threshold, he doesn’t bother to sit anywhere in particular, instead choosing to stand in the middle of the floor.

            “Everyone has their time in the headlines.” His soft voice breaks the static silence.

            We meet eyes and both immediately look away from each other.

            “It happens less as you get older, people stop caring about you so much. Ronan acts like it doesn’t matter much, but when he was your age he felt a lot differently.”

            “Did you hook up with strangers and do drugs in a dirty club?” I know he means well, but I can’t help but to hit him with cynicism for his efforts.

            “I got blackout drunk and robbed a store with an ax. But then yeah, I hit my clubbing and drugging era not too soon after.”

            When I look back up at him, we don’t pull away as quickly. He’s grinning, which is rare, though it’s barely noticeable.

            “Did you get in trouble?” I ask.

            “Not as much as I should have been. Luckily, Snow didn’t think it mattered all that much. He figured that all it would do was make the people from my home hate me.”

            That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I won’t be able to face District 4 again after knowing they may have seen those pictures.

            “Unfortunately that didn’t work. Everyone with an adult brain seemed to realize that the Capitol just does that to us. When you take some backwater kid turned murderer and throw them into an entirely new, fast-paced lifestyle, they tend to hit a breaking point pretty quickly. Most of us hit a manic patch around nineteen or twenty. Some never leave it.” He looks down at his feet, cloaked in black socks.

            “It all happened so fast.” I let loose a whimper and crumple to sit on my bed.

            “It usually does. It starts with something innocuous and just kinda spirals. That being said, you haven’t done anything extraordinary. This is pretty tame as far as binges go.” He moves away to sit at my desk chair. “I’m hoping you end it here, with the advice of a former burnout fueling you.”

            “Oh, I’m definitely done. I don’t see myself going out to the nightclubs again or taking pills handed out from strangers for that matter.” I discount the idea readily.

            “Done with Gloss too?” He asks it so casually that it sounds artificial.

            “I mean I don’t see why I should be. He’s not exactly a drug.” I laugh.

            “Addictions aren’t necessarily strictly substance based,” Blight says gently.

            “I know that, but this isn’t something like that.” My fingernails scratch against the material below me, hoping to find comfort in the comforter.

            To his credit, Blight doesn’t push me on it, just nods and falls silent. The gears in my brain begin spinning against my will. He doesn’t need to do the work of explaining himself to me, I’m doing that on my own. Perhaps he senses that, because he settles himself further into the chair.

            I’m strangely desperate not to overthink this. I wage a war within myself, trying to keep my mental barrier in place against my own advances. The part of my life with Gloss in it is something that I don’t feel too keen on ruining. Contrary to a feeling of needy addiction, my draw to him is synonymous with my need to stay in control of my life. This one person is who I get to choose to sleep with. And he chooses me back. It feels freeing in a way that I can’t seem to cross reference with the manic binge Blight implies.

            “What kind of store did you rob?” I ask when I’ve come to my conclusion.

            “Flower shop,” he grumbles, dark skin twinging darker with a blush.

            “You robbed a flower shop?” I try for a second to not burst out into laughter but I can’t stifle it long. “Why not just buy flowers with your lavish amounts of wealth?”

            “Why take pills from a stranger when you could have any drug of choice delivered directly to your room here?” He turns the question on me.

            “Fair point.” I nod. “What did Ronan do at my age?”

            “Not my business to tell you.” He’s surprisingly blunt.

            I manage to curtail the snap response towards offense and I give way to admitting that it’s none of my business. If I want to know, I should ask Ronan, not Blight. It is comforting, as well, to know that Blight isn’t the type to spread around the information of others.

            “How was your night with Plutarch?” Blight changes the subject gracefully.

            “Long.” I groan, as if it wasn’t the best appointment I’ve ever had. I smile cheekily at the other victor, knowing he’s in on the fact that I’m spinning a tale for the bugs. “Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if he expands his interest outwards to other victor options. This was his first time booking one of us and he liked it. Seems likely that he’ll be going on his own binge soon.”

            “You’re correct. He’s in my schedule for next week.” Blight squints his eyes in humor.

            “I think you’ll like his estate, even if his company is rather lacking. It’s a lot like how I remember District 7 being.”

            Blight hums his appreciation for my words before clasping his hands together over his stomach and rising from my desk chair. His brevity is not familiar, not at all common among our friend group of dramatic personalities. He hits me with another short statement about keeping my chin up before patting the door frame and leaving me alone again.

            Finnick steps into the hallway from his room, startled to see Blight shutting the door to Fara’s room behind himself. Blight shoots off an easy nod as a greeting, but Finnick isn’t feeling particularly patient at the moment.

            “What? Are you fucking her now too?” Finnick snaps.

            “Don’t redirect your hurt feelings onto me.” Blight responds with grace.

            Finnick is cowed quickly, left regretting his choice to attack the older man. Of course Blight would never think about Fara in that way. He’s not Gloss, after all.

            “I’m sorry.” He apologizes.

            “No worries. It’s not your fault that everyone who wins the Hunger Games ends up emotionally stunted.” It’s as close as Blight usually comes to an insult, but of course he moves to soften it almost immediately. “Myself included.”

            “We’re a fucked up bunch, aren’t we?” Finnick replies.

            “Oh yeah.” Blight confirms.

            “Especially Gloss.” Finnick spits the name like it leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

            “ Finnick .” Blight uses the name as a light scold before motioning with his head to move their conversation to the common room. Once they sit opposite each other, Blight takes a deep breath to prepare for a good burst of talking. “You’re at a crossroads with the potential to lose two of your closest friends. No, I don’t care that you’re upset with Gloss right now, that kid has been with you since your first day here. If you go around burning bridges every time one of us does something stupid, you’ll wind up only talking to Cashmere eventually.”

            “This isn’t some innocuous mistake, though,” Finnick insists.

            “Given the circumstances surrounding us, I think that it is. It might be easy to frown on it in the districts, but it’s the norm in the Capitol. Pretty normal in District 1 too from what I hear.”

            That pulls Finnick’s attention. Blight notices.

            “Cashmere and Gloss might not have been forthcoming about it to you, but Ronan has been to me. District 1 manufactures luxury goods, that doesn’t just include products,” Blight explains.

            “They produce people as a service.” The pieces click together in Finnick’s mind.

            He’s thought for a long time that the casual city brothels couldn’t be drawing from Capitol citizens for prostitutes, but he never thought about it too deeply. Instead he wrote it off that they were probably similar to axoves, condemned to a life of servitude for crimes committed. It makes a lot more sense that they would be young people from District 1.

            “Most of their career academy kids end up getting sold for sex regardless of whether or not they’re chosen to compete in the ‘games. It’s taught pretty heavily in their curriculum, though the trainers would never admit to laying a finger on the kids. It only started getting that bad around a decade or two ago, at least as long as it’s been since Ronan went through. He never had to deal with that bit of it.” Blight becomes more bitter the longer he talks. “For some, it seems like they’re sold to the highest bidder permanently once they age out. No rotating schedule of clientele. I tend to think that must be worse for them.”

            Finnick wonders if Cashmere and Gloss have seen their classmates at parties. He cringes when he pictures it. He couldn’t imagine seeing the kids he grew up with imprisoned by grotesque rich figures. Then his mind wanders to think about the District 1 victors since Ronan. Gaia, Augustus, Cashmere, Gloss, all likely handled roughly far before they set foot in the Capitol. Yeah, it makes it a lot easier to understand why Gloss might not bat an eye at an age gap.

            “Cashmere doesn’t seem to think it’s normal.” Finnick prompts Blight.

            “Cashmere is good at calling bullshit as she sees it. She’s never been prone to cognitive dissonance,” he answers.

            “Cognitive what?” Finnick isn’t embarrassed to ask, he catalogs Fara and Blight in the same vein in that sense.

            “It means that you’ve got beliefs that don’t line up with your actions, but you choose not to think too hard about it because it doesn’t feel very good. It’s easier to keep doing what you’re doing without trying to reconcile your morals with your choices.” Unlike Fara, Blight is actually good at eloquently explaining concepts on an accessible level.

            It doesn’t take any more prodding for Finnick to extrapolate the concept from Cashmere to her brother. When he thinks it through for a moment, he nods his head slowly to show Blight that he’s caught his meaning. The older man seems patiently pleased, patting Finnick on the shoulder before leaving him to think a bit more on his own.

            Interactions past a few exchanged words are rare with Blight, but they almost always end with a feeling of divine enlightenment. Finnick desperately realizes that this means he’s going to have to forgive Gloss, and forgiveness is a hell of a lot harder than simply holding a grudge. He can’t just go poking into the information he’s obtained from Blight, either. He can’t imagine it would go well if he waltzed up and asked any of the District 1 victors whether or not they were assaulted as children. No, this is something he’ll have to accept and learn to live with privately.

            In the meantime, he can make sure not to ruin the other friendship he’s put on the line with his cold behavior. Finnick allows himself a few minutes to recover from the heavy conversation before he makes his way back to Fara’s room. He’s derailed his plans already to talk with Blight, so he figures he can just entirely put off his to-do list until tomorrow. This time when he asks if she’d like to watch clips from Giovani’s fashion show together, Fara says yes.

            They end up curled into the plush loveseat with a bowl of popcorn between them. Finnick is pleasantly reminded of the times during his stay at the academy that they’d let the kids crowd into the gym and watch old movies together. Though those movies were usually about heroes dying a warrior's death, not highlights from a runway event. He’s not nearly as interested in this, yet he’s sure he’ll enjoy it much more.

            His pleasure has much more to do with the girl sitting beside him, oohing and aahing at horribly thin models strutting around in admittedly dynamic clothing, than anything happening on screen. He’s so terribly thankful for Blight’s kick in the pants when he realizes how much he’s missed her company this past week. It’s not fair for either of them to allow himself to keep using withdrawal as a coping mechanism for heartbreak. It didn’t work a year ago, and it certainly didn’t work this time around either.

            Near the very end of the show, something finally catches Finnick’s attention enough to keep his eyes off of Fara. The final model to walk wears clothing that’s significantly blander than anything portrayed before, it almost looks like something that would pass for normal in District 4. She walks forward confidently with a swagger akin to anger. When she reaches the very edge of the stage, she punches her hand into the air in a raised fist. Her eyes find the camera filming her and then the lights are cut. The audience roars in the video, clapping and stomping and calling for an encore.

            When the clips switch to commentary programs, Finnick fingers the remote to turn the TV off and turns slowly to look at Fara.

            “Is Giovanni…” He trails off when he catches himself, cursing himself for nearly exposing the rebellion in an unsafe zone.

            Fara meets his aborted question with the slightest of nods. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip the way they always do when she’s holding back a smile. Finnick is struck by the sudden, overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss her. He jumps back like he’s been burned. He covers for his action by pretending he’s reacting in surprise to her intel. He won’t throw another wrench in their relationship when he’s just tentatively mended it again.

            He gestures to her through an upturned finger that they should go talk on the roof. She nods fervently. When they find themselves alone in the dark, she retells everything that she learned during her time spent in Plutarch’s manor. She tells him that she hasn’t even told Ronan about it, just Finnick for now. That winds up making him feel quite special, however childish it may be. He can’t even bring himself to scrutinize the idea of District 13 existing as a national superpower, too caught up in the mood of elation.

            The two of them are so wound up in the energy of the moment that Finnick insists that this is an occasion worth dancing over. He stands at the tablet for a few moments, swiping his finger across the screen until the jaunty tunes of District 4 fill the night air. He yells an exclamation of appreciation out recklessly and pulls Fara to her feet.

            She remembers the dance he taught her quite well considering it’s been over a year since they last practiced. She only steps on his feet a few times, but it doesn’t matter much since their feet are clad only in socks.

            Her cheeks don’t flush as quickly and she keeps her breath for longer than ever before. Her newfound fitness regime has allowed her to dance for much longer, much less focus placed on keeping her lungs filled and muscles moving. She laughs with him and he’s impressed by her ability to keep up. Her improvement isn’t just evident in her physicality, but also in her resistance to embarrassment. She doesn’t show a hint of self-consciousness when she trips, able to shrug everything off with a smile.

            The moonlight isn’t much to go by, but Finnick swears that she finally looks as young as she’s supposed to. The past year has turned her so stoic so quickly. He’s been waiting for her to begin sprouting grey hairs from her head and gaining worry lines on her face. Right now, there’s no way he could picture those age markers hovering so close.

            Right now, she’s all freckles and dark bronze hair. She’s all toothy smiling and raspy laughter. There’s most definitely a halo of youth radiating from her. He feels simultaneously blinded by it and enamored with it. This is the Fara that he met a lifetime ago.

            It’s easy to reminisce about the time when they first danced together, when there wasn’t a wall built up between them. Sure, they’d rekindled their friendship since Finnick’s first major fuck-up, but it’s never quite been the same. There’s a semblance of that here tonight, just a bit. They’re both excited enough to forgo the complicated history of hurt and passion. They both see the road to freedom just a little bit more clearly. The weight on their shoulders feels just a little bit lighter.

            And that’s enough. That’s enough for now, and that’s enough to make Finnick lose his mind just a little more than he did earlier. He cups her head with his hands and presses his lips to hers.

            His heart pounds louder than the beat of the drum, but he doesn’t let go. And she doesn’t pull away. She kisses him back, hands moving from his shoulders to his hair. His scalp burns with the contact and he has to fight not to groan into her mouth.

            They stay locked together until Finnick has to breathe. When he breaks away, breath comes to him in ragged gasps. She pulls her fingers from his hair, but he leaves his hands at her cheeks and moves to rest his forehead against hers. They stay like that for what seems like forever, sea green eyes remaining perfectly interlocked.

            Finally, her own hands move to cover his own.

            “You’re shaking,” she says softly, running fingers over his own which sit stationary, trembling on her face.

            “I know.” His response is impossibly breathy, he can feel tears fighting to the surface.

            “It’s okay.” She wipes her fingers against the small trails that begin to run down his face.

“Is it?” His voice cracks and he finds himself unable to smother his sobs anymore.

            She pulls him into a tight hug, stroking a hand across his back.

            “Yes, it is.”

Chapter Text

            Finnick Odair kissed me. And he wasn’t even drunk this time. But he is crying, which is quite confusing to say the least. Coming down from my own electric high leaves me feeling unprepared to deal with this. I’m not exactly an expert at normal relationships, but I’m pretty sure people aren’t supposed to cry after they kiss you.

            “I’m sorry if I did something to upset you,” I say hesitantly, not letting go of my grip on him.

            He doesn’t answer me, instead wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in closer. I don’t stop him, though my concern is growing by the second. His forehead drops to my shoulder, so I place my hand on his neck to keep him pressed there. The upbeat music still plays in the background, a mockery of the sudden somber scene. When he starts to pull away, I let him without question. His first move once he’s free is to wipe his eyes rapidly on his sleeve. Then he clears his throat and casts his face toward the ground. When he moves to speak, I know what he means to say a second before he says it.

            “I’m-”

            “You don’t have to apologize” I cut him off. “You shouldn’t apologize. But you should explain yourself because I’m stumped.”

            He laughs a cynical laugh and stalks over to sit against the brick wall to our backs.

            “Why do you think I’m upset?” He implores as I move to sit beside him.

            “I mean I have a list of theories starting with my own horrible ugliness ranging to the fact that I’ve been sleeping with your best friend for the past few weeks, but I’d like to hear your take more than my own.” I try for the slightest bit of humor.

            “Don’t call yourself ugly.” He evidently isn’t enthused by my joke, but he still doesn’t move to answer my question.

            Right. Finnick doesn’t like being forced to talk about himself. I decide to employ an entirely new tactic: silence. Maybe if I don’t try to fill in the gaps, he will. The quiet leeches into my brain, tension itching for release that I resist resolving. Finnick seems to feel it as well, his sudden squirming is a dead giveaway of his discomfort.

            “I’m no good for you,” he finally says, sighing like it’s the heaviest burden in the world to unearth. “I’ve tried so hard to keep from soiling your life, but I feel like I can’t help it. Every time you’re happy, I can’t help but to want to come in and destroy everything. On your victory tour, just when you started to relax, I kissed you and lied about my intent straight to your face when cowardice consumed me. I was thrilled when Santiago left you, even though I knew it hurt you. Now, with Gloss, I swoop in and try to ruin everything even though I can see that you’re having fun with him. It’s like I hate you.” There’s shame lining every word he says.

            “Do you hate me?” I ask, though I know the answer.

            “Of course not. I don’t think I could if I tried. I… I think that I love you.”

            There it is. Out in the open for the first time ever.

            “For how long?” I ask, trying not to betray the bitterness within me.

            “Longer than I should admit.”

            “Since before I told you that I loved you ?”

            “Since before that,” he affirms.

            It takes a monumental amount of effort from hurling the worst thoughts in my head at him. I close my eyes and inhale deeply though my nose, then let the breath out through barely parted lips. Lashing out in frustration will do nothing to solve the hurt I’m feeling. All that nasty words could do is make Finnick hurt. For a moment, I think that that’s what I want; that I wish him to feel exactly the way I did a year ago when he broke down my entire sense of self. Then the notion passes and I rectify that I don’t actually want to destroy any piece of Finnick.

            If anything, the self doubt and insecurity from that single experience inspires me to do better. I wouldn’t wish the sensation onto my worst enemy, much less onto my closest friend. He doesn’t deserve to forget about his actions, but he certainly doesn’t need to have them weaponized against him. I think back to our conversation right after Finnick’s altercation with Diego.

             “So, what? Am I supposed to punch the next person who says something that I find offensive?”

             “No, of course not, you’re not me. You’re supposed to condescend to them or educate them or something.”

            I’m not Finnick. I shouldn’t try to act like I am.

            “The way you turned me down was incredibly hurtful.” I’m blunt but careful not to be vindictive.

            “I meant it to be.” Finnick cringes.

            I expected him to make some kind of excuse regarding his impulsiveness, not fess up to being intentionally cruel. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.

            “I wanted you to stop feeling the way you did about me because I was scared of fucking things up with you. I figured that having you hate me was better than letting myself hurt you later.” He runs his fingers along the hem of his dark socks.

            “You didn’t make me hate you. You made me hate myself.” I shake my head in disappointment. “I’ve spent a long time wondering why I wasn’t enough for you and why you were so thoroughly disgusted by my feelings. It really didn’t help that Santiago turned me down right before you did. It made me feel pretty rotten, especially when you chose to avoid me for the whole month after.”

            “So you hate me now ?” He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears again.

            “No,” I scoff. “I’m telling you all this because I need to be honest with you if I’m going to let myself start loving you again.”

            “You’d do that?” he asks, looking tentatively at me.

            “If I’m committing to complete honesty, I never really completely stopped.” It’s my turn to feel embarrassed.

            “For how long?” He asks the same question of me.

            “It’s sort of hard to tell,” I admit. “I’m not great at cataloging emotion, if you haven’t noticed. In terms of finding you attractive, my childhood crush never really went away.”

            “So you finally admit it!” He’s laughing instead of crying now, which is a good sign.

            “Yes, you asshole! It was always you.” I punch him on the shoulder.

            “But you got with Gloss just to make sure?” He teases, then falters. “Oh shit, is Gloss going to deck me for kissing you?”

            “He absolutely doesn’t have room to complain. He hasn’t exactly chosen to remain monogamous, very blatantly the opposite actually.” I roll my eyes.

            “And you were okay with that? Somehow I don’t see you being okay with that,” Finnick presses.

            “I wouldn’t say I’m in love with the idea of it, but I didn’t want to seem clingy. I figured I could still have fun even if it wasn’t the ideal circumstance.” I shrug at him.

            “Dirty bastard.” Finnick curses, but thankfully he doesn’t seem all that genuinely upset with Gloss anymore.

            “But I would be willing to put an end to the un-ideal relationship if it would mean I’d be open to a much better one,” I say, feeling bold.

            “I’d like that very much.” Finally, both tears and laughter are gone, replaced by a genuine smile.

            “Are you serious about this? You’re not going to get scared and try to throw it all away again?” I test.

            “I’m dead serious. The one good thing Gloss did was make me realize how serious I really am about this.”

            Finnick reaches for my hand and I allow him to take it. He intertwines his fingers in mine and pulls our hands to sit on his lap. We remain like that for a while, neither of us wanting to move or speak to break the spell that falls over us in the darkness. After some time, I begin to shiver and Finnick decides we should move inside.

            To my delight, he doesn’t try to end our night, though it’s beginning to get quite late. I suspect he’s retained what I confessed in our conversation regarding loneliness. Instead of heading our separate ways when he starts to yawn on the common room couch, he asks me to read to him. I oblige quite happily, picking up in the middle of my current book-on-loan from Cashmere. He only makes it about 20 pages into Grass before he begins to softly snore. Peace fills my heart. I read on in silence, taking great comfort in the symphony of breath coming from my left.

            I’m glad Finnick’s asleep when my nightly visitor steps out from the elevator. Gloss’s eyes dart around the scene quickly before coming to rest on me. His expression holds a question for me. I simply shake my head no and lay my hand gently onto Finnick’s chest. Gloss shrugs in a way that screams “ what can you do?” , before grinning and walking back to the elevator in an exaggerated tiptoe.

            Once Gloss is gone, I try to keep reading but find myself struck by a sudden wave of exhaustion. Each page leaves me blinking harder to keep my eyes open. I finally give up when I realize there’s no reason to fight sleep when it welcomes me so sweetly. I set the book down on a side table, satisfied that this time it won’t get swept away by the ocean. I wiggle to a position laying down, pausing movement only when Finnick groans slightly in his sleep. When he’s still again, I get myself truly settled in for the night. I take one last look at him before letting my eyes slip shut for good.

            “This is fantastic.”

            The gamemaker’s words are music to my ears.

            “I can make more whenever you need,” I say eagerly, happy to give Plutarch an excuse to invite me back to his manor more often. “I’m pretty sure I can make them much smaller than that in future versions.”

            Plutarch looks even more thrilled, turning the playing-card deck sized device over in his palm.

            “Small enough to be covert?” he asks.

            “Small enough to fit inside of a pen or an earring, yes. Something that nobody would be questioned over having.” I try to keep the smugness from my presentation, knowing it’s unbecoming.

            “You’ve helped me more than you could ever know, Miss Jones.” He beams at me. “But I’m afraid I have another large favor to ask of you.”

            “Name it.” I know for sure that I sound cocky now, but I can’t help it.

            “I’d like for you to steal my journal.” Always the showman, he proposes his plan with a veil of mystery over it.

            “Do elaborate.” I indulge his need for dramatics.

            “From what I’ve heard at work, you’ve done quite a job of poking holes in Seneca Crane’s Quarter Quell plans. He’s become quite insecure about his ideas. That puts the two of us in the distinctly precarious position of influencing him.” Plutarch has swapped my engineered device for a glass of white wine. “Seneca and I have been in a dance of sorts, spanning over the course of a decade. When he’s panicking, he rarely splurges for originality. That aforementioned insecurity makes it so that he’s incredibly unlikely to simply ask for help when he needs it. He’s far more inclined towards thievery. That’s where you come in, my dear.”

            “You want me to pretend to steal your journal so that he takes your ideas?” I summarize.

            “Precisely.” He swirls his glass.

            “What would my motivation for stealing it be?” I ask, sipping on my own glass of red wine.

            “You were curious. I take it that won’t be the hardest angle to sell. The safest way to go about it would be to mention it at your next appointment, like you’re confessing to him. He’ll ask you to bring it along the next time, I’m almost entirely sure of it.”

            Plutarch slides a worn leather journal across the table. An ornate glass bookmark rests near the beginning of the pages. When I crack it open to the page, I’m met with a list of Quarter Quell ideas similar in style to Seneca’s own. After about a dozen scrawled entries lies one circled heavily, almost frantically.

            I let it slip closed and place it back onto the table in front of me.

            “I understand it’s not easy to read. Both emotionally and physically as a result of my poor handwriting.”

            “No age limit on the reaping pool?” I’m so shocked I can’t even bring myself to anger.

            “We chose that because of the exact reaction you’re having right now.” Plutarch points to my dumbfounded face. “If we can project that outrage across the entire nation, we create a powder keg.”

            “And potentially get babies killed in the process?” I sputter to understand.

            “The lives of 23 people are worth the freedom of millions of others.”

            “Says who? That type of judgment isn’t right for us to deal out.”

            “Fine, so the baby stays out of the quarter quell just to be reaped 12 years later? What difference does it make?” Plutarch asks.

            “It makes a lifetime of difference to the twelve year old who got to experience the world.” I defend, tears reaching my eyes. I brush them away impatiently.

            “A horrible, cruel, unforgiving world?”

            “They deserve to make their own assertions about the fairness of our predicament.”

            My argument has become progressively more snappy as I feel myself losing ground. I sense that my emotion is clouding my better judgment, so I bite my tongue. I don’t wish to soil the credibility I’ve gained with Plutarch. He’s content to let me concede, silently allowing me to smooth my prickles.

            “What’s the plan for the 74th Hunger Games? We’re rapidly approaching the reaping.” Changing the topic completely gives me a modicum of control again.

            “Nothing grand. The arena itself is actually quite bland. Another forest,” he pauses to groan. “Seneca’s trying to play it safe. President Snow seems fine with that, he’s surprisingly hands off this year. Except for the fact that we’re required to have a twelve year old, that he’s made abundantly clear.”

            “Despicable,” I grumble. “It makes sense though, it’s been a while since we’ve had any actual twelve-year-olds reaped. Even Aud…” I stop short at the panic that grips my chest. “Even Audrey was thirteen.” I finish as quickly as possible.

            “Yes.” Plutarch hums, politely averting his eyes.

            With a few more pieces of vague instruction regarding Seneca Crane, Plutarch sends me on my way. As usual, I do my best to act downtrodden when I emerge from his home, but my head swims with intel. Finnick waits for me back at the tower rooftop, patiently anticipating my newest information dump.

            He scoffs as harshly as I did at Plutarch’s idea for the Quarter Quell, but softens to it much too quickly for my liking. He argues that a handful of young lives is worth the freedom of the nation. I don’t have it in me to strike up my argument a second time today. When he sees the exhaustion within me, he digresses and slings an arm around my shoulders.

            His hands never stray any lower than that. Finnick seems perpetually locked into the idea that it’s wrong to touch me in any manner past friendship. While he allows me to reach for him and bury my face into his chest, I know he won’t reciprocate the gesture. His hand absentmindedly strokes my hair, head lost somewhere in the idea of the 75th Hunger Games.

            True to my word, I set Plutarch’s plan in action the next time that I see Seneca. Just as predicted, Seneca scolds me patronizingly when I disclose my new possession. The lecture turns just as quickly towards curiosity, then insistence that I deliver the journal to him as soon as possible. By the time the entire process is seen through, the reaping is only a week away.

            The victors all pack their metaphorical bags and disperse back to their home districts. The goodbye was a cheerful one, though the occasion is somber. The condemnation of children gives all of us a very needed break from our duties in the Capitol.

            District 4, used to the timeline of events, gives us a wary berth upon our arrival. We are the harbingers of death. Where we go, the Capitol ultimately follows. Our first day home, Finnick and I don’t leave the Victor’s Village a single time. Quite surprisingly, Wade visits his house almost immediately. When I open the door to allow her in, she spots Finnick napping on the couch, hair tousled as much as mine surely is. She barks out a laugh and with a gruff, “about damn time”. Then she presses a dense green cake into my hands and sees herself out.

            My embarrassment at being discovered lasts only a moment before it gives way to amusement. I turn to wondering how long Wade has been thinking about Finnick and I together. Long enough apparently to warrant a dismissive scold. Instead of choosing to sit in contemplation, I decide that I do want to track Wade down after all.

            She’s already back to her house by the time I make it outside. She answers her door after one knock.

            “Tired of his company already?” Wade quirks an eyebrow.

            “I missed yours, actually.” I reply.

            Wade makes a choked gagging sound. “Don’t lather me up with that softness.”

            “Fine,” I relent as she beckons me in.

            We settle in her living room, each sat in an intricate wooden rocking chair.

            “I half expected you to come home with Gloss on your arm instead,” Wade says bluntly. “But, I know how inaccurate the media can be.” She relents.

            “Actually not all that inaccurate on that front.” I admit. 

            “Oh lord.” Wade rolls her eyes. “That man is a live wire. Good in bed though.”

            “Wade!” I gasp in surprise.

            “I used to work the Capitol too, Miss Jones.” Wade makes a point to remind me. “Gloss has been there for a while as well. A bit too long to be a good match for you, actually.”

            “True,” I reply.

            “You’re over with Gloss now, though, right? You better be. I’ll never forgive ya if Finnick gets caught in that crossfire.” She glowers.

            “Yeah,” I say, sounding a lot more confident than I feel.

            What I don’t bother mentioning is that the boundary with Gloss has been exceedingly hard to maintain. Every chance he gets, Gloss attempts to rekindle the binge we found ourselves in. Every spar seems to end with him hovering overtop of me, dark questions in his eyes. I’ve been able to shirk him off each time, even suggesting we work on weapons training to keep him off of me.

            The reality is, the proximity is a problem. While I feel perfectly confident in my ability to ward off Gloss’s advances, they make me crave what we used to have. Even that small inclination in my mind feels like a horrifying level of betrayal. I know that when we return to the Capitol, I’ll have to enforce barriers to keep Gloss from evoking anything past exhaustion in our training sessions.

            If Wade senses my change in mood, she says nothing to acknowledge it. Instead, we turn to talking about the upcoming Hunger Games. She tells me that the academy has already picked out the two tributes they’ll send forth this year. She doesn’t sound at all confident about their odds. I don’t press her on it, remembering her distress at this time last year. She genuinely cares for the academy kids, though she’d probably never verbally admit it.

            She sends me on my way after just a bit more conversation. I head back for Finnick’s house with a newfound turmoil in my heart. Though I know I’ll have to think deeply about my predicament, I can’t bring myself to just yet.

Chapter Text

            Finnick’s front door is wide open when I approach his house. The sight sets me on edge. I hesitate for only a moment, held back by fear for whatever could be inside. The fear is quickly replaced by the determination to ensure that Finnick’s alright. There’s no falter in my step as I hurtle up the steps. Before I’m even through the door frame, I begin to hear yelling. Blood rushes to my ears. Shaking limbs carry me swiftly to the source of noise.

            In the kitchen stands a small band of people. A woman clutches a boy in her arms, red face streaming with tears. Finnick stands toe to toe with a man much larger than him, chin jutted out firmly in defiance. The man’s arm draws back, and I react much too slowly to prevent the blow from striking Finnick directly on the cheek.

            Finnick simply stumbles before straightening right back up, eyes locked once again onto the man. My hands fly to cover my mouth in shock. This time when the man moves to hit him again, I snap to action. I don’t even command my limbs to move, but I’m hanging from his forearm in an instant. My dead weight is enough to stop the assault, but the man throws me off easily. I don’t even feel my ass hit the floor, I’m back on my feet before I can even register the fall.

            While he shook me off as easily as a nuisance, my interference has stopped him in his tracks. He draws back towards the woman and child, eyes burning with emotion.

            “Don’t lay a fucking finger on her ever again.”

            Finally, the words being shouted register in my brain. Finnick swipes me behind him with a broad arm motion. He leaves both of his arms back, caging me away from whatever scene I’ve intruded on.

            “You’re a disrespectful little shit!” The man barks back. “What kind of son turns his mother away after neglecting her for a year?”

            “Pierre!” The woman is yelling now, reaching out to touch the man’s bicep. He shrugs her off, neglecting her tearful face to gaze at Finnick in reproach. “Please!” She cries desperately.

            “We should go.” The boy is the only one who looks at me directly.

            The man grunts at his words before spinning and storming out. The woman runs along behind him, stumbling to catch up. The boy stands still, gaze flickering back to Finnick after a moment.

            “He’ll cool off in a few days,” he says.

            “He always does,” Finnick scoffs.

            “You should come see Mom. She misses you. He’ll stop marching us over here every year if you just stop by sometimes.” The boy looks almost embarrassed to say it.

            “We’ll see.” Finnick’s voice is cold.

            The boy shrugs once, then he’s gone. He shuts the front door behind himself and leaves us in silence.

            Not willing to wait another moment, I take long strides to the entrance and bolt the lock in place behind the trio. Finnick doesn’t follow me. I have to walk back to the kitchen to reapproach him. He’s sitting, slumped slightly, in one of his dining chairs. The area around his left eye is already swollen and red, skin taught angrily around his cheekbone.

            We have to take care of that first, then we’ll talk. I grab an extremely old sack of peas from his freezer and move to press it gently against his face. He hisses when it makes contact, which reassures me that he’s still aware enough to feel pain. I crouch in front of him in order to hold it in place and observe the injury.

            The silence we fall into is stifling, but I know better than to break it with a question. All I’ll get in response to probing is a biting response. Instead, I move closer to him. My knees come to rest just inside his own, close enough that I’m tucked perfectly between them. He sighs at the contact.

            “So now you’ve met my family.” His remark is dry, obviously a cover.

            “They seem lovely.” The sarcastic reply falls from my lips easily.

            Finnick raises his eyebrows. I’ve definitely been spending too much time around Gloss.

            “I’m sorry, genuinely.” I amend. “I’ve just never been in this type of situation before.”

            “In the future, stay out of it.” His blunt response takes me by surprise.

            “I’m not going to stay out of it if you intend to let yourself get beaten to a pulp,” I argue.

            “He leaves quicker when I don’t fight back.” Finnick shrugs, life drained out of his eyes.

            “That doesn’t work for me.” My teeth clench together, straining the muscles in my jaw. “I won’t let that happen to you.”

            “It doesn’t always happen. Not often at all, actually.” Finnick waves me away dismissively, taking the peas from my hand and scooting back slightly. I take his cue and move to sit in the chair a few feet away. “Triton, my brother, was right. When I visit more often, the outbursts aren’t as bad.”

            “I swear to God if I ever see him lay a hand on you again…” I can’t seem to put together thoughts beyond the fury in my head.

            “You’ll do what? Get thrown again?” Finnick retorts.

            “Sure. It seemed to work this time!” I insist.

            “Are you hurt?” he asks. There’s less bite to this inquiry.

            “No.” I spit back at him, eyeing his already bruising skin.

            “They won’t come back for now.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Last year during the reaping week they came to visit as well. It’s the only time they know for sure that I’ll be here.”

            I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the door open again. I’m out of the chair in an instant, muscles taut with adrenaline once more. It’s not Finnick’s live-wire father though, it’s a stooped elderly woman, holding a small brass key in her wrinkled hands. Is this his grandmother? It almost makes me laugh.

            She walks towards him gingerly, as if every step requires the utmost effort. I turn to watch Finnick’s reaction, not wanting to jump the gun on defending him. He tosses the peas aside onto the tabletop and rises to meet her. They embrace, her head coming to rest just above his waist. When they draw back, her hand reaches up towards his face. He leans down to meet her, allowing her to trace gentle fingers across the marred skin.

            Words leave her mouth, garbled by an extreme district accent and what seems to be the after effects of a stroke. I piece the information together to conclude that this must be Mags Flannigan. My mind struggles to recall whether she’s the victor of the 10th or 11th Hunger Games. Either way, she’s the oldest living victor left. She shows her age, dark face crinkled like leather left out in the sun. The same evidence of a long-ago stroke leaves half of her face resting slightly lower than the other.

            Despite her roughness, she appears quite soft overall. Her fingers move across Finnick deftly, scanning to ensure there’s no more injuries. She shakes her head distastefully at the end of her search and smacks her lips. She speaks again, more quietly this time. Finnick shakes his head.

            “You don’t need to worry about me, Mags,” he says.

            He guides her to sit in the chair he occupied just a moment ago. She accepts his gesture, patting his hand in thanks once she’s fully seated. Finnick moves to stand just behind her, hands resting atop the chair’s back.

            “Fara, this is Mags. Mags, this is Fara. I take it the two of you haven’t met yet.” Finnick gestures between us.

            “Hello,” I say, feeling slightly awkward.

            She responds with a greeting of her own before turning slightly to rest her hand on top of Finnick’s. She asks him a question, something about the reaping I think.

            “No, I’m not planning on visiting them before I leave.” He shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t have to worry, really.”

            She shakes her head and gestures to his face before barking something at him.

            “Fara actually cut in early. She didn’t exactly give him the chance to do anything worse.” Finnick’s eyes finally twinkle with a trace of his usual humor.

            Mags turns to face me once again, placing her free hand over her chest. This time I understand exactly what she says.

            “Thank you.”

            I nod and smile slightly. “I don’t plan on letting it happen again.”

            She gives me a smile that contains more gum than tooth.

            Finnick asks if she’ll stay for tea, but she says something about going to sleep. They chat for a few more minutes. I’m content to watch them, fond of the warmth that passes between them so freely. I don’t realize that she’s asked me a direct question until silence fills the room. I jump slightly in my chair to attention and both of them chuckle at me.

            “She asked if she can walk you home,” Finnick informs me.

            “Oh.” I look between them, feeling a blush creeping over my cheeks as I formulate my response. “I’d… I’d like to stay for now if that’s alright.”

            “That’s alright.” Finnick meets my gaze with a steadfast look, so proudly inviting that I wish I’d never have to leave this place.

            Mags swivels completely in her chair to face Finnick completely. At this angle, I can’t hear a word of what she says.

            “Yes ma’am,” Finnick responds, entirely genuine.

            She pauses, then gives his hand a squeeze and speaks again.

            “Yes ma’am.” This time he’s laughing.

            We rise to guide her to the door, but Finnick allows her to leave on her own. We stand in the doorway, watching as she walks to her home. Her steps are slow but entirely solid, every movement is intentional. Finnick only lets the door slip shut when she’s all the way up her own porch steps. We hover in the entryway, neither of us quite sure what to do next. Finnick moves first, wrapping his arms around me in a soft embrace. I squeeze back, firmly enough to assure him that I’m still here though the burned adrenaline leaves me feeling shaky and hollow. My limbs don’t feel like they belong to me, they’re far too long and spindly to control right now.

            “I think that I’m interested in an early bedtime tonight as well.” Finnick releases me to look down at me

            “Can I join you?” I ask, feeling strangely bold.

            Sure, we’ve ended up falling asleep together a few times in the past, but those were usually on couches or chairs in common areas. Neither of us has ever tried to cross the boundary into the other’s bed. Finnick looks hesitant.

            “You don’t have to say yes,” I amend. “I’m perfectly happy to sleep on your couch. I don’t want to leave you alone tonight though.”

            “It’s okay, my bed has plenty of room.” His tone is joking, but his twitching muscles betray his nerves.

            “Are you sure?” I ask.

            “Positive,” he responds.

            He leads the way up the stairs. The tension running through his body leaves me feeling as though he’ll flee any second, like a fawn too far from it’s doe. He asks me to wait in the hallway while he changes his clothes and I readily oblige.

            In the silence he leaves behind, my fingers intertwine and unwind rapidly. I don’t know how to navigate this side of Finnick. Defensive, cocky, flirty, boisterous. All are versions of him that I’ve come to master. But unsure, nervous Finnick is uncharted territory. Even when he faced down his father, he did it with conviction. When I simply asked him to stay the night, he fell into insecurity headfirst.

            When the door opens again, he looks only slightly more at ease. His shoulders creep up towards his neck nearly imperceptibly as he beckons me in. He stands in the middle of the room, looking entirely out of place in his own home. His eyes are sweeping over me, patiently awaiting my move. It takes a moment before I fully register that I’m going to have to take the initiative on everything.

            I tread towards his bed, he follows shortly after. I sit down, he sits down beside me. I scoot into the corner and he allows himself to stretch out on top of the comforter.

            “Are you scared of me?” I finally ask, unable to take it any longer.

            “What? No.” He shakes his head.

            “You’re acting strangely,” I insist.

            “I’m not,” he argues.

            “Finnick, I’ve spent the better part of two years around you. I can most definitely tell when you’re nervous.”

            He looks away, out towards the bay window on the opposing wall.

            “I suppose I am nervous. But I’m not scared of you .”

            “Then what are you scared of?” I probe gently.

            “I’m scared that I’ll ruin it.” He pulls his knees into his chest. “I always find a way to destroy the things that mean the most. I don’t want to fuck up again.”

            “I’ve always come back, haven’t I?” I maneuver so that I sit right in front of him, forcing eye contact.

            “Yeah, but I don’t want to wait another year for another shot.” He shakes his head.

            “We’ve both gotten a lot better at being honest with each other, and, really that’s all that matters. A small mistake isn’t going to ruin anything. As long as you’re being genuine, it will be okay.” Emotions aren’t exactly my best area of expertise, but I try my hardest to relate to him.

            “You’re right.” He sighs. “But it’s still not easy.”

            “You can start by asking,” I suggest. “Just ask before you do anything and no harm will be done. Eventually it’ll feel natural to just go with it. I’ll do the same.” I’m talking out of my ass now, but it makes some sense. “Go on, try it. What do you want to do?”

            “Brush my teeth.” He laughs out loud. That’s a start. “But I don’t think I need to ask to do that.”

            So we begin with that. We move through our respective nightly processes before we try heading to bed again.

            “Can I get in your bed?” I ask. He responds affirmatively.

            “Is it alright for me to get under the blanket?” He asks me.

            “Is it alright if I do too?” I ask back.

            We progress back and forth. It makes the process slow, but Finnick finally begins to relax. After a long round of dialogue, we finally find ourselves in comfortable enough positions to sleep in. We each mutter a shy goodnight to each other before turning to face opposite directions. Finnick falls asleep long before I do, soft breathing filling the air like music. My mind runs far too quickly to feel any thralls of sleep pull at me. 

            I can’t help but to think helplessly of Finnick’s family. It horrifies me to process the fact that he spent his formative years inside a household containing such a violent presence. I’d heard about abusive parents before, but only in mutters exchanged between teachers at school. Never in my life did I feel the pain of a physical correction from my mother. Most adults in District 3 were taught enough about human psychology to understand that positive punishment is rarely as effective as positive or negative reward. Yet, I don’t feel that a parent should need a background in psychology to know not to punch their child in the face. 

            In my stomach, a flame of anger starts up. I feel myself begin to tense with the enormous tide of grief that rushes through me. I grieve for Finnick, and for my mother. Both of whom deserved a much better life than they were dealt. Both came out of horrendous conditions and chose not only to treat others with the kindness they were denied, but to thrive on it.

            After being forced to fight to the death at 16 years old, my mother decided to put her entire life into raising a child that she may not have even wanted. She gave me every ounce of love she could and was killed for it. No amount of time has lessened the rage I feel at the unfairness of her murder. Sadness has long since given way to a sense of righteous injustice that burns much hotter. It burns to think too long about it, so I find myself often distracting myself when the memories of her golden presence surface.

            I feel myself begin to shake with the power of dwelling on it, but this time I let myself feel it all. But only for a moment. Anger for the sake of anger is entirely unproductive. I won’t be sleeping much tonight, so I might as well make use of my time.

            I begin thinking through my principles, through my intel, and through my insights into everything that matters now. I backtrack to the beginning, lining up the exact timeline of events and information to navigate through. When I reach the end of it, I strain to create the next steps. My brain tires quickly, not used to this new style of synthesis and creative problem solving for events that haven’t come to transpire yet. I allow myself breaks in between long stretches of thought, just the same way Gloss gives me time between particularly strenuous exercises.

            My main point of contention lies in the Quarter Quell. Though Plutarch is entirely confident in his plan’s ability to rouse outrage and rebellion, I feel less than enthused about it. Not only for the lack of humanity, the plan lacks a solid betrayal that would be paramount to sewing more than regular tension. The Capitol already steals their children. While the horror of shattered safety gates of age are sure to wreak havoc on individual families, I doubt very much that it will have a communal effect beyond extra support towards grieving families. Something more fundamental must be challenged.

            The District citizens already know that they’re at constant risk. While their eight-year-old might not be reaped on reaping day, there’s nothing stopping a particularly nasty peacekeeper from killing them in the street for any number of meaningless infractions. We must find a way to breach a principle so stolid that to even suggest the trespass condemns the Capitol to inarguable immorality.

            The idea comes to me in the form of an intrusive thought. We’ve got to go back in . My eyes snap open to gaze at the ceiling. It’s the only way to start a rebellion with no new casualties . I turn on my shoulder to stare at the boy sleeping beside me. Most of the victors admit they died in the arena years ago anyway . The full force of the betrayal that my thoughts suggest hits me all at once.

            Images of my friends flood through my mind. Grant surfaces, playing chess with his feet tucked below him and sunlight streaming across his face. Then Ronan, wide smile peering over a hand of hidden cards. Blight sits in his room, gazing at walls of dried flowers that, though I’ve never seen before, looks perfectly clear. I exhale loudly. I can’t do it.

            I can’t suggest an alternative where I offer all of my closest friends as sacrificial offerings to fuel a fledgling fire. Ethically, I can’t let this idea see the light of day. It’s the perfect combination of variables, but I can’t possibly choose to manipulate the games in this direction. It’s a horribly real version of the trolley problem that we studied in school. Should I switch tracks to save children and allow my friends to die? Either way, the outcome is the death of 23 unwilling participants.

            I try my best to forget about it in the coming days. Finnick offers a welcome distraction from the moral quandary, finally learning to have confidence in voicing his desires. While his serious inquiries rarely stray past mundane requests for physical contact, he’s back to his usual jaunty self. The constant flirting which was disconcerting when we first met now offers me a precise indication that he’s okay. The combination of our comfort in District 4 and our newfound complete honesty leaves our relationship better than ever before.

            Last year, I spent the night before the reaping curled up alone in my house crying. This year, we spend it wrapped in each other’s arms. Neither of us sleeps much, but we find solace in having company. The reaping itself flies by in a blur of action. The girl is named Marina, the boy is named Tim. Wade will mentor Marina, Finnick will mentor Tim. These details are the only ones I can remember as we board the train.

            When Finnick and I settle into my room, he tells me that this will be the last time we can sleep together for the foreseeable future. He needs to devote his full attention to keeping his tributes alive. I don’t argue.

            Finnick wakes several times in the night, drenched in cold sweat and reeking of fear. Each subsequent time, I lay my hand on his chest and help him to regulate his breathing, painfully aware that there’s little else I can do. My efforts feel akin to whispers in a windstorm; present, but inconsequential. In the morning I join him to dine with the tributes, something that I intentionally avoided last year. Marina and Tim are polite enough, both well spoken and seemingly unphased by the ordeal they’re traversing.

            I try to compare Marina to myself at this point in the journey. I stormed away from meals and cried in my quarters, feeling sorry for myself every chance that I got. She sits with a straight back, cool eyes evaluating everything in front of her like machinery. She gets along well with Wade, they both carry the same gruffness and distaste for small talk.

            Tim is more reserved, not speaking unless he’s directly addressed. His face is set into a permanent glower, which contrasts strikingly with the baby-fat that still clings to his jaw. He tells us that he’s sixteen, but he doesn’t look a day over fourteen. I don’t let his childlike features fool me, though. I know that he has years of academy experience under his belt. He’s just as deadly as Seamus was, even if he doesn’t parade around boasting it at the top of his lungs.

            When the mentors decide to turn the TV on to watch reapings from the other Districts, I’m gripped with the realness of the moment. My eyes look to Finnick, hoping to find reassurance in his eyes. Instead, I watch as his brow sets low and his teeth find his lip. The habit of his isn’t unfamiliar to me, but it’s only ever reared when he gets caught up in a particularly tricky game of chess. I leave them at the table to sit on the couch. I feel them watch the screen over the top of my head, my skin prickles with the feeling of vulnerability. I can’t bring myself to return to my seat at the table though, I can’t bear to sit across from Finnick for a moment more.

            While he laments his hatred for the Hunger Games for the majority of the year, he sure knows how to switch gears into the perfect mentor flawlessly. I have no right to judge him for it, I’ve never been in his position before. Logic tells me that I’d probably behave just the same if I had the responsibility of human life placed on my shoulders, but my heart tells me that I couldn’t put aside morality to play the sick game. I’d be a terrible mentor, it’s an extremely lucky thing that Wade has no interest in stepping down. As I observe the District 12 crowd with a scrutinizing eye, I muse that our purposes for watching the reapings aren’t really all that dissimilar. He watches the tributes, hoping to gain leverage; I watch the people, hoping to do the same.

            The people of the coal mining district look downtrodden, but I suppose that I’ve never seen them look any other way. The dark haired coal miners look no more thin than I remember them in person, hopefully it means that their winter wasn’t too harsh. I barely even notice as the first name is called. The camera focuses quickly on a girl, pale and small and hardly even into adolescence. Plutarch’s comment rings loudly in my ears, we’re required to have a twelve year old . So here she is. The cruelty of it all is enough to distract me entirely.

            Then, quite suddenly, she’s replaced by another girl. The yell of the volunteer is ragged and visceral. It leaves no doubt in my mind that she must be the little one’s sister. She gathers herself quite well after the initial frenzy, walking to the stage with a coolness that only ever accompanies the career tributes. I find myself holding my breath as I watch the crowd begin to move behind her. The cameras jump to a new angle, but I feel sure that there was some sort of rally. Whether physical or verbal, I don’t get the chance to dwell on it. The male tribute is called quickly. The silence after his name is read is stifling. Nobody volunteers to take his place.

            The next reaping clip satisfies the Capitol’s demand for youth. A girl just as small as the last one is chosen for slaughter, unluckily it seems that she has no bold older sister. The crowd in District 11 is fidgety. It might be my imagination, but I read them as more unrestful than usual. Nostrils flare wide when the little girl is called up onto the stage, but no powder keg of action explodes.

            The next ten districts fly by with very few notes on my end. When the last tape finishes, the group behind me begins their discussion. I try my best to tune it out while I gather my own thoughts, but it’s not easy. They mention the tributes from Districts 1 and District 2 as threats, no surprise there. They mention the large boy from District 11 as well, lamenting about both his age and stature. When Finnick presses the kids to see if they noticed any other particularly dangerous competitors, they remain silent. Against my own better judgment, I fill in the gap.

            “The girl from 12 is one to keep an eye on.”

            I hear Marina scoff at my assertion.

            “She’s the odd one out,” I insist. “They always seem to have a better chance of winning. I was the odd one out in the 72nd ‘games and I hardly had to lift a finger to win.”

            “The girl may be ignorant of skills, but she’s keen on strategy. You’d do well to listen.” Wade reinforces my claim.

            When I spin to look back at her, she harbors no praise in her eyes. Wade is a woman of business right now; I offered intel and she chose to take it. That’s all.

            I can stand no more of the atmosphere of formality, so I head for my room without another word. An ache forms in my chest at the emptiness that settles in to me in the absence of my companion. Although Finnick and I have only just begun to reside with one another, it’s become one of the few constants in my life that I relish in. The rest of the train ride back to the Capitol is entirely isolating.

Chapter Text

            I welcome Ronan’s party invite with open arms this year, though last year I’d neglected to consider attending entirely. The celebration is a simple, cheeky nod to the fact that it’s the one night a year we spend in the Capitol where it’s practically ensured that we’ll have no appointments. The nation’s eye will be fixed upon the 24 new children who’ve arrived in the Capitol, not one moment of focus to be spared on prostitutes. Naturally, the only victors able to attend are those that aren’t charged with the monumental task of mentoring. That leaves only seven of us.

            The group that gathers together in the lounge is one I’ve never before seen in the same room. Grant and Ronan are already settled on a couch together when I enter. Augustus and Achilles arrive together, unsurprisingly, while Gaia comes into the room alone for the first time ever. When Magnus shows up, already partially drunk, we’ve reached our party’s capacity.

            Ronan’s first mission of the night is to get us all thoroughly wasted. That’s easy enough, being especially desirable considering the fact that the tribute parade starts in just under an hour. Even for victors, the events of the Hunger Games retain non-optional viewing status. We’re all aware of the fact that the TV will spring to life at precisely 7:00 pm with an immutable volume loud enough to rattle the chess board. The only way we can dull the impact is by taking matters into our own hands.

            Augustus turns out to be quite the skilled bartender, he evidently hasn’t lost any aptitude towards his victor talent. He’s able to fulfill every complex request that we have. Gaia puts him through his paces right off the bat, ordering a bloody mary and explaining that she won’t accept it if it’s subpar. Achilles orders a chocolate martini which has his older friend grumbling in annoyance despite his deft hands. Grant’s request is much easier to fulfill - vodka soda neat. Magnus and Ronan choose to drink brown liquor straight from the bottle, not bothering to wait in line. By the time it’s my turn, I’ve only just realized that the few drinks I’ve enjoyed have been the ones Gloss has ordered for me. I flounder for a moment, stumbling into insecurity before recentering myself.

            “I don’t have any preferences.” I inform Augustus, who waits with an expectant face.

            I expect pushback, and I’m surprised when I get none.

            “We’ll do a few shots together and then have beer.” He states, grinning. “We can try to figure out your palette another time, right now my job is just to get you plastered.”

            That arrangement works in my favor. Though the liquor burns on the way down, the sensation is temporary. The carbonation of the beer helps to cut through the lingering vapors that seem to cling to my throat. The beverage is mild, earthy, and far easier to drink than anything I’ve had before.

            The two of us rejoin the group together, coming to settle on either side of Magnus on the largest of the couches. I eye the space between Ronan and Grant across the room guilty before deciding that moving would, in fact, be a rude gesture towards my current neighbors. I settle back into the cushions, as if to convince my body of my mind’s decision. I stare down at the rim of my own drink as I listen to the unmistakable sound of Magnus chugging from his bottle beside me. It makes a popping sound as he pulls it from his lips. He casts his gaze over to me, smiling haphazardly.

            “I ever tell ya that they said I was your dad for a while?” He asks.

            “Yeah,” I reply, nodding. He’s mentioned it quite a few times, actually.

            “I thought I might be, couldn’t remember too much from around that time.” He runs a finger over the glass lip. “Surprised they haven’t made us entertain together yet.” He snorts.

            They have. Evidently his memory still isn’t so great.

            “Wouldn’t mind that so much actually, you’re a pretty girl,” he remarks.

            A muscle twinges in my shoulder, fighting against my own will to draw away from him.

            “Shut up, Magnus,” Gaia snaps from her seat on the floor next to the coffee table. “Don’t be gross.”

            “Not bein’ gross,” he retorts. “Ran into Gloss enough times coming home that I figured she was over being a prude.”

            “And you also figured that using a pick up line involving the fact that you thought I was your daughter was your best shot?” I inquire dryly. Though I appreciate Gaia, I don’t need any help fending off Magnus’s clumsy advance.

            Magnus grumbles an unintelligible excuse before getting up and moving to an armchair across the room. Movement from Grant catches my eye, his shoulders shake with traces of a stifled laugh. When our eyes meet, I find mirth within his, pupils starkly contrasting the light glossy sheen of blue. I make an exaggerated show of rolling my eyes and shuddering. My actions only serve to push him further into silent hysterics. The interaction is ended by a gentle cuff from Ronan to the back of his head.

            When everyone finally devolves into tipsy conversations, Grant and I make our way towards each other. We shirk the formality of chairs to settle on the floor together. Grant sits with his legs crossed in front of him at the ankles, leaning back on hands outstretched behind him. His feet sway back and forth at odd intervals as he speaks, making up for the copious amount of hand gestures that usually accompany his speech. His hair is getting long, to the point where it borders on looking unkempt. Though he’s always the one among us who gets away with looking boyishly ruffled, I suspect that his stylist will insist on cutting it soon.

            He’s in a talkative mood, tongue loosened by the liquor he’s consumed and continues to consume at an alarming rate. I’m content to let him ramble about his visit home for the reaping, it seems to reinvigorate him. He speaks of the warmth of summer, how the melting of snow in the north is always a welcome occurrence. The sentiment is quite unlike the one found in District 4, which resents the brutal blast of heat which accompanies the summer months. When I had the brief chance to catch up with Piper and Tandy, both lamented the challenge of the extreme temperature. Tandy complained of food at her stall having a shorter serving window and Piper of having no method of cooling the shop to a desirable level. Growing up, seasons in District 3 were nothing if not moderate. The winters rarely froze and the heatwaves were never enough to threaten a livelihood. It’s something I never considered before moving.

            Grant’s just begun to speak about his family when we’re interrupted by the blaring of the Capitol anthem. A groan of annoyance rings out from his already parted lips, I find myself following suit. The shift in the room is instant, both in atmosphere and physical positioning. Ronan and Magnus relocate to sit beside me and Grant near the back of the entertainment area, leaving Gaia, Augustus, and Achilles at the front. Whether their move is a result of conscious or subconscious thought, I can’t tell, but I know exactly what divide it paints between us. The three in the front watch the screen with bated breath, positively raring to see the costumes and commentary. The three men beside me watch with soured expressions, through eyes so heavily squinted that it seems impossible that they’re seeing anything at all.

            When Cesar Flickerman begins his introduction, Magnus tips his brown bottle entirely upright and drains it for the last drop. He lets out a loud belch and tosses it over his shoulder. The sound of shattering glass briefly drowns out the babbling coming from the speakers. Gaia wheels around, deadly look in her eyes fixing onto Magnus. I find myself feeling a strange draw to defend him. My head spins with the absurdity of it.

            In a comedic exaggeration of opposition, Magnus rises, flips her the bird, and proceeds to throw himself face-first into the couch beside us. I doubt he’ll rise again for the entire night.

            With a grumble, the three young victors turn their attention back to the screen. Ronan adds his own sigh to the chorus and leans heavily into the wooden counter behind us. Grant and I follow suit. The bite of the carpet below my crossed ankles is just uncomfortable enough to feel appropriate. The couch seems much too casual, front row seating seems much too eager. Watching uncomfortably from across the room is just right.

            The Capitol seal has just begun to fade from the screen when the first tribute chariot is displayed on screen. District 1 has opted for classic this year, snow white horses and silvery jeweled tunics. The roar of the crowd can be heard over the music being played through the speakers. Their stylist rarely disappoints. District 2 is similarly tasteful, if mundane. Giovani and the other District 4 stylist have gone with a coral theme this year, both tributes are covered in intricate patchworks of pastel textures. It’s beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to the work Giovani used to do. In the past few years, his pieces seem less and less focused. I can’t blame him, all of his designs were ripped apart and restitched for nearly a full year after my win. That type of artistic strangulation can’t be easy.

            District 5 has almost no theme visible in their dress, the only thing cohesive about it is the use of grayscale. District 6 is similarly bland, yet I’m sure that the outfits would shine in any other setting. This is one of the most influential fashion events of the year though, so it seems that risk taking could be incredibly rewarding.

             Stop . My reprimand rings out to reverberate in my skull. I’m doing exactly what they want me to do. I’m appraising the event for style and class when I should be using it to plan their downfall. It’s nearly impossible to combat the urge. The dresses truly are beautiful and the event is mesmerizing. Of course it is, it’s been engineered to be for decades. It’s formulaically entrancing. I manage to dull my internal monologue to only a boring trickle, but I feel all the more miserable for it.

            My strategy comes to a halt the second the camera flicks to the District 12 carriage. Ronan leans forward, brow scrunched low over his eyes before it shoots to his hairline. I don’t bother masking my interest anymore, leaning forward as well to get a better look. The tributes are on fire. But it doesn’t appear as though they’re burning. It’s synthetic fire. Not an easy feat to pull off, not at all.

            The flame draws attention, but the actual styling of the tributes keeps it. The boy and girl hold hands, peering shyly at the crowds of people to their sides. They look excellent, makeup and hair perfectly done, nothing beyond the realm of tastefulness. Their stylist has just secured them a spot in every conversation in the Capitol tonight. I think of Gennetty, Lucia, and Katya, all lamenting about not getting the newly opened stylist spot in District 12. I doubt any of the three of them could have done as much as this unknown new stylist has. This type of advantage is an extremely dangerous edge for the tributes to wield.

            This powerhouse introduction paired with the girl’s choice to volunteer for her sister leaves me with no doubt that District 12 is going to have a large role to play in the 74th Hunger Games. The camera cuts to a shot encompassing all of the tributes, revealing the fact that every eye is on the pair. Goosebumps prickle at my skin, my fingers roam the coarse texture absentmindedly.

            “Wow.” Grant’s voice breaks the silence of our reserved withdrawn observation.

            “District 12’s new stylist certainly came in with a bang.” Ronan agrees.

            We fall silent again, listening halfheartedly to the chatter of our eager companions up front. Grant reaches languidly towards the half-full bottle of liquor in Ronan’s fingers. Ronan hands it over with no protest.

            “The kid from ‘5 this year is my little sister’s boyfriend.” Grant says after taking a drink.

            “Shit, sorry.” Ronan shakes his head slightly.

            “Eh, ‘s fine. Didn’t really know him that well. Not like I’m home long enough during the year to play older brother.” He laughs cynically. 

            My brows pull together in concern and I lay a hand across his slumped shoulders.

            “I told Lizzy I’d take care of him, help him win, ya’ know?” Grant lets loose another laugh. “There’s not a damn thing I can do. I don’ think this head gamemaker cares much for men.” He turns heavily to face me. “What d’you think? Would Seneca Crane want a tall scrawny glass of water like me?”

            “I… I don’t know.” I’m disturbed by his insinuation.

            “Might’ve had a chance if it was still Lestrand. Eh, I don’ know, he definitely preferred ‘em big. Like Monty or Finnick. Yeah, Finnick … Finnick got the timing just right.” Grant’s slurring has become more intense with his increasing fervor.

            “Shut the hell up.” Ronan barks, loudly enough that Gaia looks back at us disapprovingly. He stares her down unwaveringly, but does concede to lower his voice and lean in towards us to continue. “You know nothing of Lestrand, and the last thing you should be wishing for is to be anywhere near him.”

            “Sorry, Ronan. I know you ‘n Monty were close.” Grant rests his head on top of his tented knees, body swaying a bit when his eyes are fully covered. “Lestrand di’nt kill Finnick though. Might not’a killed me.”

            “Fucking hell, kid, stop.” Ronan clenches his jaw, so hard that I can imagine the sound of teeth cracking.

            “Wha’d’you think, Fara? How’s life been after you won? Was it worth one bad night for Finnick?” His eyes are still pressed into his knees, mouth falling open to breathe more deeply.

            “What?” I’m so taken aback that I can’t seem to think of anything else to say.

            “Let’s go to my room.” Ronan reaches over to snatch the remaining dregs of liquor from Grant’s loose hand. He finishes it off before standing and approaching our plastered friend.

            Ronan has to physically pull Grant into an upright position, then slings his arm over his shoulder to steady him as we walk. Our progress is slow, which gives me a dreaded amount of time to think.

            Grant very clearly implied that it’s possible to bribe the head gamemaker for a win. Not only that, but that Finnick did exactly that to secure my win. My mental confirmation of that fact sends a wave of nausea through me, coming to settle as a piercing headache behind my eyes. Grant’s assessment makes a lot of sense when I think about it objectively. I won the 72nd Hunger Games based on nothing but apparent dumb luck. Seneca Crane even admitted to me at our first meeting that he intentionally created that alcove in the mountains for me, so it’s not that unbelievable that gamemakers aren’t exactly scrupulous. By the time we make it to Ronan’s room, I’m at the very precipice of a spiral. If I take one more step, I feel that I’ll fall headfirst into a tumultuous sea of thought.

            “Can you get the door?” Ronan’s prompting pulls my eyes away from the tile floor beneath me.

            “Oh, yeah.” I step forward hurriedly to pull it open, greeted instantly by the ear splitting volume of the TV in the corner.

            Ronan stumbles in, Grant having finally decided not to try to carry any of his own weight anymore. He lets him slump onto the ground, only breaking his fall slightly. I cringe, thinking of the pain his tailbone will likely be in tomorrow morning. 

            “Get me a drink.” Grant groans, shifting clumsily to sit up against Ronan’s desk.

            “No, you’ve already had plenty.” Ronan shakes his head firmly. “It’s weird to see you so pushy.” He adds with a laugh and sits beside him, seemingly brushing off his earlier agitation.

            “Did Finnick bribe Lestrand for my win?” I blurt out, not bothering to introduce the topic at a more polite time.

            Ronan’s freshly relaxed face pulls taut once more. The blare of the TV fills the silence so it’s not quite as stark as it could be.

            “Ohhh yeah.” Grant answers for him.

            The breath is forced from my lungs at his confirmation. So Finnick really did make the choice to guarantee the death of the 23 other kids who went in with me.

            “Try not to think about it too much.” Ronan eyes me cautiously.

            “Do you know me?” I blurt out, fighting to remain steadfast against the alcohol in my blood.

            “Fair enough.” Ronan concedes. “Think out loud then. That’s not a good topic to ruminate on solo.”

            “I’ll pass,” I say.

            “Kid-”

            “I just want to hear him out before I say anything I might regret.” I cut Ronan off before he can make a case against me.

            “Alright.” He dips his head. “How about another beer?”

            I allow him to get me another drink, ignoring Grant’s requests to share with him. Instead I try to distract him with more talk of the changing of seasons in District 5. The TV suddenly turns off, interrupting our conversation with the end to the mandatory broadcast. Ronan sighs lightly. It sounds crisp in the wake of the former commotion of noise. His eyes slip closed, face beginning to settle once more.

            “I’m gonna throw up,” Grant groans and Ronan’s eyes are open in an instant.

            “Not on my carpet!” he yells, grabbing the boy’s shoulders and heaving him bodily towards the bathroom.

            I run after them quickly, arriving in the doorway just in time to see Grant dry-heave into the toilet. It doesn’t take long before he’s expelling his guts.

            “You kids are going to be the death of me.” Ronan sits heavily on the edge of the large jacuzzi-tub.

            “I’m not a kid,” Grant mumbles into the echoey chamber of porcelain below his face.

            “You can’t hold your liquor for shit,” Ronan taunts.

            “I’m 25. I’m not a kid.”

            “You have a rock collection.”

            “I’m not a kid.” Grant no longer has any argument, only bothering to weakly restate his sentiment before heaving once more.

            I sit next to him on the floor, letting my hand come to rest on his back. He flinches at the contact, shoulders tensing to his neck until his brain processes that it’s only me. When he swivels slightly to look at me, his muscles slacken completely.

            “I’m not a kid.” He holds eye contact with me until I speak.

            “I know.” Is all I can think to say.

            His hand reaches for my free one and I let him take it. To my relief, Ronan says nothing about the gesture being at all child-like. Instead he stands on top of the tub to crack the small window open above it. Along with the cool night air comes the sound of people partying in the streets.

            “Do they never sleep?” I snap at Ronan as if somehow it’s his fault.

            “They live on the bloodthirst all the way through to the end of the ‘games.” Is all he offers walking out of the bathroom before he’s even finished.

            Guilt suppresses my annoyance. My temper, while greatly improved, still isn’t perfect. I focus on rubbing my hand across Grant’s back. I suspect the motion soothes me as much as it does him. Evidently not deterred by my attitude, Ronan returns after only a minute. In his hand he clutches two drinks, sweating already with condensation. When he hands one of them to me, I press the cool glass against my forehead.

            “Drink that and you’ll forget about the noise,” he says.

            I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose. A small sip tells me that this is just orange juice. When I glance up at Ronan to search his face for traces of a joke, I see nothing but a raised eyebrow of challenge. So no, it’s definitely not just orange juice. I don’t bother with asking more questions, instead just appreciating that it doesn’t taste acrid.

            My mouth tastes horribly acrid. When I part my lips to draw in fresh air, the dryness of my tongue forces me to cough heavily. I try to raise my head, but I’m met with a horrible pounding headache that forces me to drop back to my pillow. My pillow lets out a heavy groan. I open my eyes in surprise.

            Brown flannel shirt lies just below me, rumpled so horribly that I have to peer around it to see Ronan’s face. Despite the pounding of my head, I maneuver into a sitting position. We’re in the tub, pressed together by the plastic walls. Grant lies on his back on Ronan’s other side, legs on his chest and feet shoved precariously close to the older man’s face.

            Images come to me in disjointed order. I remember Grant singing a District 5 work song, loud and brash while Ronan and I clapped along. Then Ronan doing impressions of our friends, drink held precariously between his thumb and middle finger. Then Grant laughing hysterically, mouth drawn open impossibly far. Muscles on my stomach stretch painfully when I twist to read the time on the clock and I remember that I too was laughing unrestrained at Ronan for hours.

            I rise shakily to my feet, gripping the side of the tub for support. I think I’ve probably missed out on breakfast with the District 4 tributes and mentors, which actually comes as quite a relief. Stumbling onto the District 4 floor in front of them, violently hungover and disheveled, seems a bit disrespectful. At that thought, I make use of Ronan’s interface to order a new set of clothes and medication. Once I’ve employed both, I begin the horribly long trek to get breakfast.

            The halls are disconcertingly occupied by faces I’m only marginally familiar with. I rake my fingers through my hair self-consciously as I walk, convinced that everyone who sees me probably resents the fact that I was obviously celebrating inappropriately last night. Mentors and tower staff alike must see the guilt written all over my face. Children for slaughter were uprooted and paraded in front of the Capitol last night and what did I do about it? Drink and laugh. I’m not much better than the people partying in the streets last night, despite my severe criticism of them.

            “Never figured you’d be someone I’d catch doing the walk of shame.”

            My eyes flicker up to watch Haymtich Abernathy approach me head on.

            “Never figured I’d see you sober enough to be awake by nine in the morning,” I shoot back.

            “You wound me.” He clutches his chest in mock outrage before dropping the act. “The kids this year made a deal with me.”

            “Must have been one hell of a deal.” I remember the flaming costumes of District 12 last night. “They’ve got a pretty solid start.”

            “We’ll see.” His lips press into a thin line and his hand twitches towards his pocket, where I’m sure a flask must be tucked away.

            I press onward, flooded by relief when I reach the mostly empty victor lounge. Magnus is exactly where he passed out last night, face down into the couch furthest from the TV. Gloss and Cashmere sit together by a table at the window, heads bowed in conversation. When my footfalls catch their attention, they lean back quickly. Cashmere gestures me over to sit with them so I do after ordering breakfast on the tablet at the counter. When I’m seated with them, her eyes rake over my appearance, but she says nothing about it. Gloss is surprisingly quiet about it too, only fixing me with a knowing smirk before engaging in regular conversation.

            Cashmere asks about my time in District 4 as I pick at my scrambled eggs and toast. I give her a noncommittal answer of gratification. She thankfully doesn’t press me, but I can tell that my behavior puts a thorn in her side. I can’t bring myself to fully feel any regret until the effects of the medication have kicked in, but by the time that happens she’s up and out of the room. She says something about planning for interviews, eliciting a groan from Gloss that tells me all I need to know about their team dynamic for mentoring tributes.

            In our newly found solitude, Gloss sees fit to bring up the topic of our training hours. He mentions that we’ll have to transition from our recent morning hours to late at night in order to dodge the tribute training sessions for the next two days. I mean to tell him that it might be better for us to end them entirely, but the sentiment gets stuck in my throat like a particularly dry bite of toast. In the end, I end up agreeing to meet him at midnight after a fair bit of goading on his part.

            His final word on the matter is the perfect final straw in convincing me to show my face on the District 4 floor. It seems that food and time have done me favors, passerbys don’t seem to be staring anymore and nobody bothers to stop me to comment on their surprise at my late night. It’s also a very real possibility that it has more to do with the lightening of my own insecurity than any miracle cures.

            Finnick is focussed enough not to notice me when I walk into the common area, eyes locked onto his brown journal with an unwavering intensity. Only when I sit down beside him does he break concentration to look up at me. Below his eyes are dark circles, seemingly forcing them backwards into his skull. I wordlessly snake my arm behind his taut shoulders. At the contact of my arm on his shirtless skin, the tension releases. He leans towards me almost imperceptibly.

            “You were out late,” he comments.

            I only nod, too distracted to come up with a better answer. It’s almost entirely unbelievable that the simple act of contact changed his entire posture. The fact is doubly confounding when considering that it was my contact that did it. My heart warms with a rush of fondness towards him and with it comes the familiar rush of heat to my cheeks.

            “Where did you end up?” He prompts.

            “All of the non-mentors started in the lounge, but Ronan took me and Grant to his room when Grant got too drunk too fast,” I explain.

            “That’s not like him.” Finnick turns his head to look at me, pushing our faces dangerously close.

            “He knows one of the tributes this year.” I’m careful not to expose too much, unsure of how comfortable Grant is with that information spreading.

            “Bad luck.” Finnick huffs.

            “Yeah.” I can’t pull my eyes away from his lips.

            They’re pursed in contemplation, teeth caught on one side. There’s a redness there, irritation from the increased use of the gesture under stress. On anyone else, it’d be forgettable at best. But on him, it simultaneously breaks my heart and makes me yearn for him more. Never before have I allowed myself to think of him so unrestrained. I’ve cleared the barbed prongs of judgment from that corner of my mind. It’s permissible to think of him like this now, to want him like this .

            I lean forward and press my lips to his. He starts slightly, flinching before returning the gesture. His hand reaches up to ghost against my cheek, gently corralling me in before letting go and pulling back. He smiles shyly, eyebrows lifted in a way that makes him look incredibly young. His high cheekbones rise to the point that his eyes squint at me, glossy and bright. I only observe him for a second longer before he breaks the spell and kisses me again.

            This time, I don’t want to let him go so quickly. I lean towards him, hand coming to rest against his chest. The feeling of his own hand on the back of my head makes me sigh in satisfaction. I allow my fingers to roam against his bare chest, then down to his firm stomach. The change is immediate. He lets go of me entirely and stands from the couch.

            “Is that not okay?” I ask, the feeling of hurt lodging into my chest.

            “Are you okay with that?” He responds with his own question, eyebrows raised high.

            I nod.

            “It just… Feels a little fast.” He casts his eyes away from me.

            He seems embarrassed. Is he embarrassed about his own actions or mine? His avoidance makes me suspect the latter is true. A pit of frustration builds within me. He’s the one who’s been flirting for two years. It seems unfair that he’d be ashamed that I’m actually acting on the insinuations he’s made for the entire period of our friendship.

            “Okay.” Is all I say.

            He sits back down after a moment, suggesting that I join him in watching the parade clips with him. He says that he’s taking notes to try to anticipate the angles the other tributes will choose to leverage during interviews. Even before our disagreement, that proposal wouldn’t have been appealing. But now, with the fresh sting of rejection heavy in the air, it seems downright repulsive. I tell him that I’m tired from my late night and that I’m going to my room to sleep. It’s halfway true, I do feel terribly exhausted. There’s no way in hell I’ll be sleeping though.

            The first thing I do is head for the shower. The hot water serves to wash the smell of spilled liquor from my skin, but does nothing to wash away my bitter feelings. Regardless of the ineffectiveness, I stay under the water to contemplate. At least it’s warm, enough that the tears against my cheek feel cool against the downpour. Anger at Finnick is not a new concept, but against this new backdrop, it feels unnavigated. There’s a distant argument in my head that I’m jumping to conclusions too quickly, but it’s easy to ignore when there’s such a potent mix of chemicals in my brain.

             He must be ashamed of my behavior. I used to judge people for the very same things. I specifically judged him when I suspected he might have been participating in sex work in the Capitol. He’s one of the few people that understands enough not to judge me for my rotating list of clientele, but perhaps that’s what makes his condemnation of my behavior so solid. Of course we have sex with people, but we aren’t supposed to like it . I picture the words coming from his lips. The self inflicted punishment hits me with a cruel severity.

            I think of his reaction to my time spent with Gloss. He was horrified. He told me I had poor judgment and that the entire thing was wrong. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment either. Cashmere warned me with bated breath of the inappropriate nature of my relationship with her brother. The unfairness of it all makes my head spin. The work we do is acceptable in everyone’s eyes, but it feels so terribly wrong. Yet, when I finally find intimacy that I enjoy, it seems that everyone feels that it’s problematic.

            There must be something wrong with me, I decide. Something terribly and unequivocally wrong. Nobody else in our line of work seems to want to find more partners in their free time. Blight and Cashmere even go as far as setting physical barriers between themselves and their friends. We all know they don’t want so much as a pat on the back from us. Yet I go as far as to have desired intimacy with not one, but two of the small band of victors.

            I’m struck by the sudden urge to seek Gloss out for advice. It’s difficult to quell, but I manage. I go about the rest of the day with intentional normalcy. I find it in myself to eat dinner with the rest of the District 4 floor. Even Magnus makes an appearance. He doesn’t seem to remember my admonishment of him last night, instead asking if I’d like to hear a story about the time he almost drowned while looking for pearls. Beyond providing entertainment, his presence is soothing for the fact that it draws both attention and consequentially judgment away from me. The tributes roll their eyes at him instead of me, Finnick laughs and riles Magnus instead of questioning me, Wade delivers heavy honest criticism to him instead of me.

            By the time the clock rolls around to midnight, most of the initial torrent of emotions has subsided. What used to feel like a thorn in my shoe now feels like a smooth river rock. Uncomfortable and demanding attention, but not actively causing damage. I head for the training center so quickly that I don’t even think through how I’ll broach the topic. The result is that I don’t. Instead I silently relent to running laps around the large room with Gloss. By the time that I’ve planned my method of attack, I’m too out of breath to do much talking.

            He doesn’t give me a break before pulling me directly onto the sparring mat. I’m not able to protest before he’s on me, locking legs around me and taking me to the ground. Normally I’d be able to put up a valiant effort at fighting him off, but in my freshly exhausted state all I can do is go along with it. He pins me twice before I complain that it’s unfair.

            “How is it unfair? We ran the same amount.” He offers me a hand to pull me to my feet.

            “But you’re…” I don’t bother to finish the thought. “I just ran through everything I could say and realized that it all would have sounded whiney.”

            “True. Whining is the one thing you could beat me in.” He laughs at me.

            “I routinely beat you in non-physical things.” I grin back. “You wish you could play chess like me.” I punch his arm boastingly.

            “Yeah right.” He shakes his head.

            “I’m sorry that I’m just so good at everything that you’re bad at.” It’s untrue, but I’m feeling endeared towards his humor style.

            “You’re a menace, you know that? I guess you do since you’re a know-it-all.”

            “I’ll have you know-“

            My back hits the floor and the air is pressed from my lungs. Without any other maneuver, Gloss sits heavily on my upturned pelvis. The humor in his eyes is all that stops me from reprimanding him. He leans forward, letting his hands come to rest on either side of my head. His silver chain necklace dangles just above my eyes, catching the light and twinkling the reflection into my eyes. He drops to his elbows, face coming to rest just above mine. The necklace brushes against my bottom lip.

            “Stop it,” I order.

            He doesn’t come any closer, but he takes a few seconds before he moves backward. He sits back on his heels and looks down at me silently.

            “What?” I shoot the question, squirming to get out from under him.

            “I don’t understand you. You were flirting with me just a second ago and now you act like I’m out of line for going along with it.”

            “I wasn’t flirting.” I protest, taken aback.

            “Of course you were. That whole conversation was flirting,” He insists.

            “That’s just how we talk to each other.” I feel slightly faint. “I was just teasing you.”

            “Sure.” He sounds doubtful. “Well regardless, I don’t see why you’re so against it.”

            “I’m-” I cut myself off. What am I to Finnick? What are we to each other? It never felt urgent to clear that up, but it leaves me flailing now. “I’m interested in Finnick.”

            “I know that. I could tell you were interested in him when you and I first got together too. I don’t mind.” He laughs like I’m being ridiculous.

            “But I do. And I think he’d mind too.”

            “I guess you’re right, Finnick’s never been good at sharing. How is he in bed by the way? I’ve always been curious about it.” To Gloss’s credit, he dismisses the conflict readily.

            “I’m surprised you don’t know firsthand. Seems like the Capitol women would be into that. And I wouldn’t know either.” I lose a bit of steam at the end of my response, unable to feign nonchalance anymore.

            “Oh shit, don’t tell me that you’re letting your prudishness get in the way.” He sits on the floor beside me and pushes my shoulder gently with his own.

            “I’m not.” My parched throat relinquishes the words hesitantly. “I made the mistake of treating Finnick like he was you.”

            “ No way he turned you down!” Gloss exclaims, turning to face me with a mouth gaping in a silent laugh. 

            “You don’t have to say it like that.” I shove him with my shoulder.

            “Finnick sure talks a big talk for someone who’d turn down an offer from a girl like you.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘A girl like me’?” I turn a sour face to him, waiting for whatever fresh crude term he’s managed to cook up.

            “You’re a catch. When you let your guard down, you’re great company.” 

            I’m shocked by the genuine sentiment. I waffle in trying to find a way to respond. Instead I try for the most thankful smile I can muster. He chuckles, obviously amused by my surprise.

            “You’ve also got a great ass and tits. A package deal like that isn’t so common.”

            Now that’s more on brand.

            “Wow. Thanks. You’ve got such a way with words,” I respond.

            “I know. Now what do you say we go and make him jealous? Nothing like a bit of possessiveness to get the juices flowing.” He proposes, standing from our seat on the floor.

            “No thanks. I don’t think that’s the most honest approach.” I turn him down, feeling horrified by the notion.

            He offers me a hand up and I accept.

            “Ugh, fine. You’re so boring sometimes.”

            We don’t bother with more training, instead heading to the elevator together. When we reach his floor, he asks one more time whether he can come up to our floor to stir some drama up, but I carefully refute the offer. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; when I arrive, Finnick’s locked away in his room, light barely visible through the crack under his door.

            Though I didn’t talk to Gloss about my concerns regarding my morality, I feel much better about the situation as a whole. If I am completely fucked in the head, at least I have a friend who’s worse than me.

Chapter Text

            The star-crossed lovers from District 12 are making our jobs easier than they’ve ever been. In the midst of the craze of romance that has suddenly hit the Capitol, people are less interested in buying prostitutes than ever before. Usually within the first few days of the actual Hunger Games, demand hits a peak. Bored elites turn to buying sex instead of sponsorships. The strain is carried primarily by the non-mentor victors who aren’t given any leeway in terms of time. This year, clients who used to make weekly bookings have now dropped their rotation entirely in favor of finding the one .

            Unfortunately, that break doesn’t extend to the one who needs it the most. Grant was born into the unfortunate reality that he looks a bit like Peeta Mellark. The blond hair and blue eyes are just enough to ensure that he’s the logical alternative to the boy they can’t yet have. His stylist even cropped his hair to the same length as the District 12 tribute. They can’t do much about the fact that Grant is considerably taller and thinner, but they make their best effort by sending him out in clothing that adds definition where he has none.

            I’ve seen him wander listlessly into the tower the past few nights wearing outfits accented with flame patterns and red hot jewelry. Each subsequent sighting shows a progression towards exhaustion. When I raised my concerns to Ronan, I was advised to leave Grant be. He tells me that it happens some years and that it usually dies down when the tribute is gone. It’s apparently normal to desire a child fighting for their life, but tacky to want to sleep with a dead one. If Peeta Mellark ends up winning, Ronan says the infatuation will last until he’s shipped here and handed out directly. I’m not sure which outcome for the boy is worse.

            Ronan and I have found ourselves spending more time together than ever before. Both of our usual companions had been critically busy trying to keep their respective tributes alive, and are now just as busy in their deaths, forced still to make public appearances and undergo copious interviews. We take to working together in Ronan’s room, taking intel from Plutarch and doing our best to deliver solid analysis back. Whenever our own conclusions line up with Beetee’s, Plutarch seems particularly reliant upon them. How he has a secure line of contact with the District 3 victor, I can’t begin to understand. It’s likely the result of some new invention, one that I don’t presume to grasp the concept of. It’s one thing to send inconspicuous messages across the few blocks that span between us and the gamemaker headquarters, but another thing completely to span hundreds of miles.

            The longer we spend together, the more I come to understand the depth of Ronan’s bitterness. He’s not driven to revolution by the hope of a better future, but by that of destroying the Capitol institution. It seems at face value to be a flimsy drive to cause, but I’ve come to accept that Ronan and I simply have differing backgrounds and perhaps we won’t ever fully understand each other’s motivations. For now it is enough that we come to the same conclusion. 

            We compliment each other well. His wisdom of greater age draws a blanket around areas that I have little understanding of, and the bite of my youth forces him to reevaluate preconceived notions. It helps me immensely to have enough reassurance to squash the ever-present insecurity that clouds many of my more outlandish ideas. He offers support that I’ve never known, not even from my own dear mother. She was a driving force, pushing me to see reality as it was, casting critical eyes upon every detail. Ronan allows for abstract thought much more patiently, enacting praise as a currency.

            It strikes me that that’s exactly what I’ve always found myself longing for from a parent. The first time that I think about what it would have been like to have a father like Ronan, I’m nearly doubled over by the sensation of betrayal that rushes through me. I already have a father, it seems a sorry way to thank him for all he’s done for me in the past year to fantasize about having another. My real father supported me through the preliminary grief of my mother, all Ronan’s done is provide a safe space for thought experiments.

            On the ninth day of the 74th Hunger Games, things begin to change. It all starts with the death of the little girl from District 11. After her alliance with Katniss, she is slain by Gloss’s boy. It’s horribly tragic and leaves me shedding tears, tucked into the small armchair where I work in Ronan’s room. As horrible as it is to watch such a young girl die, it’s nothing more than the Hunger Games have always produced. The truly outstanding moment comes after. When her body is covered in flowers, lullaby still ringing into the forest, I’m gripped with a powerful feeling of outrage.

            I’m not the only one, it seems. Only hours later, Ronan receives the word that there’s rioting in District 11. We stand in frantic silence, eyeing each other in disbelief. The spark, it seems, has found substrate.

            The night is sleepless for us, spent with heads bowed in fervent discussion when there’s little action to be seen on screen. Ronan’s eyes grow heavy with sleep, dark circles painted underneath. Yet, he seems almost electric, hair standing on end as if he’s been struck by a current. I’m sure I look similar, the goosebumps that prickle my skin haven’t yet found the occasion to fade away. We both express our feelings of inadequacy, unable to do anything for the agricultural district except keep our eyes peeled for any more gripping footage on the television set.

            It’s not until midnight that Ronan receives the booking. Plutarch Heavensbee’s manor, early in the morning. It’s not very long, only an hour total. It’s been hard for the gamemaker to get away, he’s been having to pull twelve hour shifts at the request of Seneca Crane. Jealousy stings only for a few moments before I reject it in favor of excitement at the prospect of whatever information Ronan will return with.

            We don’t sleep a single moment of the night before Ronan has to get ready for the appointment. He does so with fumbling limbs, fingers trembling too much to tie his tie. He blames the inability on the copious amounts of caffeine he’s consumed but, when I lean in to finish the job for him, I can feel the heat of anticipation on him. We part ways on the elevator with promises on his part that he’ll relay everything to me as soon as possible.

            After some hesitation, I press the button that will take me up to the District 4 floor. What little time I’ve spent with Finnick has been tense. He remains overwhelmed by the demands of his mentoring position, even with no one left to mentor. I remain disquieted by the misalignment of intentions that we discovered. I’m perfectly aware that his reason is more sensible than mine. If our awkward encounter had happened at any other time of year, I have no doubt that Finnick would have made light of it already, forcing me to forget about it. But right now, the burden of humor falls upon me. I have no talent for it, so I continue to relive the moment in my head over and over again, some nights coming to the conclusion that we’ll never be able to move past it.

            As I step out of the elevator, I decide that news of the District 11 riot may be just what he needs to motivate him until the end of the bitter games. I find him asleep on the common room couch, face pressed heavily into the rough square pillow that adorns the edge. I don’t wake him intentionally, I never do. Yet, he rises on his own every time my steps come close to him. He’s a light sleeper, like everyone else who lives in this tower.

            His eyes snap open, alert but bleary. The alertness turns to exhaustion when he clocks me standing in front of him. He sits up a bit, leaning against the couch back to allow me space to sit next to him. I take the procured seat, forcing a smile to reassure him that everything’s alright. He sees through it almost immediately.

            “What’s happened?” He demands of me.

            “Did you watch the District 11 girl yesterday?” I ask.

            “Rue? Yes.” He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to throw the memory from his head.

            I throw my arms around his shoulders. Under the pretense of the embrace, I whisper in his ear what I’d learned last night of District 11’s bloody revolt. Almost instantly, Finnick asks if we can head to the roof to get some air. He’s unsteady on his feet on the journey up and twice I almost find myself asking if he’d like to return to our floor. Both times, I’m stopped by the firm look of determination on his face. We’ve barely made it out of the elevator doors before he starts asking me a set of his own questions.

            “Did you hear what Claudius Templesmith announced?”

            “No. I helped Ronan get ready to go see Plutarch, we weren’t paying much attention to the TV.” I admit.

            “He told the tributes that there can be two victors, if they’re from the same district.” His eyes are cool as steel.

            “That’s… That’s perfect.” I mutter, trying to take in the new information as quickly as possible. “It’s a blip in the system. It’ll show that the Hunger Games aren’t the infallible institution they want us to believe it is.”

            Finnick barks a laugh. “You don’t actually think they’ll keep their promise, do you?”

            “But, you said that he told them-”

            “Gamemakers lie, Fara.” Finnick says, not unkindly. “I’m sure that it’s just in an effort to drive the star-crossed lover back together. It’ll make for a tragic finale, just what they’re looking for. Now, tell me everything you’ve heard about District 11.”

            It’s not much. The message that came for Ronan was vague, only stating that the riot was occurring, that many fatalities were anticipated. I recount the conversations Ronan and I had last night, reexpressing my frustrations that there’s not much we can do other than wait for more news.

            “They called her the girl on fire,” Finnick says thoughtfully. “I think it’s quite fitting. With all the talk of powder kegs and revolution, I have hopes that she’ll start the burn for us. I think she’s got a shot at making it out alive.”

            “Does it bother you? That she killed Marina?” I blurt it out before I can think.

            “Katniss didn’t kill Marina, the Capitol did.” Finnick replies forcefully, voice trembling only slightly. “We can’t think of it that way. If we did, half of the victors wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye.”

            He so rarely brings up his own time spent in the arena that the sentiment surprises me. What he says is true, he was responsible for almost half of the tribute deaths that year. I’d never stopped to consider that those tributes were mentored by our friends.

            “How’s Wade?” I ask, hoping to defuse the hostility I’ve sewn.

            “She’ll be alright. She’s used to it by now. I wouldn’t recommend trying to ask her, she doesn’t like being doted on.” My attempt has worked, just a bit.

            “Oh trust me, I know.” I grin at him.

            “I’m sorry about what happened last week,” he says quite suddenly.

            “I don’t think that’s something you should have to apologize for.” I rub my arms, fighting against the cool morning breeze. “I’m the one who made you uncomfortable.”

            “Yeah, but I should have had a bit more tact than that.” A cheeky smile finally makes its way onto his face. “You should be flattered. I don’t think a girl's ever made me that nervous before.”

            It doesn’t flatter me. Finnick is one of only a handful of people who I feel truly at home around. I’d hoped he felt the same about me.

            Finnick catches my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “That’s a good thing.”

            “Is it?”

            “Yes.” He says it so firmly that he leaves little room for questioning. “You haven’t really been spending this entire time worried that you’d wronged me, have you?” He cocks an eyebrow up.

            My nonanswer tells him all he needs to know.

            “Oh Fara, I thought you were just upset at me for how I reacted. I never figured you’d be beating yourself up about it.” He shakes his head slowly. “Come on, let’s go back down to our floor. I’m starving.”

            He ghosts his hand over the small of my back, gently corralling me back to the elevator. We eat in an atmosphere much more amicable than before. When we finish, we agree to watch the TV together, finding it much more bearable in each other’s company.

            It’s late evening in the arena, the setting sun casts long shadows through the tall grass we watch the District 11 boy through. He nurses the smallest fire I’ve ever seen, set onto wood so dead that it barely smokes at all. Overtop of it, he roasts a long spit filled with the prairie dogs that roam so thickly around him. The sound of popping flesh is all that comes through the broadcast. It sets me on edge. Burning skin sounds exactly the same on both humans and animals. That’s a fact I never thought I’d know. I pick at the seam of the couch near the arm, finding great frustration that the material is so durable.

            By the time I next speak with Ronan, the star-crossed lovers are reunited, holed up in a cave near the edge of the arena. Infuriatingly, Ronan seems more interested in talking of them than what he’s learned of the District 11 rioting. He presses me to see if I think their romance is an act. I admit that I don’t know, it’s not an easy thing to tell through the lens of the heavy manicured Capitol footage. When I grow irritable enough to snap at him, he relents and divulges everything Plutarch told him.

The main riot in District 11 has been quashed, but the atmosphere is still tense. Plutarch and the other gamemakers have been tasked with keeping the broadcast light . Claudius Templesmith’s announcement makes more sense now. The new rule encourages tributes to regroup and lay new plans. It will keep the gory battles to a minimum. What audience they fear of losing for lack of drama, they hold onto with near constant broadcast of the strange intimacies shared by the District 12 tributes. Updates surrounding the four other remaining tributes are nothing but short summaries. The girl from District 5 gathers edible plants, Thresh eats more of the rodents, Cato and Clove feast on the dregs of food that remain after Katniss’s attack, Katniss and Peeta kiss.

            Each time I look away from the screen, Ronan snorts his laughter at me. He teases me about my own extensive experience with intimacy, claiming that I shouldn’t be offended by kissing anymore. Ronan chastises my willingness to excuse myself, claiming that I could be missing valuable information with each second of aversion. My squeamishness has more to do with my wish to grant them privacy than any discomfort, but I don’t bother to correct him. 

            Despite his urging, I let the next two days slip by with less-than-rapt attention. Now that Finnick and I are in each other’s good graces again, I can’t help but to seek out his company in every moment of free time. We don’t neglect the Hunger Games entirely, but we do find ourselves more inclined towards private conversations on the rooftop. More often than not, Finnick brings something to smoke, and more often than not, I smoke with him. It leaves me feeling heady, light, and much less anxious about the impending strain of rebellion. It gives us an excuse to reject heavier topics for ones of little consequence.

            We share stories of our childhoods, marveling at how different they are. All of my memories are clad in a golden halo of love, fondness, and grief. Speaking of it all so freely digs up the repressed feeling of loss that I’ve carried with me for the past year. The time between my mother’s death and my Victory Tour was just barely enough to get over the initial shock, but certainly not enough to come to terms with it all. I don’t feel ashamed to admit it to Finnick. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond to my bittersweet recollections, but I don’t mind.

            It turns out that Finnick doesn’t remember a lot of his younger years. For the most part, he’s only able to recall emotions and general feelings from the time before his selection for the career academy. But the memories he does have are incredibly vivid, and he’s able to describe them to the most pointed detail. He describes specific sights, like a particular patch of land near his home, or the exact patterning of rotting wooden floors, but can’t picture any actions of circumstances that surround them. He speaks of these things meekly, admitting that he feels his exchange of memories pales in comparison to mine.

            I don’t know exactly how to best engage with him about it, worrying too much about dredging up unpleasant emotions. Instead, I simply listen. I find that Finnick always seeks to fill the silence I leave after he finishes talking. He elaborates, deliberates, and analyzes back and forth with himself. When he finds himself overwhelmed, I offer contact in the form of an outstretched palm. Sometimes he takes it in his own and sometimes he allows me to brush my fingers across the fabric of his shirt.

            We haven’t yet returned to spending the night in each other’s beds, even with the end of Finnick’s devotion to his tribute. We part each night with shy smiles and blushes, whispers of well wishes and comfort on our tongues. It bothers me less and less each day. I find that I care more about the smile and comfort on Finnick’s face than the presence of his body beside me. I’ll wait as long as necessary if it means keeping him happy.

Chapter Text

            The District 5 girl dies in one of the only moments that we spend with Grant in the lounge. Ronan leans across the couch to pat him on the back, but Grant is completely still. No trace of a reaction graces him. Finnick and I look towards each other, both wanting to give him a moment without eyes on him. It only lasts for so long before I start to itch in the silence of it.

            “Those berries were a belladonna alkaloid. Taken in small doses it can be medicinal.” I can’t help but to list words as they come to mind. “It binds to the acetylcholine receptors, blocking acetylcholine from binding to the nervous system. Death doesn’t usually happen that fast, it must have been some genetic editing on the Gamemakers’ part.”

            “Shut up, Fara.” Ronan cuts in.

            “I’m sorry,” I amend. “It looked painless.”

            Grant grunts back. When I finally return my eyes to him, he looks even more tired than before. He’s still dressed in a Peeta Mellark costume from his last client, heavy makeup attempting to cover the recent sunken form of his face. I take it all in until it’s too much to bear. I close the open window between us and choose to gaze upon him with a more critical eye.

            The boy that used to be the one bright spot among a room of darkened older victors has seemingly lost his light. His blue eyes, once bright with mirth, are nearly grey without the old shine. His hair is beginning to match, platinum blonde appearing darker alongside the newly sprouted white hairs. They’re few in number, but they’re stark in the close cropped sides of his head. He seems to catch me staring and runs a hurried hand along the back of his neck.

            “Grant finally has a break tonight.” Ronan informs us. “I was thinking the four of us could play some board games.”

            That Ronan suggests this proves that he’s worried about Grant. The only types of games Ronan enjoys are gambling card games, long since having given up on chess and checkers.

            “I have an interview in just over an hour. They want the young mentors there to discuss our own star-crossed unrequited loves,” Finnick spits out, venom laced in every word.

            “I’m with Seneca Crane for the evening. He wants to see me before the games are over,” I add awkwardly. “I’d much rather stay and play games with the two of you, though.”

            “No matter. We’ll just have to manage on our own.” Ronan’s smile is tight-lipped and thin.

            For once, Seneca Crane forgoes his own proclivity for board games. It seems that the stress of the head Gamemaker position weighs heavily on him. He’s not gentle with me, taking out pent up frustration on me with little restraint. Thankfully he finishes quickly, collapsing instantly once he’s done. I attempt to use his exhaustion to slip out early, but his hand catches my wrist when I make my way to the edge of the bed. He pulls me into his course-haired chest, mumbling about paying for my time. The vulgarity of it leaves my stomach churning with unease.

           I can’t seem to get comfortable, trying desperately to rearrange myself against him in a way that doesn’t send chills through me. All that my movement spurs from him is a very obvious arousal. I realize my mistake only when I feel him, hard against my thigh. When I gasp in realization, he chuckles in my ear.

            This time, his fervor is lessened. He maneuvers me under him, whispering sweet compliments about my innocence into my ear. When he asks if I’ve ever had a man go down on me, I lie and tell him I haven’t, scared of reigniting the anger which has so recently left him with his own pleasure. His lips against me make me jump, unable to stifle a cry of fear. His hand comes to cover my mouth almost instantly. Gloss had wanted to hear me. It seems Seneca Crane does not.

            He steals pleasure from me, humming satisfaction against me, laughing at my squirming. When I come to my release, he reaches up to kiss me. I’m left with the taste of myself in my mouth and tears in my eyes. His gift to me is, of course, not free. He forces me onto my knees in front of him on the floor.

            “Reciprocation is only polite,” he informs me. 

            I’ve never been very good at this, so he grows bored quickly. He takes matters into his own hands, gripping me in place by fisting my hair roughly. The assault to my senses lasts longer than I can bear. When he finishes, I’m crying outright.

“You’re a mess,” he says , “such a beautiful sight.” 

            Out of his nightstand, he pulls his dreadful camera. He snaps a picture before I can rise to my feet. It prints instantly. While he shakes it in the air, I get the familiar urge to rip it from his fingers. But I don’t. I allow him to place it on top of the many similar ones, tucked away in the back corner of the drawer. He never shows them to me, and I never ask to see them.

            My walk out of the manor is shrouded in haze. I fumble with the door handle of the car, unable to force my fingers to pull it. When I finally get inside, I put my head in my hands and weep. I’ve long since gotten over the embarrassment of allowing cab drivers to see me in such states. In fact, now I’ve rationalized it as more than appropriate. They know what’s just happened, crying might just preserve what little respect they hold for me. I’d much rather them think that the appointments are torturous than allow them to know that my body derives any pleasure from it.

            I stumble to the elevator, clutching the torn remains of my dress to myself. Just as the doors begin to slip shut, a hand forces them open. Dread fills me, wanting nothing more than to be left alone until I can get cleaned up. Haymitch walks in, faltering in his step when he pulls his downcast eyes up to see me. He makes to step back out but the doors slip shut behind him, effectively trapping him. He hurriedly presses the button that will take him to mentor headquarters. After his initial glance, he can’t seem to look at me anymore.

            “What? No snarky remarks about my walk of shame tonight?” I snap at him, fury building within me for no good reason.

            “I’m sorry.” His voice is unusually soft, as if I’m on my deathbed and he’s scared of killing me by speaking too harshly.

            I know how awful I must look in this moment. My dress hardly covers my skin, held up by only a few shreds of fabric. My makeup is likely running from the tears and the lipstick is probably smeared far onto my cheeks. Traces of Seneca Crane remain upon my skin, fresh bruises, blood, and dried semen alike.

            “You’d better get used to it. If either of your tributes win, they’ll end up here with me.” I have no right to make such a biting comment, I know it as soon as it leaves my lips.

            “I’m sorry,” he says simply once again.

            The doors spring open in front of him and he scrambles to get out. As soon as they close behind him, I turn to look at the glittering cityscape beaming through the windows. I scream at it, loud as I possibly can. My fingernails dig deep into my palms, wetting the skin with blood.

             Good , I think, let him think that I'm just a tortured young girl . It's better than allowing anyone to see that I get off under the ministrations of a man who's paid for my company. Furthermore, Seneca Crane isn't just any man. He's a man who is responsible for the mutilation of children. His creative thinking leads to horrific scenarios, ones that leave survivors with burdens too great to shoulder.

            How is a victor supposed to go in to be a well-adjusted poster child for the Capitol? It is particularly cruel to expect it when they're thrust immediately into prostitution with brains much too underdeveloped to understand the gravity of it. What I said to Haymitch is true, both Katniss and Peeta alike would end up working the Capitol. They're just attractive enough to make the cut and just old enough to be desirable but remain tantalizingly youthful. At sixteen they'd have to come to terms with something that I still can't cope with at eighteen, that Ronan can't at thirty-three. I can see the bewilderment in the eyes of everyone in the tower, regardless of age. Through even the times of rest and relaxation, the hand of despair clutches all of us indiscriminately.

            When I finally make it to my bathroom, I turn the shower on as hot as it will go. It's terribly reminiscent of my first night at the Crane Manor. The water is scalding. I scrub myself raw. I feel dirty. Almost exactly the same. Yet, it differs in the fact that Finnick isn't here to comfort me after I get out. He doesn't wait sitting on my bed, mouth full of placations and reassurances.

             How pathetic. All I can feel for myself is self pity. I'm crying over the fact that a man made me feel pleasure tonight while children fight for their lives in an arena broadcast to a nation. I'm alive, with nobody hunting for me and more than enough food to fill my belly. It's disgustingly unfair. 

            The District 5 girl breaches my thoughts, berries clutched in her limp pale fist. I should go find Grant. He'd like it if I came to play games with him. It's the least I could do. Maybe it'll wash away the guilt of my actions tonight. I may be unclean and unwhole, but at least I can do one single thing to help my friend through his grief.

            I dress myself in terribly mismatched clothing and make my way down to the lounge. When I find it empty, I simply turn back for the elevator to head for Ronan's room. As I traverse the dim hall to the living quarters, Cashmere slips past me on her way out. Her hand catches my shoulder for just a second, squeezing reassurance before leaving me behind. Her face is taut, exhaustion plain in her eyes. It takes everything in me not to chase her down and beg her to stay with me tonight, to abandon the thought of comforting my friend in favor of receiving comfort myself.

            Instead I push on to approach Ronan's door. There's a sliver of light visible at the bottom and I can hear rumbling laughter come from within. At my knock, the sound quiets. The sharp click of the lock sliding backwards forces my feet to take a step back. I’ve only a single moment to decide whether or not I’m brave enough to stick around.

            “You’re back early.” Ronan’s greeting roots me to the spot. “You look like shit.”

            “I feel like shit.” I shoulder past him into the room.

            Grant sits on the floor in front of Ronan’s bed, stooped over a wooden board of marbles. He’s nursing a dark looking drink, but he extends it my way when I approach. I accept the offer with little resistance. It’s bitter, but it makes me feel instantly warmer.  It doesn’t quite scratch the itch for chemical alteration, so I hand it back and continue my path to the tablet in Ronan’s wall. In five seconds flat, I hold a tin of joints in my palm. I extract one of the small rolls and one of the matches attached to the bottom.

            “Don’t smoke in my room.” Ronan groans in exasperation. “Take it to the balcony.”

            He makes a point to act offended, but quickly follows me out to join in. Grant paces a looser trail behind us, as if he’s not sure whether or not he’s invited to come with. When the door is sealed shut behind us, I strike the match against the rough side of the tin. It snaps in my fingers, the small flame licking painfully against the back of my thumb. I break two more before Ronan pulls it out of my fingers. Much more gently, he strikes it up and holds it to the joint pressed between my lips.

            We take turns filling our lungs with the fragrant smoke. For a while, the only sounds are the wind and Grant coughing occasionally. Eventually, when he’s overcome with the inability to breathe, he leaves us to seek out a glass of water. When the door slips shut behind him, Ronan ashes the joint.

            “Bad night at Seneca Crane’s?”

            “He’s stressed.” My response is knee-jerk, reeking of defense for his actions.

            “He’s an asshole,” Ronan argues.

            “He’s not the worst client I see.” I shrug.

            “That’s not what you told me a month ago. What happened? Did he finally learn how to make a woman come?” He snorts laughter at me.

            “That’s not funny,” I snap.

            “Oh he did, didn’t he?” Ronan laughs again and it takes everything in me not to say something in anger that I’ll regret.

            “It’s really not funny.” This time, I temper my voice to refrain from lashing out at him.

            “Oh kid, don’t let him get to you.” Ronan pats my back firmly. “Enjoy it for what it is and don’t think about it too much.”

            “I feel bad.” It’s a weak way of explaining myself, but it seems to get my point across.

            “Do you want to have sex with that man?” Ronan waits for me to shake my head. “Then what he’s doing is wrong, and it has nothing to do with you. It certainly isn’t made alright because you get a moment of pleasure.”

            “I feel like I know that, but it’s hard to remember sometimes.”

            “Then think about someone else in that scenario. I find that I’m often my own biggest critic, so it’s easier to project the situation outside of my own experience. Think about me. It’s kind of part of my job to finish. Would you judge me for that?”

            “Of course not.” I shake my head.

            “See? Then go a little easier on yourself!” Ronan exclaims. “Now let’s go play whatever stupid game Grant thinks up.”

            The combination of Ronan’s words and the slowly building head-high make the rest of the evening with them much more bearable. Grant drinks until he’s red in the face and slurring his words, but the smile on his face makes all of the alcohol worth it. He grows quickly bored of marbles and struggles to find anything that will keep his attention for very long. He takes to trying to rouse Ronan to wrestle, but Ronan firmly asserts that he’s not Finnick and doesn’t want any part of it. When Grant asks me, I concede.

            He’s much easier to spar against than my usual partner. He’s shorter than Gloss, and weighs significantly less. He remarks a similar sentiment after a few minutes, claiming that Finnick is a beast to try to fight against in any setting. When we pause to rest, he laments about our respective choices in training partners that greatly exceed our weight class. When he asks why we never meet up to train, I point out that, until Gloss had put in the hours to teach me, I was hopeless in all regards to physical activity. We amend to meet at the gym more often now that I’m proficient.

            We end the night together again, this time thankfully not in the bathtub. Grant and I curl up under blankets on the floor while Ronan takes his bed, guarding it fiercely from Grant’s attempts to sleep up there with him. Despite his complaints about the floor’s firmness, sleep hits Grant quickly. When his face relaxes, the stress lines creasing it disappear almost completely and he looks as if he is young enough to be Peeta. I wonder idly if Grant’s contribution will make the boy’s transition to the Capitol smooth, that is if he makes it out alive. To me, itt seems much more likely that it will be the girl escaping instead.

            Though Katniss still has the intense competition of Thresh and Marvel, I don’t honestly foresee an ending where anyone except one of the District 12 tributes comes out on top. The Capitol citizens would be consumed by outrage, which is a potential danger for President Snow to consider. It wouldn’t be obvious meddling either, she’s excellent with her bow and arrows. It wouldn’t be nearly as hard to sell as my own win was.

            Will she come to join our ranks kicking and screaming, or will she be quietly resigned by that point? According to Gloss, it’s better to be the former. She probably will be a fighter, nothing so far has suggested otherwise. Her only method of support would be Haymitch, which is deeply worrying. While he’s never been outwardly cruel in my presence, he doesn’t seem the type prone to gentleness. Getting her in touch with Cashmere early on could be a pivotal lifeline.

            She’s nothing like me except that she’s obviously not well versed in the Capitol sort of attention she’ll be receiving. I harken back to what Finnick said and wonder if that will make people all the more ravenous to have her. Maybe. I can’t picture Katniss blushing on stage wearing little girl dresses like I was. She’s more like Cashmere, sharp and self contained. Hopefully that will entail less scummy clientele.

            Peeta, however, I suspect to be a bit more like me. He’s stout and confident in his few appearances in front of a crowd, but during his time on television spent with the career pack he seemed much more unsure. While he tried to act the part of a killer, it was plain to see his face flinch every time another child was killed. He’s the softer one of the pair, which would be an unlikely trait to possess in the case of his win.

            Despite my attempts at predicting the future, we’ll all just have to wait and see. There’s no telling exactly what will come of the 74th Hunger Games aside from the tragedy that is virtually inescapable. 

            There’s no way in hell I could have predicted the actual ending of the 74th Hunger Games. Ronan and I watch in shock and awe as the star-crossed-lovers defy the will of the world, pressing berries into trembling lips. For a moment I worry that neither of them will make it out alive until Claudius Temeplesmith’s frantic announcement leaves the tributes spewing the deadly nightshade into the grass. When the camera finally cuts and the kids are collected by the hovercraft, Ronan and I slowly turn to look at each other. We shut the TV off before the recap gossip show begins, sitting with the deadly silence that envelops the room.

            “This changes everything.” Ronan finally says.

            “I can’t believe it.”

            “Well believe it fast, we’ve got to figure out how to pivot this before we lose the opportunity.” Ronan jumps to his feet as if he’s about to start fighting this very second.

            “We need to get those kids into our fold as soon as possible.” I meet him at his level.

            “The old drunkard won’t let me sniff around anywhere near them, I guarantee it. He and Chaff were furious when they learned that I’d poached you and Grant and Finnick.”

            “So let me talk to him,” I insist.

            “They are young…” Ronan hesitates. “The girl is barely sixteen.”

            “And they’re already in extreme danger. It might actually be safer to make them aware of the greater implications of their actions.”

            “Okay, yes. You’re right.” Ronan fights to convince himself.

            “Let’s go, take me to where they remake the tributes. I’m sure he’s already on his way.” I grab my shoes from the floor and jam my feet roughly in.

            “We should give him some time.”

            “They’ll probably sedate the kids for a day or two, not like he’s going to be having particularly riveting conversations with them anytime soon. Are you coming or not? I can certainly still find my way there on my own.” I know it comes across harshly, but it’s imperative that we act quickly.

            Ronan does ultimately begin to move with urgency and we find our way to one of the waiting cars outside. Traffic makes our journey slow, filling me with restless energy. I jump out of the car when we arrive, only stopping when Ronan grabs onto my hand to slow me. He lets go quickly, leaving behind a small piece of plastic in my palm. I don’t dare to look openly at it, but I know that it must be one of the signal disrupters that I crafted for Plutarch.

            He follows me for longer than I expected him to, only dropping from my side when we start to hear Haymitch’s enraged shouts. Now that I’m faced with the actual prospect of confronting the distraught man, I find myself floundering for a proper approach.

            “Let me in to see ‘em!” He screams at a hospital orderly who blocks a doorway with shaking limbs.

            “Mr. Abernathy, the boy is going into surgery and the girl is sedated for instability. You need to wait in the designated room.”

            “Haymitch, please.” The District 12 escort begs.

            “Haymitch.” My voice sounds more solid than I expect. “Come with me.”

            He rounds on me, lips raised in a snarl. There’s no recognition in his eyes as they find mine. He’s nothing but a wild animal right now.

            I grab his bicep and pull, fully expecting to meet resistance. What I don’t expect is to be struck in the lip by his knuckles. I let go immediately to cup a hand around my mouth. It comes away bloody, but I still can’t feel the pain that should accompany it, only a numb sting. I glance up from my hand to Haymitch, who looks at me for the first time.

            “Shit,” he grumbles.

            This time, he grabs me by the bicep and maneuvers me into the first empty room we can find. It’s cramped and small, obviously a janitor supply closet. A mop leaning in the corner keeps falling into Haymitch until he finally decides to throw it on the ground instead of propping it back up. I activate the small device in my pocket before testing out my ability to speak.

            “We’re off the bugs, our conversation is private” I tell him, finger ghosting over my split lip.

            “Don’t fuckin’ grab me like that,” he snaps.

            “Yeah, because I’m sure talking to you rationally would have gotten me pretty far.” I bite back, unintentionally using Gloss as my guide to confrontation.

            “Coulda kept your face intact.” He tries again to push me, but he’s winding down now.

            “I don’t care all that much. It might get me out of my six-o-clock appointment with Seneca Crane, split lips are hard to cover usually.” I shrug.

            “Right.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me that those kids are going to be here after the tour? I know that already.”

            “I’m here to tell you that you’re going to need to work with us to make sure they last long enough to make it here. Accidents tend to happen involving victors who don’t play by the rules.”

            “Snow won’t kill ‘em. The people would riot.” He sticks his chin upwards.

            “Maybe not, but killing them directly isn’t the worst he could do.” I grind my teeth.

            It’s as if Haymitch has been struck across the face.

            “He’d go right for their families.” He finally nods in acceptance. I’m sure he already knew that truth, but had forgotten it in the hubris of urgent haste.

            “You’ve got to make sure that they know exactly what the stakes are, what they’ve started. There was rioting in eleven when that little girl died, things are still tense.”

            “Chaff told me. I’m sure it’ll be worse now.” He rubs fists into his sunken eyes. “I’ll tell the girl. The boy won’t need it, he’s better on his own.”

            “I think it would be best if they both knew,” I say.

            “Katniss is the one we need to worry about. Peeta is too genuine to cause trouble, that’s not an act.”

            “You know them better,” I admit, tongue darting out to stem the steam of blood flowing from my face.

            “I don’t want Ronan Rodriguez anywhere near this,” Haymitch says firmly. “He’s a slimy fucker.”

            “No he’s not!” I shout, finding my swollen lips pouting slightly after my defense. I quickly try to drop the face.

            “You’re too young to understand.” Haymitch waves me off. “He’s a radical, too willing to risk lives for what he wants.”

            “He’s a good man.” I clamp my jaw shut, aware that I should be trying to keep on Haymtich’s good side.

            “Okay, whatever you say sweetheart.”

            “Don’t call me that,” I growl back.

            “You used to be a lot nicer.” He laughs at me.

            “I learned long ago that kindness doesn’t work on men.”

            “Shit, you’re your mother’s child. I need to go back to wait on the kids. I’ll cooperate with your lot, just keep Ronan away.” He turns unceremoniously and fumbles for the door handle.

            “Haymitch.” I take a deep breath and calm myself. “I suppose kindness does work for scared kids.”

            He turns back and nods at me before quickly vacating the space. I take a few minutes to collect myself before I leave. I wipe the blood from my chin best I can with my shirt and step out. It takes a bit for me to find Ronan, having gotten turned around after my mad charge into the remake center.

            He’s livid when he sees my face. I have to talk him down from going to give Haymitch a matching lip, desperate to preserve what little civility the men still have between them. My assurance that Haymitch will work with us for whatever we need satiates him enough to get him back in the car. I don’t dare to tell him what else Haymitch said until we’re back in the tower. He’s not surprised or even all that offended. He agrees that he and Haymitch don’t get along well. He doesn’t agree that I should be the one to run information between parties, uncomfortable with me becoming too involved in such incriminating activity. Instead he nominates Blight to take care of communications, who is probably better equipped to deal with it anyway.

            Finnick, too, is outraged when he learns that my busted lip was delivered by a fellow victor. We both grow even more disgruntled when I find that I’ll still be made to attend my appointment.

            I begin to grow more and more nervous the closer the clock gets to my departure time. Finnick takes note and slings an arm around me on the couch. When he asks about it, I admit honestly that Seneca is a bit frightening to be around when he’s in need of blowing off steam. I regret telling him almost immediately as I watch the distress grow on his face. There’s nothing he’ll be able to do to help except wait for me to come home.

            Aside from very rare occasions, Finnick doesn’t find himself coming in contact with violent patrons. Just as with Gloss before, I have to explain to Finnick why we have extremely different clientele. Nobody looks at him and sees an easy target for violence. The kinks he faces are almost entirely the opposite end of the spectrum. When he protests that it isn’t easy to dole out physical violence either, I keep my mouth shut. I’m sure it’s not an easy weight to carry, but I’d certainly take it over receiving it any day.

Chapter Text

            Seneca doesn’t meet me at the door as he usually does, a housekeeper lets me in instead. When I try to ask her where he is, she hurries away without answering. The anxiety from earlier is replaced by true fear. Something is wrong here, I can feel it in the air. My hair stands on end in the cool dark foyer. I smooth the sleek dress down on my legs in an attempt to soothe myself. The darkness is oppressive, only the filtered light of the setting sun casts the furniture into vision.

            I know my way around by now, so I set out to his bedroom. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to greet me as he chooses to every time. Perhaps it’s out of shame. He certainly won’t be pleased with the defiance of the two young victors. If that’s the case, it foreshadows a long and arduous night ahead.

            The carpeted stairs below my feet muffle my steps on my ascent. I creep close to the banister, hand ghosting just overtop of the dark wood. I resist the urge to step out of my heels, convincing myself that I can discard them quickly enough if the need to run arises. So far nothing is out of place, every decoration sits exactly where I remember it, not a speck of dust on any glossy surface. The only difference is the smell. The hall near Seneca’s bedroom always smells lightly of pine and sharp liquor, but now there’s an overpowering wave of floral perfume. It’s not an unfamiliar scent, but it’s one I can’t seem to place.

            The door is cracked only a sliver. I try as hard as I can to peer into the room, but all I can see are the filled bookcases along the wall. My hand rests upon the cool silver knob, twisting it though there’s no door frame in place to clear. When I begin to push it forward, the slightest of squeaks rings into the air. That won’t do, Seneca will surely instruct a servant to fix it immediately. But no barked order comes from within, instead a slow drawl greets me.

            “Do come in.”

            I let the door handle free and the momentum carries it forward to reveal the stranger in the room. He sits stiffly upright in the ornate armchair, facing me directly. One leg is crossed over the other, a glass of red wine grasped between cold white fingers. When my eyes travel up the length of his suit, the mask-like face shows me that he’s not truly a stranger.

            “President Snow.” My greeting is cold in my surprise.

            “Miss Jones.” He inclines his head.

            “Where’s Seneca?” I ask, frozen to the spot.

            “Oh, just on the bed.” 

            I’m unable to tear my eyes away to check that his statement is true. Like an animal frozen in place by a predator, I feel that if I move I’ll be struck in an instant.

            “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

            “Quite.”

            I inhale thickly, heart gripped in a sudden spasm of pain.

            “Why?” It’s perhaps the worst question I could possibly ask, but it doesn’t seem that the filter between my mind and mouth works right now.

            “Isn’t that obvious, Miss Jones? I’d think that you of all people could have predicted why Seneca Crane didn’t last long as our head gamemaker.” His puffy lips, stained red from the wine, press into a smile.

            “He’s…” I trail off, it seems I’m suddenly unable to lie and that puts me in a very dangerous position.

            “Speak freely, please.”

            “He was overconfident and obtuse.” I keep my response clipped.

            “Precisely. Seneca Crane became a liability, one too large to ignore. What I told you the last time we spoke is what I tell all of my acquaintances. Actions have consequences. I am not an unfair man, I hold all individuals to the same standard. You see that now, don’t you?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Mr. Abernathy knows that better than most.” His eyes narrow at me, waiting for a reaction.

            “Haymitch? The District 12 victor?” I ask.

            “Playing ignorant doesn’t suit you.” His smile fades from his face. “I know that you went to speak with him yesterday. What is it that could have been important enough to interrupt such an important moment in his mentoring?”

            I need to start lying, fast.

            “I’m worried for them, the new victors.” That’s the truth. “I know how important it is to mold a proper image right from the start. Haymitch doesn’t know anything about how to do that. I just wanted to give him some advice.”

            “How kind of you. Mr. Rodriguez, of course, was just your escort?” His brows lower. Each time I speak, he looks less and less mockingly friendly. The transition is accompanied by the sound of blood rushing through my ears.

            “Ronan has been kind to me, to all of us. He’s a bit of a father figure for the younger victors.” I feel ridiculous saying all of this.

            “So you won’t be needing your own father, then? Seeing that you’ve found a new one.”

            “No!” I sputter out. “No, Ronan is great but he’s no replacement.” I’m gambling with lives now.

            “I’m glad to hear that. I don’t find him to be the best influence for our younger generation. Tell me, what does he fill your heads with?”

            “Ronan doesn’t do much aside from complain. We value him for his nature, not his values. I think he’s just tired. I imagine that sixteen years of our career would make anyone a bit irritable. Ronan isn’t like Seneca, he’s smart enough to understand boundaries.” I’m talking way too fast, there’s no way Snow is buying this.

            “Is that so?” He’s been moved to amusement. “All of this aside, I think it will be good for you to remember that he is, in fact, not a figure that I’d like you to idolize.”

            “Yes sir.” I nod my head.

            “I’m glad we’ve straightened that out. Now, what I really wanted from this evening was to give you a chance to say goodbye. Mr. Crane quite obviously favored you, I’m sure he’d be very disappointed to know that he wasn’t able to make good on the appointment he booked. Tell me, what is it that you would have done with him had I not been here?”

            “He quite liked board games.” For the first time, I feel a tug of empathy towards the dead body in the room.

            “Surely that’s not all you’d do. What next?”

            “Sometimes we’d have a drink.” My throat becomes increasingly dry.

            “Seems like this isn’t one of those times.” Snow raps his fingernails against the wooden armrest.

            “No, it seems it’s not.” My tongue sits thickly in my mouth.

            “And then?”

            “We’d take our clothes off,” I whisper. I can’t fight the blush that finds my cheeks.

            “Go ahead and start from there then.”

            My stomach lurches. Surely President Snow wouldn’t dare. It seems like a complete impossibility. Regardless, I have no choice in the matter. Only minutes ago, my father was outright threatened. I have no doubt that my actions tonight will especially have consequences.

            My fingers reach slowly towards the zipper that sits in the middle of my back. When I brush against it, I freeze. One breath in through my nose and I grasp the cool metal between my trembling fingertips. In a single fluid motion, I pull the zipper down to my tailbone. I shirk the right shoulder, then the left. When I let the breath out, the fabric falls away towards the floor.

            My eyes find Snow’s desperately. Please let this be enough, please . I find myself pledging to gods that I don’t believe in that I’ll become devout if only the night ends now.

            Or maybe if I just told him what I really asked Haymitch, he may let me walk out the door now. It’s so tempting to spill my guts that I find my lips parting to begin the divulgence.

            I snap my jaw shut as quickly as it opens. How many people would I condemn with my words? More than I even know, I’m sure.

            President Snow inclines his head, a clear message that I’m to continue.

            As unceremoniously as possible, I discard my underwear on top of the pooled fabric of the dress.

            “Excellent. Now why don’t you go and join Mr. Crane in the bed. I’m sure he’d appreciate a proper goodbye.

            I don’t allow myself to think about it for a second. My legs move me on autopilot towards the spot where I know the bed must be. My eyes are shut much too tight to see anything at all.

            My outstretched hands find the comforter in front of me. I peel it back and lower myself next to the depression in the mattress. To lay fully, I’m flush against the stiff mass beside me. I pull the cover up to my chin, thankful for the coverage it supplies.

            “Why don’t you steal one last kiss?” This request has a finality to it.

            I force my eyes open, they find the ceiling above me. It looks completely ordinary. Every single pattern in the wood is familiar, burned into my mind from the countless hours spent lying beneath him in this bed.

            This is the bravest I will ever have to be. I will never again find myself in a position where I’m out of President Snow’s good graces. I’ll give it all up. I’ll keep my nose clean. I won’t talk to Haymitch. I won’t talk even to Ronan. I won’t complain ever again about the unfairness of my life.

            And then I’m looking straight into Seneca Crane’s lifeless eyes. His skin is pale and waxy, glistening in the dim light. His hair is ruffled, as if his hands have combed roughly through it too many times as he tends to do. His mouth is stained magenta, as if he’s hastily applied a lip paint. It smells sweet and fruitlike, noticeable from our close proximity.

            How perfectly horrible. He’s eaten the berries that cost him his life.

            It’s suddenly much easier to lean forward and press a kiss onto his cold, firm lips. Logically, I know that the juice will not be enough to kill me, but I can’t find that I care either way. When I pull away, I draw a finger across my lips. It comes away dry. The color is nothing more than a stain, left over from death that must have happened hours ago.

            “I have other obligations I must attend to.” I hear Snow rise from the chair behind me. “But his money has you booked for the hour. See to it that you don’t short him. It will do you good to remember that I really do find out about everything .”

            The door clicks shut behind him.

            I don’t dare get out of the bed. I don’t even turn to look at the tall grandfather clock that I know sits in the corner. My eyes stay locked onto his still body. The presence of his corpse begins to seep into me, bit by bit until I must be as cold as he is.

            I swear for a moment I see him breathe in, but when my hand darts out to feel for a pulse, I feel the thralls of rigor mortis. My own breath begins to sound heavy and labored. The awareness of my breathing makes me feel as though I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I start gasping for breath in earnest, unable to look away from those stained lips.

            Through the haze of panic, I try for anything to grasp onto. I can’t lose myself right now, I need to stay here in the present. The buzz of the lightbulb, the howl of the wind outside, the ticking of the clock.

            The ticking must be wrong because it’s much slower than a single second. Each click seems to take minutes, shocking and irregular.

            One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.

            By the time I reach the one minute mark, the spacing between seconds seems much more believable. By the five minute mark, my breath has evened out. By the half hour mark, my heart rate has receded from pounding in my ears. By the time I reach two-thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two, the bell tolls for the end of the hour.

            I jump out from under the sheets and up off the bed in one motion, using the momentum to carry me to my discarded clothing. In a moment I’m covered and shooting towards the door. My hand rips the doorknob open, the fresh air of the hall comes spilling in. My foot twitches to begin my mad dash out of the home, but I can’t make the first step.

            I wheel around and march over to the bedside table. I pull the drawer out so quickly that it flies off of the track and flies onto the floor. The stack of pictures remains intact, allowing me to stoop and grab them in one hand. As an afterthought, I grab the camera before standing and leaving.

            The car is waiting for me as usual, pulled right up to the front door. I fight to make no indication to the driver that anything has gone awry. I pair the silent trip home with a silent walk to my room. I shut and lock my door behind me, propping a chair under the handle for good measure. I stare at the entryway for a good ten minutes before I slip out of the dress again. My mind can’t keep from picturing Snow breaking through the wooden barrier anyway, lips still stained red from wine.

            Even naked, I keep the pictures clutched in my hands. The sweat from my palms begins to soak into them, molding them under the tight clutch. I can’t bring myself to look at them, instead roughly shoving them into the small cubby in my unused desk. I slam it closed so roughly that the handle is forced part of the way into the wood, shooting a crack straight across the front.

            “Fuck!” I yell, snapped to extreme anger in just a single second.

            I shoot my leg out a moment later, striking the lower drawer with my bare foot until a crack appears in that one too. The pain in the ball of my foot does nothing except enrage me further. I need so badly to break something else. But there’s nothing else in my room that I could possibly damage.

            I return to my dress on the floor, grabbing it roughly into my still-trembling hands. I make to tear it, pulling with all my might along the seam. Not a single stitch pops out of place, not even when I place it below my foot and pull upwards with an effort that pulls a scream from me.

            I collapse on the floor beside it and glare at it, teeth bared in anger. The nylon interior peers back, mocking me. I was the one who asked Giovani to make them indestructible. It’s no one’s fault except my own. Just like everything else.

            Tears come to replace the fury, washing my flushed face with salty streams. I pick myself pitifully from the ground, heading straight for the shower.

            When I lived in District 3, I thought there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be fixed by a long warm dip in water. Now I struggle to identify a single problem in my life that can be remedied by such a simple fix. It feels nice though, and it keeps the tears company as they flow down the drain.

            I sit heavily on the tile, head in my hands, hair forming a curtain around my sobbing shoulders. It feels impenetrable, like nobody could possibly think of a way to interrupt me through it. It muffles the running water to a point that it becomes a static background. It doesn’t, however, block out the incessant knocking on my door.

            “Go away,” I whisper, not loud enough even for me to hear it.

            It continues long into my shower, until finally it rouses me to irritation once more. Without drying myself, I shoulder on the irritatingly plush robe and stomp my way to the bedroom door. I yank the chair out from under it and pull it open.

            “What could possibly be so fucking important right now?” I yell before I even see who it is.

            “The news. It said Seneca Crane is dead,” Ronan replies, face pale as a sheet of paper.

            “Suicide.” Finnick stands at his side, hand still raised to continue knocking.

            Stained red lips flash in front of my eyes.

            I push the door to shut but Ronan is faster, shoving a foot in front of the door frame. His hand begins to press against the door, trying to force it back open. I shove my shoulder against it, forcing the entirety of my body weight into it.

            “Go away!” I grunt through the effort.

            Ronan is much stronger, pushing against me until I’m sure the door will snap in half. When the gap is big enough, Finnick squeezes through. He yanks me away from the door and into his arms, pulling me forcefully into his chest. I struggle every second to get away, pushing with my hands against him until he gives up and lets me go.

            I move to run for the bathroom, but once again Ronan beats me to it. He places his hands on either side of the entryway, barring me from locking myself away again.

            “Leave me alone,” I beg. “I just want to be alone.”

            “I thought you were dead,” Finnick says, causing my head to swivel. He still stands where I left him.

            “You need to tell us what happened,” Ronan instructs.

            “I don’t have to tell you shit!” I bark at him. “This is my room and if I don’t want you in here, you shouldn’t come in.”

            “We thought Snow killed the both of you,” Finnick says again, looking incredibly sick.

            “And you couldn’t tell I was alive by seeing me yell at you?” I snap. “Get the fuck out.”

            “Something bad happened,” Ronan insists again.

            “No shit! That’s my business.”

            “It’s our business in the interest of the safety of a lot of people.” Sweat drips in beads down Ronan’s face, framing eyes the size of saucers.

            It strikes me that Ronan is just as scared as I am. A network of people depend on him to make sure that they aren’t compromised. What just happened is not his fault and pretending it is won’t do anything to help. I’m in too deep already. There’s not a chance of abandoning ship now, just as Ronan warned me so long ago.

            I sit heavily on the bedside just behind my knees, slumping my head into my hands and wishing that my hair felt half as solid as it did moments ago. After a long pause, the spot beside me depresses. I expect more questions, but instead, I feel a hand cradle the side of my head and a brush begins to run through my wet hair. I lean heavily into Ronan’s chest and let him coddle me as if he were the father that I almost claimed he was.

            He’s exceedingly gentle, taking minutes to work through tangles that I would have otherwise torn through with little regard. Finnick takes his spot on my other side, confidently, as if it were reserved for him. He pulls my hand into his own, lacing our fingers together. It serves to anchor me, pulling my thoughts out of the abstract and into the present.

            I haven’t done this before, never allowed myself to take such absolute advantage of the help that has long long been offered to me. It washes over me like the powerful waves upon the District 4 piers. Each murmur of comfort from Ronan’s lips serves to bring me further inland until I feel almost steady in my own presence. I find myself slipping almost into a trance, further and further until I feel almost as if disclosing everything will clear the images from my mind.

            “Snow was there,” I begin when Ronan sets the brush on my nightstand. “He wanted to know what I said to Haymitch. I guess that means that my disruptor works.” I chuckle dryly.

            “What did you tell him?” Ronan presses.

            “I convinced him of my compassion for the new victors. I think he believes that all I wanted was to advise Haymitch on the political landscape of moonlighting,” I report, ever the dutiful soldier. “He’s concerned over you, Ronan. He thinks you’re up to something nefarious. I was advised to stay far away.”

            “And how did you respond?”

            “I told him you’re just an annoying old bastard. He seemed to buy it, but you should probably lay low for a while.” I don’t understand how I draw that sort of conclusion without any concrete thoughts in my head.

            “What happened after that?” Ronan presses his luck.

            “Nothing.” My reply is as firm as I can make it.

            “Then what has you so shaken up?” Finnick ventures to ask.

            “I said nothing ,” I hiss. “He got up and left after we were done talking.”

            “What did Crane have to say about it?” Ronan asks after a healthy pause.

            “Last time I checked, dead men don’t speak.”

            “So he was dead when you got there?” Ronan isn’t willing to give up.

            “Yes.”

            “You actually saw him dead?”

            “Stop,” I beg, feeling as if I’m being pushed out to sea again.

            “Did you or did you not see him dead when you got there?”

            “Stop!” I shout.

            “Fara, if you saw him alive I need to know!” He shouts back.

            Finnick stands, moving quickly to stand in front of Ronan.

            “Fuck, give us a bit, Ronan. I think we’ve established that there’s no imminent threat.” Finnick’s presence has gone from meek to commanding in the matter of a moment.

            Cowed, Ronan nods and rises from beside me. He exits briskly, guiding the door shut softly behind him.

            “I don’t want to talk about it,” I cry, peering up at Finnick through the glossy sheen over my eyes.

            “You don’t have to.”

            He doesn’t press me to say anything else, instead pulling back my bedsheets and helping me under them. Once he’s satisfied that I’ll stay put, he orders a lemonade from the tablet for me and a whiskey for himself. While he waits the few moments for the drinks to be delivered, he browses the bookshelf just to the side of the delivery station. He hums slightly and picks a title, bringing it to me along with the glasses. He settles beside me, overtop of the blankets. The distance he keeps is safe, appropriate. For once, I appreciate it.

            His narration of the book is mind numbing, gentle in a way I didn’t know he could be. I find myself shaking and exhausted, finally coming down from the perpetual adrenaline that’s kept me running for this long. As I feel my eyes grow heavy, I move so that my head lies on his chest. The warmth from beneath his shirt is insistent, inviting. I align the timing of my own breaths with his, finding that with each intake I grow closer to sleep. When it finally takes me, I’m ready to face it.

            I shift lightly, rolling onto my side in bed. That’s when I feel it, the corpse next to me. The decaying arm droops lifelessly over my waist, trying to cage me in place. My muscles snap taut, coiling to launch me out from under the sheets and onto the floor. I can’t help but to yell, fleeing for the door as I do so.

            “Fara?” The deep rumble comes from behind me on the bed.

            It’s Finnick. Of course it’s Finnick. When I turn to look at him, he’s very much alive. He’s sitting upright now, face looking appropriately like someone who’s just been shocked awake from a very deep sleep. All of the evidence before me should put me at ease, but it doesn’t quite do the job. Seneca Crane is under those sheets, somehow I just know it.

            “Come back to bed. It was just a dream,” Finnick says, holding a hand out to me.

            I take a step backwards. The bed is vile, uninhabitable.

            I flee as quickly as I can to find something, anything to make the image of Seneca Crane fade from my mind.

Chapter Text

            When she was sixteen, Cashmere ate the world like an apple, bite after bite until her teeth found the core. Now, at twenty-five, there’s nothing left but bitter entrails to consume.

            As a child, she was applauded for her tenacity. She was always complimented on her practicality, the way she never bothered to stoop to the level of gameplay and teasing of her peers. Cashmere has an old soul , they all used to say, she’s been an adult her whole life . The praise was all alright, she didn’t mind that. For a while, she didn’t mind the responsibility either. But after a while, it started to feel less like a privilege and more like a burden.

            At school, whenever Gloss had a particularly nasty streak, the teachers sought to inform her rather than their parents. The wine-drunk mother and overworked father weren’t seen as fit to handle his outburst, but the younger sister was somehow the appropriate solution. And damn if she wasn’t good at it. Managing people was a lot easier than everyone always made it out to be. Being honest and straightforward ended up doing half of the work anyway. No use being coy about problems, better to face them head on.

            She always tells herself that she hates having to take care of people, that it’s not her job to help them out. Yet, somehow, she always finds herself elbow deep into whatever issue plagues her peers. For that reason, she now sits in Garnette’s small office, hidden halfway behind the two enormous computer screens on the table. Garnette herself looks distinctly worried, brow furrowed as her eyes dart between Cashmere and the screens that likely contain all of the victor rosters.

            “Do you hear what I’m saying, Cash?”

            Nobody calls her that. Garnette is trying to lend some false familiarity to her pleas, perhaps thinking it’ll convince Cash to try a bit harder.

            “Everyone’s going to get new roles, yeah I get it. We’ve dealt with rebranding before.” She rubs fingers against the bridge of her nose.

            “Not new roles per-se, but yes, everyone is going to have to do a lot more image work than they’re used to.” Garnette swirls a lock of bright red hair around her finger absentmindedly.

            “And why are you telling me?” Cashmere ventures to actually ask, to force the reasoning into words.

            “Because they listen to you.” Garnette states it as if it were obvious. “You’ve got to convince them not to push back on it. It’d be bad news if they did. Snow was deadly serious in that meeting. All of the victor relations workers were reamed about the importance of the shift.”

            “Fine,” she says, already inwardly groaning at the new workload she’s invited. “Tell me again what he wants from each one. I can’t promise anything with Achilles and Magnus, they don’t listen much to what I have to say.”

            Garnette pulls a blank sheet of paper from a wire basket hanging on her wall. She slaps it onto the desk in front of her and begins inking it with her signature red pen.

            “Blight doesn’t change much, Snow’s team seems to think that keeping him out of sight and mind is best.” She scribbles shorthand for the sentiment on the faint lines.

            “Makes sense. He’s more of a private troublemaker.” Cashmere adds her own commentary.

            “Brutus, Augustus, Enobaria, and Achilles aren’t concerns either, they’re just going to be playing up what they’ve already got going on. Cecilia is going to be sent home.” Garnette pauses and looks at Cashmere to gauge her reaction. “They want to show her being a doting mother to her kids.”

            “Good,” Cashmere says, annoyed that Garnette worries about offending her.

            “The ones that are going to need a lot of guidance are the ones who’ve been stirring the pot the most. Unfortunately that’s your lot. Most of Ronan’s coverage is going to paint him as a has-been. I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to angle him as losing it a bit, it’ll kill the credibility he’s gained.”

            “He’s going to hate that.” Cashmere shudders.

            “Oh, just wait. Gloss is going to stop being so erratic, they want to paint him as the voice of reason. That means no more clubbing, public intoxication, and especially no shagging other young victors.” Garnette sours at this, glancing again at Cashmere as if that whole mess was her fault. Cashmere waves her to continue, not rising to the bait.

            “Grant, Gaia and Finnick are going to be sold for all they’re worth. They’re young, and we want them to seem open and willing at all times to soothe the Capitol. It serves doubly to destroy the respect they’ve garnered in the districts. They’re going to reek of sex at all times.”

            “Okay.” That’s definitely going to be tougher to sell to her peers. “What about Fara? She’s young too. And you haven’t mentioned Magnus yet either.”

            “Snow wants her far away from the Capitol. She’s getting sent back to District 4 as soon as possible. I don’t know what she’s done, but he’s fucking serious about keeping her at arm’s length. Nobody really mentioned Magnus, he’s honestly quite forgettable. No reason to change that, I suppose I get official schedules tomorrow morning, we’ll see exactly what pans out then.”

            “Okay,” Cashmere repeats, overwhelmed already with the weight that has been placed on her.

            Garnette purses her lips and tightens her brows. She slides the paper over the desk to Cashmere, who takes it gingerly. Each victor has instructions scribbled neatly by their names, the perfect outcome expected from imperfect people. She’ll be expected to fill that gap, simply because she’s done it before.

            She stands and walks out on legs shaky with disuse, polite words of parting heavy on her tongue. She folds the sheet of paper as she walks, tucking it into the small pockets of the slacks she wears. On the walk back to the elevator, she scolds herself for her weariness. There’s no time for self-pity, it’ll get her nowhere. She rolls her shoulders back behind her chest and fills her ribs with a hearty breath. She’s glad she does, because she’s sure she’d have deflated entirely when Grant stepped in with her.

            He’s traveling back from the victors lounge, no doubt going to a stylist appointment to ready himself for another grueling round of daily appointments. His brow is low, dark, as it has been lately. He does little more than grunt in greeting, leaning heavily against the smooth glass window pane for support. She pushes the button for the District 5 floor for him when he doesn’t move to do it himself.

            How is she supposed to tell this boy that he’s going to have to oversell the act of a willing participant? He barely seems alive, a ghost of the smiling boy she’s cataloged him as.

            The door to her stop comes much too quickly, leaving an enormous amount of words unsaid. She offers him her closest approximation of a caring mother’s smile. When she walks out, it’s almost as if she feels the pillar of stability crumble behind her. All that her reassurances hold are flimsy temporary comforts. She can offer nothing of substance to any of her young dependents.

            As she settles in her room, a small voice in the back of her head sings like a bird of the transgressions of unrest. Her friends have brought this punishment upon themselves. As long as she’s been here, she’s told Ronan to be more careful. Yet, he’s heeded none of her words and has pinched the mere children into the confines of a prospective war.

            It’s brewing, she’d be stupid to ignore it, but it’s in its infancy. Early enough still to suffocate with little effort. Ronan seeks to fan the flame, not caring what stands to be scorched in its wake. He selfishly wants a means out of his own tempered servitude to Capitol gluttons, and can’t be made to care for those who stand to lose it all at his hand.

            Ronan has always seemed out of place here, checking appointments on a bright little tablet in the wall. She’s always pictured him perched atop a chariot, spear in hand like the ancient Greek soldiers that District 1 had idolized. He has the face of a warrior and the spirit to match it, he always has. She was only eight years-old when he won the 55th Hunger Games, but she hasn’t yet forgotten the righteous victory he paraded for all to see.

            The image of him, sunk knee deep into peat bog, striking down children with his pronged mace, has plagued her thoughts for years. He was the prodigal son, idolized to God-like status until Gloss finally clinched a District 1 victory eight years later. And then, just a year after that, it was shared between the legendary Nightingale siblings. Before that, familial wins were practically unheard of. Certainly none back to back.

            They were always on the precipice of discovery, the two of them. From the glorious to the macabre, they lead the way. At first, she felt as though they stumbled through the dark together, linked by some intrinsic bond. She’s grown to see it for what it really is now.

            Gloss made it into the career academy, so he drew attention to his younger sister and urged his teachers to let her follow. Then, when he won the games and began his life in the Capitol straight away, he reached down for her once again. She’s not stupid enough to believe she won her games unaided, she knows what kind of deals victors make for the tributes that they love. She used to think that what he did made him the bravest man in the world, but now she can see through the bravado to the true cowardice it reflects.

            Gloss couldn’t stand to face his new realities alone, so he drug Cashmere through each one regardless of the pain and misery he knew it would unleash. She’s been ripped and torn so quickly through her life that she never even had the time to figure out who she should become. So she keeps with the way she always has been. Stable, level-headed Cashmere, beyond her years in every way. It seems impossible that no one sees through the temperance to trepidation.

            She ignores the sounds of sex coming from the nearly-open door across from her own and locks herself away from it. All she can do is hope that whoever Gloss has bedded is old enough to fly under Snow’s radar. She can at least rest easy knowing that it isn’t Faraday anymore. The pair hasn’t said anything, but it’s obvious enough to see that something has formed between the girl and her former mentor. It was only a matter of time, really, before it happened. She only hopes that it serves both of them well and ends as smoothly as any victor relationship can.

            It’s very late now, or very early depending on how it’s spun. Cashmere’s packed day and night has left her feeling weary and shaky, with not even enough energy for a shower. She shirks her evening gown for a pair of light pink satin pajamas. She wipes the makeup roughly from her face and washes the skin with cool refreshing water.

            She feels almost clean as she lays down in the large bed, pulling her pure white sheets up to her chin. As an afterthought, she instructs the room AI to play some music to cover up the grunts and moans of a pair of people close to finishing coming from across the hall. The classical music lulls her into a stupor, allowing her to completely forget the red-inked paper lying in wait on her desktop to greet her in the morning.

            The knock on her door is perhaps the most vile, jarring sound she’s ever heard.

            Her eyelids flicker open. Ignore it . Her half asleep brain tells her.

            Another round of knocking.

             It’s not worth it, you need sleep .

            But Cashmere is responsible. She needs to see what the problem is and solve it.

            The door is open in an instant, her heavy eyes peer into the hallway.

            It’s Faraday, and she’s been crying. Cashmere pulls the door inwards and raises an arm to admit the girl. She flicks the lights back on with a sigh. There’s no working or leisure hours, it all blends together into a great mix of life to live.

            “Cashmere,” she gasps. “Seneca Crane is dead.”

             Oh? This is new .

            “Did you kill him?” Her bluntness startles herself. She needs to shake her exhaustion fast.

            “No, I just… Well I- I don’t know. No. Snow did it.” She’s sobbing and goes to sit on Cashmere’s bed.

            “And you’re sad why?” Not blunt anymore, just rude.

            “I had to- he made me… Well he and I just. I had my clothes off.”

            “Calm down,” she snaps, unable to track any piece of the picture with her tired mind.

            “I’m sorry,” Faraday whimpers, brows knit together as she stares up at Cashmere.

            “Just focus on talking.” Cashmere cards her hands through her own unbrushed hair, still thick with hairspray.

            “I don’t know how to get it out of my head. I need help.” Faraday is begging now, crumpling the sheets in her fists.

            “I’m not your fucking Mom. I don’t know what to say.” Cashmere can’t be the one who says those words, surely.

            “I’m sorry.” The words are sobbed now. “Snow made me take my clothes off,” she starts.

             What a horrible start that is, too. This is no mere girlish upset, something much more dire has happened tonight. Cashmere forces herself into a new sense of alertness.

            “He made me tell him what Seneca and I would do together and he made me get in bed with it.”

            “It?” Cashmere prompts, sitting now beside her young friend.

            “Seneca. Well not him, but the body.”

            “Shit,” Cashmere breathes.

            “I was there for almost an hour. I can still feel it, I can still see it. There’s something wrong with me now.”

            For the life of her, Cashmere can’t come up with a response to that. Think, Cashmere, think . But there’s nothing except the one repeated line. Why does it have to be me?

            All she can see is the messy tears and wrinkles on her once perfectly pressed white sheets. Her sheets. Her bed. Her room.

            She can hear Gloss now, through the ajar door, asking if everything is alright. He’s managed to throw on a pair of flannel shorts, but no consideration dedicated to picking out any sort of shirt.

            With a burst of energy, Cashmere grips Faraday by her heaving shoulders and lifts her from the bed. She unceremoniously walks the girl over to the entrance and pushes her into her brother’s chest.

            “I can’t do this right now. It’s your fucking turn.” She seethes.

            She pushes the door shut behind her.

            It’s her turn to feel small, alone, and despairing. It can’t always be her who’s there to pick up the pieces. She can’t take it anymore. Who will be there for her? Nobody.

            She’s alright with this fact. She can take care of herself right now, but she shouldn’t have to take care of everyone else, too.

            She rips the soiled sheets from her bed, leaving nothing but a blank white mattress. Meticulously, she orders new sheets from the tablet and pristinely makes the bed. When she’s finished, everything’s pulled so tight that she could bounce a coin off of the blankets.

            It’s her turn to soil it now.

            She pulls everything back and wraps it around herself messily. She orders red wine and sips on it, dangerously close to the white fabric. She doesn’t spill a drop. Not from any of the four glasses she finishes. She uses them as fuel to forget her actions tonight.

            Cashmere the perfect has made imperfect transgressions.

            To his credit, Gloss tries his best to help me. He starts with a cup of warm hot chocolate, into which he pours a heavy helping of brandy. It doesn’t matter much that I don’t have a taste for the drink, the burn of heat and bite of liquor give me strength. Gloss has never been a master of contemplative silence, but he makes a valiant effort to allow me time to think.

            The District 1 common room is the exact same shape and size as the one on the District 4 floor. The only distinctions are visible in the furnishings. Where our floor is all coastal-oak furniture and light blue upholstery, this room is completely black and white. It lends to a sort of timeless elegance that holds with the limestone architecture of their city center. I wonder if the interior designers want to make us feel at home in our spaces or if it’s just a stylistic choice to stay on theme.

            When I finish my drink, Gloss lights a joint and allows me to take the first hit. The method of calming is entirely different than anyone else has tried so far, but it helps much more quickly. The slight buzz of alcohol dilating my veins combines pleasantly with the effect of the weed sitting just behind my eyes. I let my head fall backwards onto the couch cushion and let out a long sigh.

            “Better?” Gloss asks, blowing a large cloud of smoke towards me from his spot standing a bit away.

            It doesn’t quite reach, only dispelling slightly above me.

            “Yeah,” I say, reaching for a swig from the bottle straight.

            “Cashmere probably would have made you sit and talk it out.” He snorts.

            “That’s why I went to her,” I groan. “I think I need it. What’s going on with her?”

            “She’s tired.” His dark eyes take on a slightly spacey look. “She burns the candle at both ends, which means that she’s bound to scorch other people sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” He shakes his head. “You can talk to me instead, I’ve been told I’m an excellent audience.”

            “Yeah right!” I exclaim, bubbling up through the haze. “You couldn’t stand it when I’d try to talk to you after we fucked.” 

            “That’s because fucking is best followed by a cigarette and silence.” He barks back in humorous disbelief.

            The casual nature I’m able to embody is entirely easy to slip into. Overthinking isn’t possible right now.

            “You’ll understand when you rack up your numbers. Things start to seem less dire when they’re diluted.” He sits beside me now on the couch, passing the joint back my way.

            “I think I’ve got plenty of numerical instances established.” I inhale deeply.

            “Naw, that’s not sex. What we do out there is business.”

            I simply nod in agreement, not finding that I have any retort for him. I draw my knees up to my chest and rest my head on top of them. Gloss rises again and busies himself with lighting a fire in the small fireplace. I keep my eyes on his hands as they adeptly work through nursing a small flame into a suitable source of warmth. With his back still facing me, he speaks again.

            “It’s Seneca Crane, isn’t it? The thing you’re upset about, I mean. I heard he died.”

            “He was killed,” I say, thankful that the signal disruptor is still in my pocket. I flip the switch to activate it.

            “I figured that much. He really fucked things up this year, didn’t he? Like, the one core point of his job is to produce one victor to send home.”

            “Yeah, I guess.” I chew on my lip, feeling no pain as the skin bursts open. “ I saw it.”

            “You saw him get killed?” Gloss straightens up and brushes his hands on his flannel bottoms.

            “No, just the body.” I take another fast pull of the liquor to give me momentum to continue. “He was dead when I went to his mansion for my appointment. Snow was there.”

            “The bastard made you look at the corpse?” Gloss scoffs, settling back in next to me, close enough that I can feel his knee touch mine. The contact gives me strength.

            “The bastard made me kiss the corpse.”

             The corpse . How simple that makes it sound. Just like an inanimate object. The pillow, the toaster, the chair, the corpse .

            It’s then that I begin my divulgence, as graphic and stumbling as I remember it. The shaking terror when I wondered if Snow himself would assault me on the spot, the stiff coldness of the body in the bed beside me, the exact number of seconds I had to remain there, all of it comes in waves. The only thing I leave out is exactly what I did say to Haymitch. It’s better for Gloss to think that everything I told Snow was the truth.

            When my retelling is done, I’m actually quite thankful that my disclosure was to Gloss instead of his sister.

            “That man is the worst kind of evil. I’d knock his teeth out if I could someday.” He tuts, wiping tears from my face with a rough clumsy thumb.

            “You’re just now realizing that?” I try for humor even though my throat is constricted with emotion.

            “I realized that about a decade ago, sweetheart.” His face contorts like he’s eaten something bitter. “I had to drive a pretty hard bargain to get Cashmere out of that arena.”

            “I can’t believe that it’s possible to bribe wins.” I can’t help but to feel the outrage in me renew.

            “Don’t go and act high and mighty on me, I thought I broke you of that. Did you just figure out that your win wasn’t legitimate? Does it sting to know that you’re not actually a powerhouse of gauntlet fighting and survival?” He rolls his eyes at me.

            “I don’t get why he’d want to save me if he knew I’d just end up here.”

            “You don’t get it,” he snaps. “You’ve never been in that situation.”

            I’ve struck a nerve. It’s taken me over a year to find something that moves Gloss from his perpetual state of ease. I lean into it.

            “I know enough that even if I loved someone I wouldn’t want to lead them into a life of torture. That’s just selfish.”

            “Leave it be, Faraday.” He makes me feel immediately foolish, putting my antagonistic flame out.

            “I just can’t bear to think of what Finnick did,” I admit.

            “If it makes you feel better, it can’t be worse than what I did.” He wraps his hand around the back of my neck and rubs his thumb against my skin.

            “What’d you do?” I turn to ask him in a whisper.

            “I had to be Cashmere’s first in the Capitol, just after she won. In front of Snow.” He’s unbelievably detached in the way he describes it. “I’m not surprised he didn’t touch you, he prefers to watch the scenarios he sets up.”

            “I don’t know what to say,” I admit, dumbfounded.

            “Don’t say anything. Ever.” He instructs. “Cashmere doesn’t know that bit was my fault.”

            A secret. I don’t think Gloss has ever shared one with me. Every part of him is such an open book that I’ve fooled myself into thinking that he has no secrets.

            “If you blabber about it then I can’t promise any ounce of discretion in regards to your Seneca Crane story.” He detaches from the shared moment quickly, face as hard as marble.

            “You don’t have to threaten me.” I shake my head slightly in disbelief. “What makes you think that I’d willingly do something to hurt you?”

            “A little collateral never hurts. You shared some of yours, I share some of mine. Keeps the scales balanced.” He shrugs. “Now, I know exactly what’ll make you feel better.”

            His idea of a remedy is unsurprisingly found in the gym.

            Though both of us are now more than slightly intoxicated, he sees fit to train me in the art of knife-throwing. It’s Cashmere’s specialty, apparently, and he thinks it might end up being mine as well. His breakdown is quite logical.

            “You aren’t the type who could lock into combat, you’d lose your nerve. The only way you’re getting any victory is by distance combat.”

            “Why do you talk like we’re training to go back into the arena?” I ask, fingering the silver blades.

            “Training for the arena just makes sense.” He struggles to elaborate. “It can’t hurt, right? What if they get it in their heads to send us back in someday?”

            His insinuation fills me with cold dread.

            “Things were so much simpler in there, I almost wouldn’t mind going back. I think about it a lot, just an easy daydream. Finnick, Cashmere, and I would make the perfect alliance. We’ve all got the right traits to balance it out.”

            “You wouldn’t let me in?” I jab, painting it like a joke but genuinely feeling attached to his answer.

            “Oh hell no. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

            “I’ve got a good strategic brain, though,” I argue.

            “Cashmere has that covered. You’d be a liability. You wouldn’t kill a fly and you’d try to make us feel guilty if we did.”

            “Shut up about it,” I end it abruptly. “It’s weird that you want it to happen again.”

            “Aww, get your feelings hurt?” Gloss lightly backhands my arm.

            “Hey! I’m giving you a lot of leeway here, letting you teach me how to throw knives.”

            From there we actually do focus on my weapons training. The knives are heavy in my hands, heavier than I thought any alloy would be. My palms fill with perspiration every time Gloss asks me to demonstrate a skill he’s teaching. None of it comes naturally to me, but I do feel like I’m retaining what he says.

            The wall of aversion which once barred me from participating has dissolved. The link between training and brutality has grown fainter with each passing day spent in the Capitol. Once I gain this skill, I feel naively as though I’ll be blessed with the power of discretion, something I’ve never considered with much regard before. While aptitude with deadly weapons can lead to horrendous outcomes, it only really does so with the willing use of the skill. This knife training could very well lie dormant for the rest of my life.

            Yet, on the other hand, there may be some opportunity in my life where the weight of defenselessness will overcome the urge for humanity. On personal principle, no individual should have the right to be judge, jury, and executioner based on whim. In application, I can’t help but to admit that I’d kill President Snow in a heartbeat if given the chance. My hesitation would come only from fear of retribution, no hint of morality. This realization doesn’t startle me as much as it probably should.

            Somehow, I know that Gloss has some semblance of understanding of this shift. He doesn’t dare speak it, but I can see it in the glances he casts at me and the ghosting hands that adjust my form. It shows an incredible amount of restraint that he doesn’t scream from the rooftops that he was correct all along. All I needed was the right application of pressure to abandon one of my few remaining core values.

            When I finally hit a target, there’s an ominous sense of foreboding I can’t quite shake. There will be implications from what we’ve done here today. All actions have consequences .

Chapter Text

            Reform has hit us like a truck. With only a brief warning from Cashmere, my friends have been saddled with sinister new roles. It seems that all of them are sparsely given time to sleep, with media and client appointments back-to-back day and night. The only ones left around the tower are Blight, Magnus, and myself. In the hours of quiet company we share, Blight tells me that this isn’t the first time this has happened. The uptick in work never lasted too long in the past, only requiring a certain amount of energy to shift direction before settling into the new direction.

            It’s almost as cut-and-dry as a physics equation. A change in direction requires a change in force exerted. In a vacuum, the new path can be maintained for as long as there’s no other interfering force.

            Magnus’s theories paint everything in a much more dramatic light. He drunkenly claims that this signifies the end of times. He thinks there must be something terribly broken in order to need this size of patch to fix it.

            I find my own answer is a healthy mix of both perspectives. The change may be routine, but the cause is very likely the fuel of upset in the Districts after our most recent Hunger Games. The only variable I remain perplexed by is the lack of my own role. All of my appointments for the rest of the week have been cleared, which Finnick predicts to mean that I’ll be sent home. I have a hard time understanding how giving me more leeway could possibly give Snow peace of mind.

            Blight has an easy, well thought out answer to this as well. Snow is frightened by the opposition of those he views as intellectual threats. Beetee has never been allowed within viewing distance of the Capitol except when he’s required to be here for mentoring. To the same effect, none of the District 3 victors are allowed to remain here very long.

            Blight says that Snow understands the nature of unspoken curriculum taught in the technology district. Children are taught secrecy as second nature, sharing information as currency from early ages. It allows a sort of unlocked level of scheming that he finds to be dangerous. When I finally ask why Snow doesn’t bother to try to reform the whole district, Blight smiles like it’s obvious.

            “Snow’s not stupid, he knows that uniting a group of skeptics against him as a villain could be disastrous. It’s better to let it fester in the dark than try to bring it into the light of day.”

            That answer quells me enough for a while, giving me quite a bit to examine in my newfound free time. Snow’s power once seemed so imposing and all encompassing that it was futile to question it. Now I can see the cracks that form in the spaces between his control. His leadership is entirely based on how much his reign can tolerate. If he leaves some things unspoken, he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not his brute force will be enough to stifle it. Better to let us have the illegal books than try to burn them all and fail.

            The explanation doesn’t make it any easier when I have to board the train and leave, given hardly time to write notes of farewell to my friends. I have a feeling it’ll be a long time before I’m permitted to return.

            The ride is quiet, and not altogether unpleasant. Letting myself enjoy even a fraction of the solace leaves me feeling guilty and unwell. While I spend hours staring peacefully into the passing nature, Finnick and Grant are forced to give increasingly lewd interviews. Their pivot seems the most stark to me, simply because I haven’t watched enough media before to get a grasp of who they were painted previously to be. Blight said that us young victors were always displayed as overtly wanton, so the new interviews won’t be as jarring to long-time viewers. To me, it’s earth-shattering.

            I finally sit through an entire talk show segment when my boredom on the train grows. Finnick and Gloss are together on this one, seated on opposite sides of a plump little hostess. Gloss is wearing glasses , which he’s never before needed. His simple black suit deviates from his usual gaudy bright shirts. Finnick isn’t even given the luxury of wearing a gaudy shirt, he’s bare-chested and glistening with sweat. Whether it’s real or painted on, I can’t tell. He sits with his arms open, hands interlocked behind his head, feet crossed lazily in front of him. The look of leisure is almost believable. When the camera flashes to close shots of his face, the dilation of his pupils is striking. He’s been put on some sort of drug. I hope that it helps him to find a bit of peace.

            While he’s never been particularly prude, Finnick hasn’t been gratuitously sexual either. This fact seems to have been forgotten by the host, who prods and prunes him with questions intended to reveal the actual desires that lurk just below his surface. He dances carefully around the direct questioning, gently flirting with the line of appropriate television discussion. Between bursts of speech, his tongue darts out to wet his lips with little regard. There’s no shot that he’ll remember this interview tomorrow morning.

            Unable to stomach much more of the rhetoric, I refrain from watching any more TV on my journey. The fact that I’m not there to lend support makes it infinitely more difficult to think too heavily on the implications behind my friends’ intensified media coverage. Abstaining from thoughts of them is nearly impossible. While it pains me, I can’t help but to think of Gloss carrying Finnick to the car after the interview is over. The image is so clear that it’s hard to believe that it’s not happening this very second. I can see Finnicks head, lolling weakly onto Gloss’s shoulder as the older man supports his drug-spent body. Will someone be waiting to help them? Will he let the nurses give him the sobering drugs he needs, or will he continue to medicate until he can fall asleep alone?

            I eye the telephone sternly. Even if I did have the confidence to pick it up, who would I call? I don’t know any phone numbers, I’d have no hope of recruiting help from any of the victors. I have to settle for the thought that we’ve all always done our best to look out for each other.

            Arriving at the District 4 central train station is a welcome distraction from the unperturbed solitude of the train. No camera crews lie in wait, but the general buzz of the evening crowd in the square is enough to demand my focus. I head clear through the market as quickly as I can, slipping between gaps in the crowd before anyone can clock me in recognition. Instead of heading straight home, which I ought to do, I fight into the offshoot fishermen’s section of the town. There’s only three bars in the offshoot, so it doesn’t take long before I’m able to find my father in one, tucked into a back corner with his crew celebrating the end of a long work week.

            When he spots me hovering, he stands from his chair so quickly that it falls to the floor behind him. Never having been one for great shows of affection, he greets me with a few warm words and a nod. He moves to leave money on the table and to walk out with me, but I shake my head and suggest we stay. I grab his abandoned drink and finish it off before sitting in one of the empty chairs next to his. The jeers from his crew convince him to sit back down and introduce me.

            Once we both have our own full glasses of beer, he haphazardly familiarizes me with the dozen men and women at the table. They range in age from younger than me to much older than him. The smallest girl looks no older than fifteen, accompanied by a pint of beer that’s as big as her head. She’s hardly put a dent in it, and I choose to believe (perhaps foolishly) that it’s her first drink of the night.

            Once we’re past the initial stages of introductions, everyone slips back into the banter they had going when I entered. The shucking of direct attention leaves me to fidget. Blight had said not so long ago that the people in the Districts had enough sense to ignore the Capitol broadcasts of victor gossip. That had been comforting to hear in that moment, but only now do I start to question his subjective experiences. What rings true in District 7 might not hold with the reality in District 4. While this group hasn’t displayed an ounce of hostility towards me, I can’t help but to wonder if they believe in the public image that the TV has been crafting about me. LI placate myself with the thought that low level fishermen probably don’t have much time for watching gossip pieces, if they can even afford a television set.

            Suddenly my brazen intrusion into their evening’s fun seems foolish. Of course I had to charge in here headfirst and throw back the first glass of alcohol I could find. That’s exactly the version of myself that’s been painted in the media. Bold, drug crazed, sex addicted. I should have just headed straight for my house and found a good book to read. Except, these people are kind and funny and they seem to take my presence in stride.

            An older woman sits at my elbow, breaking occasionally away from the main group conversations to explain in-jokes to me when they arise (which is quite frequently). Much later, she introduces herself as Shelby, seeming to have sensed that my father’s loose introductions didn’t stick in my mind. She’s gruff and crass, reminding me quite a bit of Wade. Instead of aiming her critical tongue at me, she berates me with stories of my father’s youth. She’s evidently the captain of their vessel and has been for almost twenty years. She explains with a spark of pride that my father had done over twenty placement rotations before he came to her. No crew could hold with him, young and wild and unwavering in the face of authority.

            He blushes lightly in the dim atmosphere of the bar, shaking his head in disapproval. He makes sure to credit her for her outstanding style of leadership. She barks laughter at him, insisting that she was simply the only one dumb enough to keep him around. She tells me conspiratorially that he wasn’t even invited to the victory tour party where he met my mother, that even a few years of her leadership wasn’t enough to tame his rebellious flame. I grasp onto her description with desperate care. I press the two of them for more details, glad to have Shelby’s presence to goad my father along in the interrogation.

            Only a select few District 4 citizens were invited to the mayor’s house for the after-feast celebration that night, and poor young fishermen were certainly not on that list. Upon further questioning, my father reveals that he snuck in through a window with Asher - a man who he points to across the table - both dressed in their best approximations of formal wear. Asher chuckles and joins in when he clocks our conversation topic. He says that it’s a miracle that they weren’t kicked out instantly.

            The pair had apparently initially wanted only to try the expensive food and drink they knew would be present, but my father got it in his head that he wouldn’t leave without dancing with my mom. Finally, after no shortage of strong liquor, my father found the right opportunity to ask. My mother turned him down so quickly that he thought he’d be thrown out for sure. But, after explaining that she didn’t dance , she found a different use for him. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, not having wanted to get any details about my actual conception. Seeing my reaction, Asher pushes to tell me that they did it in a bathroom, quickly enough that nobody even noticed that she’d been gone.

            It’s not at all a romantic retelling, but I never expected it would be. My mother was never a romantic woman. She was a beacon of practicality and sense, only ever spending her precious reserve of love on me. The bitter absence of that love now pushes me to order another drink. It does nothing to numb the ache in my chest, but after a few minutes, the haze allows me to succumb to the distraction of the fishermen’s stories once more.

            It’s with a warm buzz in my stomach that we finish the evening. Once the first crew member rises to head home, the rest vacate within a minute. When my father and I are the only ones to remain, he offers that I come to spend the night at his house. It’s slightly shorter than the walk to mine, and I suspect that he wants to keep an eye on me while I take the time to sober up. I don’t bother arguing, even though I know he’s turned the spare room back into a workshop. The armchair in the living room will be enough, I always fall asleep easily when I’ve had a few drinks. The only better thing would be to smoke a joint or two before we get back. It’s an oversight on my part for not bringing any from the Capitol, I doubt that I’ll be able to find it quite as easily here.

            The air on the walk is slightly chillier than I bargained for, clad only in short sleeves when a light jacket would have been optimal. I stuff my hands deep into my pants pockets and elect to walk faster to generate heat.

            “Sorry for their crudeness.” My father breaks the seal on conversation.

            “Don’t be. It was nice to hear their stories,” I reply.

            There’s a few minutes of silence before he decides to speak again.

            “How long will you be back for?”

            “A while,” I answer nondescriptly.

            “Longer than your last visit?”

            “Much longer.”

            “Hmm.” He hums his understanding.

            We make it the rest of the way back to his house without much conversation. It’s only when he brings me a blanket and pillow to use on the armchair that he speaks up again.

            “If you have time, I’d like to take you out on the water. I promised you that right before your reaping and I think I should probably follow through.”

            “I’d like that.” I level a gentle smile at him.

            In the morning, he makes good on his promise. I make sure to tell him that he doesn’t need to waste his one day off on me, but he dismisses my concern with little regard. The sun is still rising when we reach the nearby harbor and I’m quite thankful that he’s chosen to lend me one of his thin, waterproof jackets.

            His own personal boat is small, no more than a few feet wide and powered exclusively by the use of oars. His command of the vessel is powerful, each row jettisons us further and further away from the coast. He hums while he rows, perfectly in time with his broad strokes. It feels invasive to watch him, so while he works I busy myself by looking through his fishing gear. There’s a few small nets and large coils of fishing line. There’s three fishing rods, each looking entirely different and sporting colorful material finishes.

            He decides to stop rowing when the waves decrease in intensity. We seem to have found ourselves in a zone nearly devoid of motion. It helps that it’s a nice day, the air is nearly still. The waves that lap against the wooden paneling are nothing but white noise. My father reaches past me to grab one of the rods. His fingers work deftly to bait and tie off the hook. The line is in the water only a few seconds later. The ritual seemed entirely fueled by muscle memory, there was no thought in the action at all.

            “Are you in some sort of trouble?” He asks, eyes still trained on the spot where the fishing line disappears into the water.

            “Yeah.” I answer honestly, fumbling with the cuffs of the oversized jacket. “I don’t think I’ll be allowed back in the Capitol in the same way.”

            “Good.” His reply is gruff.

            “Not exactly. There’s a lot on the line, it’s a dangerous game to play with Snow,” I argue.

            “I know what’s on the line, and I still say good. Hate to think I played any part in keeping you there.” There’s disgust evident in his tone.

            “It’s not just about you.” I don’t mean it to sound harsh but it does. “There’s other people worth protecting too.”

            “I’d hope so. Not your job to do that though. You oughta do what’s best for yourself and let the chips fall where they may.”

            “Keeping everyone safe is what’s best for me,” I assert.

            “Didn’t look like it.” He sucks his teeth.

            “You watched the things they broadcasted about me, then?” I ask, feeling the beginnings of anger boil within me.

            “Figured I should keep an eye on ya’.”

            I bite back bitter retorts about how he never bothered to do that for the first sixteen years of my life, aware that I’m only moved to defensiveness out of embarrassment.

            “I don’t like people seeing that. It’s not accurate,” I reply, surprisingly steady.

            “Anyone with half a mind can tell that much.” He grunts. “Made it harder to see.”

            “Next time don’t watch,” I say.

            “There’s gonna be a next time?”

            “I don’t know.” I shake my head dismissively. I could fill an entire book with things I don’t know right now.

            “The people there hurt you?”

            “No,” I don’t know why I choose to lie. “It’s not that bad.”

            “You’re lying.”

            “It’s really none of your business.” I finally hit him with something more solid. “I’m done talking about it.”

            He respects my decision to end the conversation and moves forward with baiting another fishing rod. He hands it to me and lets me struggle with it for a moment before showing me how to cast it into the water. It’s nice, having something to hold in my hands while I recover from the small spell of adrenaline working its way through my veins. As time slips by, I begin to regret my snap towards defensiveness. I mitigated my anger much better than I would have in the past, but my reactions still leave something to be desired. I try to recover lost ground by asking basic questions about fishing. My father jumps on the opportunity and begins spinning lectures about his own experiences in oceanography.

            He’s a polar opposite to Finnick. It’s hard to pull information out of him unless it’s talking about his personal stories. My acclimation to Finnick’s guarded, irritable regard for personal information makes me hesitant to continue the line of questioning at first, but it proves to be an entirely safe topic. My father is more than happy to talk about his upbringing and family, happier still to explain his work and expertise.

            Both of his parents passed away about ten years ago from a bout of flu that tore through the village. I’d never thought of having grandparents on his side before. My mom’s mother was a spiteful woman, so I never had a desire to find another set of grandparents if they all behaved like that. The way he describes his parents paints them in an opposite light, warm and kind. It touches me when he mentions that both of them wanted very badly to meet me someday. He says that he asked my mother about it once, through a rare letter sent illegally by means of peacekeeper bribes. Her response had been short and angry, she asserted that he had no claim to any part of my life. I resent that he listened to her.

            He had offered to raise me when he first found out my mother was pregnant. He mentions this fact as simply as he speaks about angling techniques. In the very next breath he’s back to talking about his monster sized tuna catch from last week. I learn more about him in this one fishing trip than I had in our entire time living together. Something about the sea brings his entire being to the surface. Nearly an hour of storytelling passes before the first disturbance of my fishing line interrupts us. 

            “I have no idea what to do!” I shout as the line begins to slip through the loops on my pole.

            “Let it go for a bit.” He leans forward to get a better view. “You wanna wait till it stops pulling away so much.”

            I do so with bated breath. When the line stops flying off of the reel, I begin to try to pull the line in.

            My father coaches me steadily through the process. My muscles are taut with rapt attention. I feel as though I must have a shark on the hook. I contextualize that thought and fear replaces excitement. When I express the worry, my father simply chuckles and shakes his head.

            “Ain’t no damn shark on your line. You’re just angling poorly.”

            Ordinarily the slight might have roused me, but right now it bounces off with little consequence. I trust his assessment entirely, my concern is dismissed without a second thought. My eyes remained trained on the water’s surface, waiting for the moment when my catch breaks the surface. When I begin to see a cloudy shape emerging from the depths, I lean forward to greet whatever it may be.

            The fish is nine inches long.

            As it dangles lamely above the water, I turn to defend myself against whatever my father is about to say. The words die on my lips as I see nothing but a broad grin stretching across his face.

            “Yellowtail snapper,” he says, moving quickly to grab it.

            There’s no teasing at all. Nothing but simple praise and pride for my first ever catch. He says that it’s an admirable first shot, and that I should be proud of my efforts. His flattery is cut short by the sudden spinning of his own line. I watch in fascination as he manages to draw in a foot-long mackerel.

            Invigorated by our victories, we spend the rest of the morning chatting amicably about things of little consequence. We catch five more fish, only one of which comes from my own pole. I keep managing to lose fish once I’ve got them onto my hook. When my father remarks that my first catch was beginner's luck, I don’t bother with validating his response. Instead I pointedly change the topic of conversation back to his rebellious youth and he quiets soon enough.

            By the time we return to land, it’s nearly noon. The air has warmed enough that my borrowed jacket is long forgotten in the base of the boat. We elect to fry up our catch for lunch after very little deliberation. My father insists that we have to eat the one I caught, citing that it always tastes better when it’s caught by your own hand. He’s not wrong, it’s delicious.

            We eat on the beach at my request, which turns out to be more novel in concept than implementation. The sand somehow makes its way into the food without even wind to stir it up, and the seagulls make to take our plates more than once. To his credit, my father sticks it out with little complaint.

            “I’d like to do this again. Well, maybe not the beach part, but the fishing was nice,” I say when we’ve finished up.

            “My Sundays are always free. I’d like to do this again too.” His smile is genuine amid the wild tangles of beard. “So long as there’s no cameras around.”

            “You don’t like the media much?” I ask though I know the answer.

            “I don’t, but also for the fact that what we’ve done is illegal. The seas are not free to fish for personal gain. Everything we catch is supposed to go in our inventory for the Capitol.”

            What he says makes perfect sense, as unfortunate as it is. The Capitol would leave no room for personal wealth. The hand of totalitarianism squeezes tight at every corner.

            Once I agree that I’ll abstain from visiting when there are camera crews about, we resolve to meet every Sunday. He asks if I’d want to move back into his house, and I decline as politely as possible. While I’m sure it would do me some good to live with someone, I can’t bring myself to evict his workspace in the spare room. In my absence, it has grown back to the former glory he describes it as (pre my abrupt move-in so long ago).

            When I return in the afternoon, my house in the victor’s village sits just as I left it months ago. The only thing that indicates my disuse is a thick layer of dust atop every counter and tabletop. I drag a finger across one of the nearly empty bookshelf shelves and leave a heavy streak. I really should actually furnish the place to my taste. I add the task to my short list of ways to keep busy in my imprisonment here. Without the contact of my family in the Capitol, this stint is sure to feel long and lonely.

            The howling of wind against the windows does little to distract me from the comlink sitting inactive on my desktop. Logically, I know that I won’t receive any correspondences until much later in the morning. In practice, it’s hard to apply the knowledge in any meaningful way. Nearly all of the victors gather in the heart of the Capitol right now, likely just now leaving the president’s very banquet room. All - that is - except for the ones on Snow’s personal blacklist.

            The TV live-streams all sorts of lavish adornments of the engagement party. Tables of food are interspersed with long, sweeping shorts of the bride-to-be. Katniss looks horribly young under the fabric of her elaborate dress. Her stylist is a miracle worker, but he can’t disguise the fact that Katniss is only a hair over seventeen. Nowhere near old enough to understand the role that’s been thrust upon her. The one placation of the event is Blight’s prediction that it will serve to reinforce the President’s decision to keep the two victors away from the industry of Capitol pleasure.

             Fine, let her marry the boy she obviously doesn’t love. It’s better than ending up a whore. I had spat the statement, almost word for word, at Ronan just a week prior. Every communication, regardless of frequency, comes with a heavy layer of tension on both ends. The lack of face-to-face consequence lends to brash statements and quick snaps to judgment (though Ronan never seems to pale in the face of my frustration). As long as I keep producing ideas, the older victor would never think of biting back.

            The propaganda mission in District 2 was almost entirely my making, only Beetee’s technical corrections stand to take some of the credit. Infiltration of our anti-Capitol rhetoric began small, but rapidly grew widespread enough to warrant a personal message of thanks from Plutarch. Although bitterness at my degree of separation threatens to take hold at every corner, I’ve managed to keep the worst of it at bay.

            Regardless of the grand implications that the District 2 program has, I can’t help but suspect that it’s simply an errand to keep my attention. Every phone call, private or on my landline, is laden with a heaviness that remains entirely unaddressed. Something is going on in the Capitol that nobody seems inclined to tell me. The fact that Ronan is scarcely free for a minute long talk a week forces me to double down on that sentiment.

            The only one who seems to have time to call often enough to maintain a true dialogue is Grant. While it’s nice to speak with him, the discussions rarely do anything other than raise my level of concern for him. He’s rarely altogether present anymore. He trails off in the middle of sentences and switches topics so quickly that some calls are entirely indiscernible in purpose. At the very least, he’s honest with me about his poor condition. He doesn’t bother with pretending that he’s doing perfectly fine, he admits that he’s feeling worn thin.

            When I raise my concerns to Finnick or Blight, they brush me off. Apparently in person he seems perfectly alright. Stressed, perhaps, but no more than the rest of them. They’re all too busy fighting the infant war to take much time for rest and recovery. From what I can gather, Finnick and Grant are performing the same tasks that we’d always been assigned in the Capitol: intel, insight, and image building (the latter of the three having become much more difficult amidst their new TV personas). Blight and Ronan work directly at Plutarch’s side, helping wherever possible to keep the belly of disquiet in the Districts rumbling. The victory tour has done a healthy amount to raise unrest, but they constantly worry that things will lose momentum before we’re ready to make a move.

            That move is closer now than it ever has been before. While no metaphorical aligning of the planets seems imminent, our levels of confidence in resources have skyrocketed in the past few months. We finally have a solid grasp on the airforce that awaits command in District 13, and it’s not something to dismiss. It’s not nearly enough to make me feel at ease, but I doubt that any number of hovercraft and nuclear weapons could do that. All that the machines spell is mutual destruction. The thing that influences my confidence the most is the human bodies we’ve aligned.

            The District 2 propaganda has done more than arm the citizens with knowledge, it sowed doubt into the very source of Panem’s military. Peacekeepers trained in District 2 are sent all over the country at increasing rates to stem the flow of anti-Capitol rioting. Even having a fraction of a percent of these troops sympathetic to the idea of rebellion is a major game changer. Plutarch has a contact high enough within the military hierarchy that assignments of those troops can be influenced towards the Districts who need it the most. The most recent shipment to District 8 has had the most friendlies we’ve ever seen. It gives the people the slightest chance of hope where there previously was none.

            According to the sparse messages from District 13, there’s been a trickle of arrivals from both District 8 and District 11. It’s a long journey on foot, so I’m sure that there are as many casualties to assign to the elements as there are to the peacekeepers gunning down runaways. It’s enough for now that people are making it, however few the numbers.

            The comlink sits precariously in my eyeline, still completely inactive. I swipe it into my drawer in anxious frustration. There’s nothing I can do except wait, there’s no use in driving myself mad with it. With only about an hour until sunrise, I amend to get ready to meet Tandy and Piper. I change into the thermal bathing suit Piper crafted for me. It rarely gets cold enough to need any actual thermal protection, but the short sleeves and mid-thigh bottoms provide a shield from the worst the water has to offer. 

            We surf early, at the very crack of dawn to align with the working schedules of the girls. While Piper takes a precious one day a week off, Tandy doesn’t have the same luxury. Her food-stall remains open seven days a week, from early lunchtime until late dinnertime. It’s the only way she’s able to scrape together enough funds to help support her large family. How she has the energy to spend three mornings a week teaching me how to surf is unfathomable.

            As with most physical things in my life, it takes a truly special person to tolerate my initial ineptitude. We very quickly found that Piper is not that person after a few one-on-one lessons. Tandy tires less quickly of vain instruction, but together the two girls find a way to trade off that keeps both in good spirits. There’s a lot of laughter from all three of us, which soothes the worst of the embarrassment and frustration we encounter.

            Both girls are on the beach when I arrive, already clothed in their own abbreviated wetsuits. After short greetings, we retrieve the surfboards from the small cave we keep them stored in. I run my hand fondly over the emerald green surface, marred on the bottom by a heavy layer of wax. Tandy’s is as new and shiny as my own, bright pink and yellow. Piper was much less enthused by my offer to purchase her a new board, so she sticks with her family’s old dark wood one. It’s a shame, too, I’ve caught her looking fondly into the windows of surf shops near the dress shop.

            The waves are choppy in the wind, making for a much more difficult session than usual. Today won’t be a time for technique refinement, it’ll be practice enough for me to try to stay on the board. Tandy quickly senses this, choosing to spread out and surf on her own a bit away. Piper hovers much more closely, not giving instruction, but instead keeping a steady eye on me. I’m a decent enough swimmer now, but that doesn’t stop her from fretting. At first her anxiety got under my skin, but it didn’t take long to realize that I’d probably feel the same way if both of my parents had died drowning. No issues swimming arise, and all three of us make it safely back to shore after an hour or so.

            Piper asks if I’ll be coming to help in the shop today and I tell her I can’t. I haven’t been entirely honest about what I’ve been doing that demands so much attention at random intervals, but Piper knows better than to pry. She’s inferred enough to establish that I’m doing something I’m not supposed to, and that’s enough for her to offer her wary support.

            As usual, my house feels cold and empty when I return alone. Though I’ve devoted a large amount of time to interior design, the coziness of the space does little to fill my heart. The only cure for my perpetual state of loneliness is spending as much of my time as possible in the company of others.

            Sunday mornings are spent with my father, and the evening is spent helping Tandy at her stall. On Monday mornings, I have tea with Mags at her home. Thursday afternoons are spent with Wade, where I’m learning to cook amidst a hellfire of criticism. I devote my entirety of the day on Fridays to helping the remaining victors in the village. Anthony Padmore, nearing his seventies, has a hard time getting around now and appreciates having his wheelchair pushed to the beach for a few hours of reading in the sand. Taylor Mayz is about ten years younger, but is heavily addled by years of heavy drinking and needs ample help cleaning. Most of the time in between my regular appointments is spent at Piper’s shop or at home plotting for the rebellion.

            The comlink vibrates faintly from the drawer I stashed it in. Someone’s left a message. I hurriedly retrieve a pen and paper to transcribe the message onto. It helps me to reflect on the often long and complex descriptions I receive. It’s never safe to keep a copy around for long, so I have no shortage of kindling for my fire at all times.

            I press the button on the side of my signal jamming device before switching on the comlink to start relaying the message. It’s Ronan this time.

             “Faraday, I’ve got a lot to tell you. Please don’t hate me for not explaining it sooner.”

Chapter Text

            Finnick fights his way to consciousness. He’s in his own bed this morning, which means someone must have carried him in from the cab last night. After staying at the engagement party for a few hours, his date had grown impatient and forced Finnick to leave early. The woman asked him to try a new drug he hadn’t heard of, and though distrusting, he didn’t have much choice in the matter of taking it. He scarcely remembers anything after that. Only a few glimpses of hands, powder blue fingernails, and bright red lips. But none of that is solid and he knows better than to trust his memory recently, nothing and everything might be true.

            All he knows is that right now he has a headache that demands immediate attention. He pulls himself from bed on shaking limbs to get medication from the tablet in the wall. He throws the pain medicine down his throat into an empty stomach, something he knows Fara would chastise him for. But she's not here to tell him that he’ll ruin his kidneys doing it, so it’s easy enough to ignore the nagging thought. Breakfast sounds dreadful. Well, lunch, it would have to be since it’s actually past noon according to the clock.

            The room smells of sweat and sick, heavy from a night of feverish sleep. He gags on the essence of it. It reeks of sex, of exhaustion hard won through sloppy work. He should shower. The bathroom light is blindingly white, and it brings to surface his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired, of course, but that’s nothing new. He’s scarcely had a moment to himself in the past few months. A patch of hair on the right side of his head is plastered down with something stiff and glossy, dry now but toting a history of wetness. The rest of his hair is predictably ruffled, sticking straight out from his scalp. He reaches for the shower knob that will turn the water on, simultaneously flicking the switch to darken the small room. His hand falls short at the noise of someone at his door.

            All he wants to do is get clean but, the second he opens the door, he’s greeted with a much too bright hallway and an unshaven Magnus scowling in.

            “Finnick?” Magnus asks gruffly. “Ronan’s looking for you. Something about a new recipe for cake. Fucking insufferable, that man.”

            “Thanks for the heads up.” Finnick watches as Magnus slips into his room, likely just as high as Finnick had been last night.

            There will be no showering or crawling back under damp sheets to sleep his sickness away. If Ronan’s desperate enough to call Magnus to get Finnick, it must be urgent. Finnick doesn’t even bother with putting on clothes. The whole nation has seen him nearly naked at this point, plain grey underwear is tame compared to some of the ensembles he's worn lately. It doesn’t seem to matter much anymore what he wears, if anything at all.

            He regrets the decision when he walks into the lounge to find that there’s a much larger crowd than typical, with none other than Plutarch Heavensbee sitting on the Nightingale siblings’ usual couch. Ronan’s lowered brows tell Finnick that the man is not pleased to see Finnick looking so ruffled. He shakes it off quickly, assuming a businesslike manner that isn’t becoming of him. Chest puffed out, red beard pointed out at an odd angle.

            “Thanks for joining us, Finnick. I’ve gathered everyone I possibly can for an urgent meeting. It’s taken a lot of orchestration to get everyone here, particularly Plutarch. We’ve only got about half an hour before Garnette’s recycled camera loop starts drawing scrutiny.”

            Finnick casts a critical eye around the gathered audience. There’s a victor from nearly every District here, some who Finnick can’t have met more than once or twice. Some look as tired as he does, but all of them wear clothes and none have obvious remnants of last night on their skin. Finnick’s brow lowers into a scowl to match Ronan’s initial glare. He’s sure nobody will comment on the state of his looks if he doesn’t invite them to.

            Plutarch quickly takes the lead after Ronan’s introduction, thanking everyone gathered for their efforts towards the cause. The fact that he’s here at all, making his identity as rebel known to a room full of a dozen possible rats, reeks of something of immense importance.

            “The Quarter Quell is going to be the last ever Hunger Games Panem sees.” Plutarch opens with no pomp and circumstance, dabbing a handkerchief on his weeping browline.

            That’s what Ronan’s been saying to Grant, using it as encouragement to combat the boy’s near perpetual exhaustion. He just never bothers to explain exactly how it’s going to work. It’s a secret, kept close to the chest. He’s sure only a few know, and he’s not one of them. His jaw tightens, teeth squeaking over teeth.

            The room is silent enough that he’s sure everyone can hear.

            “We think we’ve found a way to tip the bucket over the edge,” Plutarch says once he’s taken another deep breath. “But it’s got a price.”

            “Of course there’s a price, there’s always a price,” Haymitch snaps, looking particularly irritable.

            Finnick can’t help but to agree. Nothing they’ve done so far has been easy or clear cut. Someone always bears the brunt of payment. More often than not, it’s a portion of the innocent people they try to help.

            “The price would be paid directly by the people in this room.” Plutarch finally spits out after a minute of processing.

            All of Fara’s retellings of interactions with Plutarch have painted him as a showman, confident and cool. This sweating, nervous version of him is far from that reality. Finnick doubts Fara had been lackluster in her assessment of the man. He must have one hell of an ask to be this flustered around the victors. Ronan grows impatient with the other man’s nerves and seeks to take the lead once more after sitting down next to him.

            The red haired man clears his throat and addresses the room, “The twist this year is that we’re going to send the victors back in. And we specifically need it to be the victors that are willing to help us.”

            Chaos erupts, District-mates yell in disbelief at one another. Solo travelers simply hang their heads, slack jawed trying to process it. Finnick simply sits, shocked still, until it quiets down again. A dozen pairs of eyes fix onto Ronan and Plutarch. Plutarch is red in the face, patchy and swollen and desperately swiping the handkerchief across his maw. Ronan is defiant, chin raised high into the air. Though Ronan feigns confidence, Finnick can see his hands shaking in their grip on each other.

            “I’ll do it.” Finnick breaks the silence, head still hung. “I’ll volunteer if necessary, but I seriously doubt I’ll have to.”

            “Thank you.” Plutarch wipes a hand over his face, tucking the damp fabric into his suit pocket.

            “On one condition.” Finnick looks up to capture the gamemaker’s attention. “You make damn sure that Fara doesn’t set foot in the arena.”

            “Deal. I don’t want her in there either. She’s a lot more use to us on the outside.” Plutarch nods, looking relieved that he can fill the request.

            “I’m fine with that arrangement,” Wade says, fixing her grizzled stare on a point beyond the conversation. Finnick doubts she’ll listen to another word of what’s said.

            “I’ll do it too.” Blight speaks up next. “I guess I can’t make a similar request of tribute amnesty, but I just want to make sure you try to pull her through.”

            There’s no question who he speaks of. In the span of two years, Johanna Mason has unfortunately gone from one of three living female victors in District 7 to the sole survivor. There will be no bargain to strike up, Johanna won’t have a choice in the matter.

            “I’m in obviously, no caveat.” Ronan speaks up next, shooting Finnick a look of gratitude for getting the ball rolling. “Though I suspect I might have to fight Gloss for the privilege.”

            “Same for me. The kid’ll volunteer if my name gets drawn,” Haymitch grumbles, surprisingly compliant in the wake of his earlier outburst.

            “Beetee doesn’t have a choice in the matter.” Elenore assesses his situation frankly, being the only male victor to ever come from District 3 gives him no leeway. “Whichever woman is chosen will be fine, they’re all with us.” She peers at Plutarch over her glasses.

            “Chaff and I are default tributes as well, but we’ll both go willingly,” Seeder says.

            “Klein and I will do whatever it takes.” Nicole from District 10 nods stoically.

            “Woof and I will be in I suppose,” Cecilia says softly. Nobody dares to bring up the fact that she has two children waiting for her at home.

            The room falls silent for another few heavy minutes.

            “The morphlings will do whatever we say, too risky to bring them in yet though. That just leaves Districts 9, 2 and 5.” Plutarch comments.

            Eyes make their way inconspicuously to rest on Grant Opal, who hasn’t said a word since the opening of the discussion. Or perhaps not so inconspicuously, his shoulders tighten with tension.

            “You can’t ask me to do that. You can ask me for anything else, but not that.” Grant can’t pull his gaze away from his shoes. “I’ve already given you everything.”

            “You’ve got a one in three chance of getting pulled anyway,” Ronan urges, rising and setting a hand on his young friend’s back.

            “DeAngelo already told me and Anton that he’ll volunteer for either one of us if something like this happened. He’s been saying it for years, we just never thought it was a valid worry,” Grant says, sounding quite ashamed. “He’s getting really old. He says he can feel his days drawing to a close. If he makes it to the reaping, he’s the one going in.”

            “So you’d let someone die for you? Are you a coward?” Ronan asks brashly.

            “Ronan!” Blight’s scolding is sharp. “Leave the kid alone. If he says he won’t do it, then he won’t do it.”

            “You didn’t say shit when Finnick decided to condemn Wade.” For once, Grant bites back at Ronan.

            “That’s because you might actually be a useful ally to have in the arena. If you throw DeAngelo Sloth in there, the best he can do to help us is be a distraction. Wade is a powerful asset in a survival situation. And unlike you, she already told us that she’s willing to do whatever it takes to help.” Ronan scoffs.

            “Okay, Grant and I are going to leave now.” Blight completely diffuses the altercation and pulls Grant to his feet from under his armpits.

            With a heavy hand around the blond’s chest, Blight guides him out of the crowded room. They leave behind a wake of uneasy silence.

            “I can’t believe that boy sometimes.” Ronan fumes, looking around to garner support.

            “I’d kill ya’ if you talked like that to one of mine.” Haymitch is the first to speak up.

            He’s backed up by the nodding of mentors, those with young charges especially fervent.

            “We can’t force anyone to do anything,” Plutarch says hesitantly. “Even if their choice has weighty consequences.”

            “That kid better find a way to be useful on the outside really fucking quick.” Ronan kicks his foot against a wastebasket.

            “Sit down, Ronan,” Plutarch warns, fully in control of the situation now that the hard part’s out of the way.

            Ronan fixes him with a dangerous look before settling on the arm of Finnick’s chair.

            “Now, obviously our intention is to get all of you out alive. This is just meant to be the last straw, something to give everyone a last push to rally,” Plutarch explains. “We have the air force necessary to extract everyone, and we’ve got a pretty solid idea of how to do it.”

            The rest of the half hour is spent putting out fires. Questions arise with every statement Plutarch makes, and he’s forced to answer them in order to keep peace among the victors. When the constraint of time pulls him away, he leaves everyone with hollow reassurances that things aren’t as dire as they seem. His thanks are just as shallow, nothing he says can compensate for what he’s done today. Everyone was quick enough to agree to self-sacrifice, but now they have to live with the knowledge for the next half year that they’ll be going back in. The room clears quickly, nobody seems to want to spend more time than absolutely necessary in the spot where they’ve signed away their lives.

            Finnick doesn’t kid himself. He doesn’t believe for a second that there won’t be heavy casualties. He knows that many of his friends are going to die. He might die.

            “Thanks for your help,” Ronan says once they’re alone together.

            “Don’t thank me.” Finnick bristles. “I’m not the reason everyone agreed to that.” He doesn’t add that he couldn’t live with it if he was.

            “I told Fara this morning over the comlink.” Ronan rubs a hand over his beard.

            “How’d that go over?” Finnick snorts.

            “Not well.” Ronan hums.

            “Of course it didn’t.” Finnick feels the fondness surge in his heart. “She’d never let you get away with that if she were here.” Finnick gestures to the dented wastebasket with his foot.

            “Shit, I know I shouldn’t have done that. I know I’ve got a temper, just like you. I’m no saint.” Ronan closes his eyes and sighs. “Grant drives me up the wall sometimes. He acts like he’s the only one around here with problems.”

            “He’s had a rough time of it lately, go easy on him.” Finnick defends his friend gently, though he doesn’t doubt that Ronan knows more about it than he does. “You ought to apologize.”

            “I will. I’ll bake him some cookies or something,” Ronan agrees dismissively. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Fara about that whole bit. I’m already in hot water as is.”

            Finnick grunts noncommittally.

            “You okay?” Ronan finally looks Finnick in the eye.

            “Nah.” Finnick shakes his head, eyes filling with tears against his will.

            “Yeah, me neither. Want to forget about responsibility and get drunk?”

            “I think I just want to be alone.” Finnick sniffs, nose starting to run.

            He rises and leaves the room without a goodbye. He curls up on the tile floor of the shower, feeling too weak even to properly clean himself. It’s not nearly long enough before Finnick leaves his room again, and it’s by no machinations of his own. He’s booked for the entire evening, not much chance for careful reflection on his decisions tonight.

            He tries no to think about his future as he’s paraded around on the arms of important ladies at important parties. He supposes in a cynical way that his value will soon be going up. It likely won’t be much longer that his adoring patrons can spend time in his presence. Not much longer for anyone to spend in his presence. He might be a moneymaker, but Snow knows that he’s trouble. If he steps foot in that arena, there’s going to be a target on his head. So much for not thinking about it tonight.

            Plutarch and Ronan try to make it seem as if it’s not as dangerous as it sounds, knowing well the fact that Snow never stopped killing victors in his free time even without proper excuses. A Quarter Quell full of his least favorite people is the perfect way to thin the crowd without raising eyebrows. No doubt that’s exactly why Plutarch’s pitch will work. Snow has no reason not to take the bait, it’ll seem like a gift wrapped solution to his Katniss Everdeen problem. And isn’t it better this way? Don’t all of the victors deserve it?

            Even if their plan doesn’t work, it’ll be a year where innocent children are spared from the workings of the machine. Everyone who’s committed to going back into the arena sort of deserves that end anyway. Killing children years ago was just a means of biding time. They all should have died in their own Hunger Games, what’s the problem with following up on it?

            He thinks quickly of Peeta then, who Haymitch says will volunteer to accompany Katniss once more. The boy made it through based on pure luck and the girl’s protections last year. He’d have been dead in the water if not for her. He certainly doesn’t deserve to fight his way through the gauntlet again. Haymitch claims that the boy loves her, genuinely, that he’d do anything to keep her safe despite their growing animosity of tension. It nearly makes Finnick scoff until he realizes that he made a very similar deal to keep his own girl alive just hours ago. In fact, he amended to put someone else in danger to do it. Finnick has never been a good person, and he truly believes he never will be.

            She’ll never forgive him if she finds out. He suspects that she still hasn’t forgiven him for what he did to try to pull her from the arena the first time. He needs to get out in front of it before anyone else has the chance to tell her, and he’d better be careful about exactly what he says. The second he’s home, he begs Ronan to let him use one of the precious comlinks to contact her.

            “Those are for business, not for you to try to save your ass.” Ronan scolds, but opens his bedroom door to allow Finnick in. “Beetee said it’s best that we use them wisely.”

            “It’s important,” Finnick begs. “You said earlier that the plan didn’t go over well with her. We’re gonna need her to be on board in order to sell this thing. I can help with that.”

            “She’ll be on board. You’re just worried she’s going to be upset with you for keeping her out of the arena.” Ronan falls backwards onto his bed in a sprawling heap. He stinks of vodka. “You’re all so predictable. You know Plutarch didn’t think you’d all agree to it? He told me that it wouldn’t work, that no victor would willingly go back in. I knew better. I knew everyone would leap on the chance to be a martyr.”

            “You’re drunk.” Finnick hisses, but sits on the bed beside him.

            “Yeah. It’s a new privilege. Nobody wants to book me anymore, so it doesn’t matter how I spend my free time.”

            “What’s a martyr?” Finnick changes the subject.

            “It’s our chance at redemption.”

            That doesn’t clear things up much for Finnick.

            “Did you talk to Grant?” Finnick presses.

            “Get off my back, kid. I’ll get there eventually.”

            “You can be so selfish sometimes.” It’s unfair, but Finnick’s in the mood for a fight.

            Ronan is too. The two men argue for a while, but soon find that shouting doesn’t do much to ease their aching souls. They turn to blows, but neither of them can find it in their heart to strike with enough power to end the altercation. They wind up sitting on the floor together, passing a bottle back and forth and weeping.

            It comes as no surprise to Finnick that Ronan carries an immense amount of guilt for asking his friends to enter back into the event that haunts their lives. However bold and brash Ronan may act in front of the masses, it just goes to prove that he’s hiding a hellish amount of self-hate. He and Finnick are alike in that way, they double down especially when they know they’re wrong.

            It’s not long before the weepy exchange gives way to painful laments about the unfairness of everything. Ronan misses Monty, who’d be turning thirty-two this year if not for the sadistic former Gamemaker LeStrand. According to Ronan, Monty was a martyr as well. His repentance began the moment he set foot in the Capitol. He’d killed sixteen children in the arena, making the 59th Hunger Games stunningly short. The aftereffects of it made Monty unrecognizable as the cocky young man who the nation met in the interviews. He became smaller somehow, hardly found speaking above a whisper. He adjusted to his life of prostitution in an instant.

            “That’s the thing, our kind always seems to be ready for it.” Ronan slurs, heaving breaths from between his knees. “We deserve it.”

            “Penance,” Finnick agrees, nodding.

            “That’s why James did it, why he ended it so quickly. You noticed, right? He only killed in self defense, just the one career from District 1.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Peeta would be the same. Thank fuck for the marriage ruse, better to keep him away. Too bad for Grant, he’ll have to go on playing 74th victor until the craze dies away.”

            “Fara made it through,” Finnick comments idly.

            “Fara killed that twin boy from District 10 and her mother. That was enough.”

            “She didn’t kill them,” Finnick protests hotly.

            “No, she didn’t, but she sure thinks that she did. It’s all that ethical morality nightmare preached in District 3, it was more than enough. We’ve got Gloss to thank for the deprogramming of that mentality.” Ronan thinks aloud. “No, don’t go getting all huffy about that, it’s true.”

            “Do you think she’d volunteer?” Finnick blurts out, unable to contain the question.

            “Naw. She hates being told so, but she doesn’t really have the guts to stick it out in the games.” Ronan dismisses him. “She might play at learning survival skills, but she’s never going to want to use them.”

            “Yeah.” Finnick is soothed by his words. It’s easy to believe everything Ronan says right now, at least easier than the alternative.

            Ronan offers for Finnick to spend the night, to sleep on the large couch in the corner. No doubt he had it installed so that Grant has a better place to sleep than the floor during the nights where he can’t stand to be alone. But Finnick isn’t Grant, what he needs now is space, not companionship. So he treks back to his room alone and sits with the events of the day.

            He sprawls out on his bed and fixes his gaze on the ceiling. He wonders if Fara is asleep right now, tucked away in her bed by the bay window, serenaded by the ebb and flow of the water. Probably not. It’s much more likely that she’s kept awake by the same thoughts that keep half of the tower occupants up right now. He gets up and fiddles with the transparency of the windows until he can gaze out at the night sky. The stars are difficult to see, eaten away by light pollution and smoggy air, but the full moon shines down on him as clear as ever.

             Is she looking at the moon right now? Does she see exactly what I do?

            He doesn’t know much about astronomy, but it’s comforting that there’s one solid thing that still binds them. He chooses to believe that she’s looking up at the sky too, he can feel the comfort of it in his bones.

Chapter Text

            My nose nearly touches the book pages in front of me, taking up the entirety of my vision. I read furiously, accidentally tearing the edges of pages in my fervor of searching for information. With no public library, I spent the better part of the evening pedaling around the justice buildings for every history text I could find. I had the good fortune of obtaining Victors Through the Ages - 73rd Edition as well as An Abbreviated History of the Hunger Games in my hunt. Both books sit open, highlighted and margins filled with my scrawling notes.

            The one I read now, Genealogy of Panem , is turning out to be less useful than I had hoped. It contains only the genetics of affluent Panem families, nothing about the victors. The only reason I haven’t put it down yet is that it contains a wealth of knowledge regarding the Snow family tree. It says surprisingly little about Snow before his presidency, breaking from the formatting of the other historical family sections.

            Regardless, I’ve found an extreme snag within Ronan’s plan. There is no living male victor in District 9.

            When he described it earlier, Ronan made sure to mention that after the District 12 win, there’s been male and female victors in every district within the past fifty years. What he failed to account for is that not all of the victors live their full lifespan. James Lockright threw a wrench in Ronan’s plan just a few years back.

            I’ve been trying my best to find some way to fill in this crack for Ronan, but I find that my heart isn’t really in the pursuit. Of course I know it’s my duty to contribute to the cause regardless of personal opinion, but I’m horrified by the fact that this is what our leaders have chosen to enter us into. I won’t pretend that I hadn’t thought of the possibility before, it’s a pretty obvious solution to keeping innocent lives off the line. But I never acted on the idea. I couldn’t bear the thought of condemning the people I love to their worst nightmare. Whether my aversion is out of care or cowardice, I don’t have the perspective to say.

            I can put off the call no longer.

            I dial the sequence of code that will contact Ronan’s line on the comlink. It rings for nearly a minute before he picks up.

            “Hello?” He sounds groggy and unfocussed.

            “There’s a snag, in your plan I mean. There’s an issue.” I bite my lip.

            “What?”

            “James Lockright is dead, there’s no male tribute in District 9.”

            “Yeah, okay. But there was another guy, shit I don’t remember his name.”

            “Bruno Engris? He died two years ago.”

           “There’s gotta be another.”

            “There’s not.” My heart thumps rapidly in my chest. I’d hoped Ronan and Plutarch had already figured that bit out.

            “Shit.” He sighs heavily.

            “Yeah, shit. We need to iron that out before pitching it to Snow.”

            “Any suggestions?”

            I gather a deep breath into my lungs. This is the point where I must decide whether or not I’m going to implicate innocent lives into this equation.

            “He had a brother, right? I read a book where it mentioned James’s funeral, it mentioned a brother. So, you could propose that a family member could fill in the gap. I think Snow might like it, it’s one last way to punish the ones who found their way out early.”

            “Fuck, Fara, that's horrific.”

            “I know.” Tears well in my eyes.

            “Yeah, that might work. It’s just horrible enough. I’ll relay it to Beetee and Plutarch. We’ll see.”

            “Okay.”

            “You should be in bed, it’s late. Get some sleep.” Ronan ends the call abruptly, no doubt getting ready to break the news to the others.

            I don’t bother to heed his words, instead cracking open the last book. I didn’t know why I grabbed it at first, it very obviously wouldn’t contain anything useful for our current predicament. Now, I fully acknowledge it. Edible Plants in North America: A Catalog for Foragers . I’m going to be prepared this time, I refuse to limp deftly into the arena. I will learn everything I possibly can to ensure the success of the mission. I might not be any marvel in terms of protection, but I can at least make sure that the mockingjay gets fed while I’m there.

            My regimen of surfing has done a decent amount to keep me in shape, but I’ve certainly lost my knack for cardio without Gloss’s cruel training schedule. Since the morning I got the call, I’ve slept less and less. Instead, I fill my time with learning and exercise. I find myself worn thinner and thinner until even Tandy begins to notice something is off. Her solution is that I try to come to a bonfire with her and Piper. I’ve avoided it my entire time back, abiding by the sentiment that the last one didn’t end so well.

            I’ve not yet developed a knack for saying no to Tandy, though, so I eventually agreed to attend with them. She mistakes my hesitance for trepidation at the thought of seeing Santiago again, and assures me that I won’t have to talk to him if I don’t want to. She doesn’t realize that I’m much more worried about seeing his brother, who will no doubt be more difficult to deter. But I do need to get out of my grueling daily schedule, so I won’t let his presence keep me away from the potential of unwinding a bit.

            The brothers don’t arrive until well into the bonfire, after I’m already pleasantly drunk and stoned off of terrible alcohol and bitter weed. I don’t even clock them at first, too wrapped up in talking to Roy and Piper about the fact that they’re apparently considering marriage soon. Diego doesn’t take the opportunity to miss my attention, sitting directly beside me and delivering a warm greeting.

            I’m both slightly pleased and a bit guilty to see that his nose is crooked now, likely never having healed properly from the impact of Finnick’s fist. I share a quick smile with him before returning to questioning Piper, who blushes furiously at me.

            “You’re only twenty,” I insist.

            “That’s not all that young,” Roy responds with a grin. “My sister was married at eighteen. My mom was at sixteen.”

            “You’re thinking too District 3.” Piper giggles, also quite high. “I’m sure nobody there would think of getting married until they’re at least fifty.”

            “My mom never even bothered,” I admit, conceding to laugh as well.

            “You’ll fall in love someday Faraday Jones, and then you’ll get it,” Tandy yells back, tossing a handful of sand at me.

            Diego snorts from beside me and I choose to ignore it. I’m much too caught up in the thought that I’m already in love, but it doesn’t change the fact that it seems much too early for marriage.

            “I’ve been planning my wedding since I was like nine,” Ellen chimes in. “My mom has been too. It’ll be a right shock when she realizes I’ll be marrying a girl instead of a boy.” She leans over to kiss her girlfriend as if to prove it.

            “Is that taboo here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

            “Yeah, mostly just to the older generations, but it’s definitely not normal ,” Ellen responds easily.

            “It’s fine in District 3, we obviously don’t put much stock in love.” I chuckle. “It’s pretty normal in the Capitol, too.”

            “Did you get with a lot of women in the Capitol? I mainly saw you with men on TV.” Diego must make his presence known again.

            When I turn to look at him, I see the spite in his eyes. He’s still mad about Finnick, upset about the humiliation we left him with that night.

            “That’s none of your business, don’t be rude,” I say evenly

            “I didn’t mean any offense.” He parries, hands raised in the air.

            “Yes you did, don’t act obtuse.” My tone is firm.

            He’s quiet after that, though I can still sense him seething beside me. Nobody seems perturbed by our altercation, and the conversation resumes shortly after. It’s only addressed when the majority of the group leaves to swim.

            “I’ve never seen you like that before,” Piper comments.

            “Life’s too short to waste time on people like him.” I trace my feet in the sand.

            “It was great,” Tandy insists. “Diego’s had a chip on his shoulder since he lost that fight to Finnick. He tried that salty routine with us when you left and nobody let him get away with it. Santiago in particular fought for your honor in your absence.” She leans over to nudge me with her shoulder. “Not still harboring feelings for that one?”

            “No, like I said, life’s too short to retrace my steps.”

            “What has gotten you so morbid lately?” Piper tuts, eying me carefully. “It’s my job to be the cynic, not yours.”

            “Let her breathe, Piper,” Tandy instructs. “Now that it’s just us again, I’ve got to ask. Did you or did you not date Gloss while you were gone? I forgot about it until Diego tuned in.”

            “Kind of.” I relax again. “I don’t know if you saw anything about it on TV…”

            “We know better than to believe any of that,” Piper says, shaking her head.

            “Well that piece of broadcasting wasn’t all that inaccurate. We did have a bit of a fling and he did take me clubbing.” I await judgment, but all I receive is squeals of excitement.

            “He’s so handsome!” Tandy insists. “Tall and dark, the perfect man.”

            “Down girl,” Piper scolds, shoulders shaking with stifled laughter.

            “He’s also annoying and self obsessed,” I add. “But he’s a good friend. Yes Tandy , just a friend now.”

            “So why not give Santiago another shot? I think he really regrets his choice.”

            “Well, there’s sort of… I’m sort of seeing someone else.” I trail off into a whisper, leaving the two girls to lean in conspiratorially.

            “Who?” Tandy pushes me to continue.

            “God, it’s so obvious.” Piper rolls her eyes. “There’s no mystery there. I’ve known for ages it was going to happen.”

            “Finnick.” Tandy grins. “ I know it’s obvious, I just wanted her to say it!”

            “It’s not obvious!” I insist.

            “It’s hard to believe, yes, but not exactly unexpected,” Piper defends.

            “I know it’s hard to believe. I’m reaching far out of my league.” I bury my face in my hands.

            “No way! You’re a catch!” Tandy pulls my hands down. “That man is lucky to have you.”

            We all embrace, giggling and swooning over the thought of love. I let Piper talk of wedding plans without contradiction, encouraging her when she says she’s started saving up to buy the materials for the perfect dress. After she’s had her time in the spotlight, Tandy tells us that she’s become sweet on a customer at her stall. She describes him so that I can keep an eye out for him the next time I work with her.

            It’s a perfectly spent night, the flighty feeling of excitement lies sparkling in the air. The hoots and hollers of the teenagers playing in the surf only adds to the feeling of elation. It’s a feeling of suspension from reality. The only thing that keeps me tethered is the slight tug at my navel that something is going to go wrong. Through the night, I can’t help but feel the growing fear that it’ll all crumble. Nothing this good can last for long. It never does.

            I was correct. An all out uprising in District 8 was announced across the comlinks the very next day. It’s not enough, not nearly enough to shake the tightly clutched hand of the Capitol military. It’s a slaughter. When reinforcement troops are dropped in, the death toll rises from hundreds to thousands. Men, women, and children alike are gunned down in the streets for being out past curfew looking for food or water.

            Plutarch has the audacity to tell us that this is a good thing. It’s fuel for the fire and proof that our plans are working. The Capitol may subdue District 8, but they won’t be able to stomp out the rebellion altogether.

            I’m unable to leave the house for days, too consumed by the weight of death in my home. I am a part of this. I put the propaganda into those people’s hands. I led them straight into the path of bullets and fire and torture thinking that they might win their freedom. Instead they won bullets between their teeth and starving orphans in the streets.

            Tandy and Piper knock on my door twice, on both of the days where I miss our morning surf. Mags knocks once as well, soft and insistent, but I ignore her just the same. The pounding and cursing of Wade is much harder to tune out. She persists for nearly five minutes before I cave and open the door out of fear that she’ll break it down if I don’t.

            She demands hotly that I accompany her to the surf. I do so, trailing behind her like a scolded puppy. When we’re knee deep in water, thoroughly coated in a layer of vaporous salt, Wade demands to know what’s going on. I tell her, word for word, what messages I’ve received from Ronan. She’s quiet for only a minute before she tears into me. She says it’s irresponsible to hide away, that I’ll give away my level of involvement with the cause if I jump to emotion whenever a top-secret rebel incursion strikes. She’s absolutely correct. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that I’m not supposed to grieve because I’m not supposed to even know about it.

            She invites me back to her house to cook. She’s less critical than usual and she allows me to take home more than my share of the seafood boil we make. This is as close to soft as Wade has ever been, and I truly appreciate the gesture.

            I heed her word and jump headfirst back into my schedule the very next day. Mags is relieved to see me again. She can see straight through my excuse that I’d been sick. When she sets my tea down in front of me, done how I like it, she presses a few additional sugar cubes into my palm. She motions for me to eat one, and she grins toothlessly when I do. It’s still difficult to understand her, but if she talks slowly enough and I focus hard enough, I can usually make out what she says. This time, her statement is short and simple. Finnick’s favorite . When I point to the remaining cubes in my hand she nods. Yes, for when he was feeling unwell.

            I rake my brain and find that I do have a few memories of Finnick’s sweet tooth in times of strife. Hot chocolate and lemonade, candies and desserts alike pepper memories of unpleasant times spent together.

            Piper and Tandy are in good spirits when I rejoin them to surf. They don’t ask many questions about where I’ve been after I pedal my story of illness. Instead, they do their best to teach me a trick on the surfboard, which I struggle with for a few sessions before grasping. We plan to attend another bonfire after a particularly successful lesson, but are delayed from leaving Piper’s shop in the evening to get there. There’s a mandatory viewing, a broadcast in the square. We’re forced to find Tandy in the sea of people and wait until it’s over.

            At first I fear that it’ll have something to do with District 8, but I quickly understand that it’s not after the first minute of Snow’s speech.

            “It’s the Quarter Quell announcement, my mom said it’d be happening soon,” Tandy whispers, shuddering.

            I need to be anywhere but here. Snow’s voice booms through the crowd, filling every crevice within me. I can’t escape him, even hundreds of miles away from the Capitol.

            “On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes. And now we honor our third Quarter Quell,” he says from the screen.

            A child steps forward, holding a wooden box forward for the camera to capture. There are rows and rows of aged envelopes, each supposedly having been written years and years ago. It’s a mockery to see it presented so formally. The envelope he draws tonight will have been written no more than a week ago. His fingers hover over the paper, tracing overtop of it slightly before removing it and pulling it open.

            “On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.” Gasps ring out across the crowd, hushed exclamations of shock and awe. “Additionally, as a reminder that the rebels can never escape the sins of their ancestors, deceased victors will be succeeded by direct family members.” 

            Piper’s grip on my bicep is crushing. She pulls me backwards as quickly as she possibly can. Tandy follows closely behind. When we finally find a secluded spot, she sits me down on a large rock.

            So that’s it then. It’s in motion. James Lockright’s brother will be reaped in just a few months, forced to die for a cause which he may not even be privy to. All because I did my research. The weight of it is crushing. Katniss Everdeen, only seventeen, will fight for her life twice back to back. Finnick, Ronan, Gloss, Cashmere, Grant, Blight. All are names that will be present in the reaping bowls in only a few short months. All because I did my research.

            “It’s okay, Fara, you don’t know that it will be you. There’s Mags, Wade, and Taylor as well.” Tandy speaks very quickly, mistaking my silence for fear of being selected.

            “It’ll be her,” Piper says bluntly. “He’s going to make sure it’s you and Finnick, won’t he?”

            “Yeah,” I agree. Piper’s intuitive.

            There’s no way the other women's’ names will be present in the reaping bowl. It’s better that way, much better. They didn’t directly cause this to happen the way I did.

            “Then you’re just going to have to train for it then, yeah? We’ll help.” Piper bends down to come face to face with me.

            “Woah, the reapings are fair. They’re terrible, but fair. That’s just how it has to be.” Tandy has grown defensive.

            “Shut it, Tandy, not the time,” Piper responds. “Let’s get you home now, Fara.”

            I don’t argue, allowing myself to be swept back to the victors village. Once the houses are in sight, we hear howling. The windows on Taylor’s porch have been shattered, leaving little barrier between us and her screams. She sounds animalistic, ragged and utterly broken.

            “You two should head back to your homes,” I say, turning to look at them. “Thank you for walking with me.”

            Piper wraps an arm around Tandy and they steadily make their way back down the path together. I can hear Tandy begin to cry when they dip down below the hillcrest. I fight the urge towards bitterness. She has nothing to cry about, sure, but why is it so bad that she does anyway? It’s not my place to judge her.

            “Taylor?” I call when I’m sure they’re out of earshot. “Do you want company?”

            “No!” The answer comes quickly.

            I sense that this isn’t a time where I should push, so I don’t. Her cries of anguish quiet down as she must move to a different room in her house. The rest of the village is silent, not a single light is on. I leave mine off as well as I traverse the familiar path to my study. I sit heavily in the desk chair, placing my head in my hands atop the wooden surface of the desk.

            This is my fault.

Chapter Text

            It takes three long months for Finnick to finally arrive in District 4. With him, he brings a flock of camera crews. They follow him all the way home, going up to his doorstep with the desperate fury of trying to get a homecoming story. When he closes his front door on them, they come knocking on mine instead. I don’t answer, instead biding my time putting together a few bags worth of groceries to stock Finnick’s fridge. I know that his will be empty and he’s never been one to skip dinner.

            After the pounding sound is long gone, I dart from my porch to his. I knock in conjunction with a short call that it’s just me. The door opens and I’m yanked forcefully inside into a tight embrace. Finnick kicks the door shut with his foot, keeping us pressed tightly together.

            “I missed you too,” I say over his shoulder.

            He breaks away finally to deadbolt the lock shut and draw all of the curtains closed. I take advantage of the break to put the grocery bags in the kitchen.

            “I can cook dinner if you’re hungry,” I say when he walks in behind me.

            “Will it be edible?” He smirks.

            “Wade’s been giving me lessons. Trust me, I’ve improved fast.”

            “Do you like torture? Is that something you seek? Why would you ever choose to do that?” He hops up to sit on the counter as I start to peel potatoes.

            “I like her. Sure, she can be… explosive. But she’s always honest and I like that. Wash the vegetables for me would you?” He does as I ask and sets to work washing and chopping carrots.

            “What’s it been like here?” he asks.

            “Weird. I don’t try going into the town anymore, the people keep looking at me like I’m on my deathbed. Which I guess I might be, but it’s weird that they know that.”

            “Have you still been surfing?”

            “Yeah. The girls have also been hammering home swimming lessons. Between that and my father’s relentless fishing and spear hunting lessons, I’ve got three personal trainers trying to get me through the Quell. Good thing, too, with the reaping next week.”

            Finnick inhales sharply.

            “Could we not talk about any of that? Just for tonight? I want to pretend like we live a normal life for just a moment.”

            “Oh, okay,” I say, feeling at once guilty.

            Of course he’s not in the mood to talk about the Quarter Quell, he just got home from non-stop rebellion talk. How could I have forgotten that? It’s been an incredibly hard year for him, almost none of it spent in the comfort of his own home. He must be wishing that he had a bit of peace and quiet, not me barging in and forcing him to talk about the thing that haunts our every move.

            Finnick pulls the potato peeler from my hands and puts it on the counter next to me. His hands slide to cup my jaw, drawing our faces together. He kisses me on the lips, soft and warm. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright and contain not a single ounce of resentment. I lean forward to put my forehead on his shoulder. He runs a hand down my back, gently tracing the line of my spine.

            We’re lazy with comfort when we get back to cooking. By the time the soup is boiling on the stove, we’re ready to collapse onto the couch. We do after Finnick sets his fireplace ablaze, claiming that even though it’s warm outside, the ambiance is unbeatable. We start out sitting next to each other, talking about completely unimportant things we got up to while we were apart. By the time I’ve gotten around to explaining the piece of pink sea glass I found, Finnick’s head is lying in my lap. My hands stroke idly through his hair during my retelling, over and over again until the timer for the soup goes off. We get up reluctantly to serve ourselves, packaging the leftovers into three neat glass containers to be stored in his fridge.

            I catch him looking at me as we work, eyes heavy with an emotion I can’t quite place. We take our steaming bowls back to the couch and Finnick asks me to read something to him while we eat. Between bites of potato soup, I choose to read from the journal sitting atop his end table. It contains pages of poetry, dated as recently as a few days ago.

            He doesn’t try to stop me, instead gently pressing against me as I verbalize increasingly meaningful passages. When he’s done eating, he leans until he’s laying on top of my legs once again. Once my own bowl is empty, I begin to realize that a lot of these pages are filled with words about me.

             Why do the things I love pain me so?

             Why should all pleasure be mixed with pain?

             It’s not hard to see why so many remain unhappy

             When our joy is marred by a tax.

             They say love takes sacrifice

             But what if I want no pain?

             Why can’t I just

             Partake?

            I can’t help but to sit silently with the meaning of his words. I can feel his heart beating on my legs as I turn the page to find another to read aloud.

             Why do I swim from a ship

             That hasn’t even begun sinking?

             It’s because I've drowned before.

             So forgive me when I cast out,

             For I remember not being able to breathe.

             The lifeline of solitude is my only

             Comfort in this sea of uncertainty.

             Oh, let me swim in the frothy surf

             And rapids cool and smooth.

             I crave the wet embrace of the fate I’ve sealed myself.

            I close the journal, setting it back in its spot on the end table. It must have meant a lot for him to bring it all the way from the Capitol. I feel the strange urge to thank him for allowing me to read it.

            After a few moments of listening to the fire, he tells me again that he missed me. I smile down at him, sure that I’ll never grow tired of hearing that phrase. I move my hands from my hair to his face, tracing lines between groupings of freckles. They’ve faded, mostly, from such little sunlight. They’ll come back after a week here, no doubt. They always do. He hums once, a deep rumbling in his chest as he looks up at me. His eyelids sit heavily over his eyes, lashes nearly touching. At first I think that he’s falling asleep, but then he sits up and presses his lips into mine. I kiss back this time, weaving my fingers behind his neck. Now I can barely hear the crackle of the fire over the beating of my heart.

            He maneuvers his hand behind my head, pulling me impossibly closer to him. I part my lips and find his tongue pressing between my teeth. I groan and part them further. He roams my mouth, for the first time unabashed in his pursuit. I finger through his hair with a hand once again, urging him on. When we part for breath, panting, he presses his forehead to mine. There’s peace in his eyes and a smile on his lips. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

            He pulls me so that I'm sitting nearly on top of him, straddling him as he sits upright below me. I lean down on top of him, so that my lips hover just above his own.

            “I love you.” The words coming from his lips ghost his breath onto my face.

            “I love you too.”

            And then I’m kissing him again. He slips his hand under my shirt and finds purchase just below my ribs. A shiver runs through my body and my inhalation comes sharply through my nose. My eyes fly open at once, my lips part just barely from his. Without speaking, I pose the question. His eyes burn with desire, no trace of doubt within them. He closes the gap I’ve left in an instant. A second hand rises to join the first on the skin below my shirt. With this leverage, he pulls the fabric up over my head, leaving me feeling bare and glad for the fire roaring behind us.

            In the moment of pause, I reach behind myself to unclasp the back of my bra. He moves quickly, greedily, to push the straps down off of my shoulders. His hands jerk towards me, wanting to touch but unsure. I meet his eyes and nod my permission. His fingers come to rest atop my breasts, tentatively at first, then sure, running across the sensitive skin. I lean forward and feel his breath, hot against my neck. His mouth comes to rest on my collarbone, wet lips caressing the skin, then teeth grazing against it. I groan again, low and needy. I feel his lips form into a smirk against me.

            This is not my first time with a man, but it’s certainly the only time where I haven’t felt even a shred of timidity. This is the first time he’s touched me like this, somehow it hasn’t already been soiled by the Capitol desire for a good show. There’s more than luck to it, no doubt, but I find that it’s difficult to follow the train of thought with his teeth working against me.

            Finnick is undoubtedly present . He’s here and he’s completely and unquestionably mine. We are not ships passing in the night, bound by the thralls of fate to never have anything more. He knows me completely and utterly, just as I know him. Every piece of him is predictable, exactly where it should be below me.

            He moves to rotate us so that I’m laying with my back against the smooth fabric of the couch. I use my new position to initiate the pull of his shirt up across his torso. He finishes the job for me, discarding it onto the ground next to my own clothing. I run my fingertips over the newly exposed flesh, trying as hard as I can to memorize the feel of it forever.

            He feels exactly as he should. Warm and soft, even as the goosebumps raise on his skin in the wake of my touch. I have never felt him here, on the skin of his back which so often glimmers with the sheen of sweat and seawater. The thrill of it is not sharp or fast, but rather a slow and momentous understanding of what we’re doing.

            His face lowers from my own, lips darting to hover over one of my exposed nipples. I gasp in surprise at the sensation. Once again, I can feel his smile against my skin as he presses further into me. His lips, wet with our combined mouths, drag across the sensitive mound. I feel pleasure mounting in my stomach, it flutters when I feel his hand on my hip bone, caressing me gently. After only a few seconds of deliberation, his fingers press down below the elastic waistband of my pants. His fingertips caress the exposed skin of my thigh, up and down, achingly close to where I need them.

            When I can stand it no more, my hips stutter in desperation. His hand withdraws completely.

            “What is it you want from me?” he asks, drawing his face up to become level with my own.

            “Finnick,” I pant, face surely flushed red.

            “That’s not an answer.” One side of his mouth quirks upwards.

            “You, I need you,” I admit, feeling embarrassment coil within me alongside desire.

            His fingers find their way beneath my pants once again. He continues his motion of brushing against my inner thigh, until finally he pushes beneath my underwear to find the wetness lying below. My desire makes my arousal quick. I’m begging for release only moments after he’s begun. This fact seems to invigorate him, he slips a finger into me as his thumb winds circles across the point where I need his touch the most. When he adds another, I begin to tremble under him, he stops for a moment to look me in the eyes.

            “Say my name.”

            I’d say just about anything to make him continue.

            “Finnick.” I comply breathily.

            He takes me to climax, lips on mine until I’m finally breathing properly again.

            When he withdraws his hand from beneath my pants, I’m entirely undone below him. He tugs down on the hem, asking for permission to remove them entirely. In response, I reach to tug on his. He understands my message quickly, standing slightly to shirk his own shorts, leaving me with no question that I’m not the only one who wants this. I raise my hips to pull off my pants, grinning giddily when Finnick stoops to help.

            He hovers over me, both of us completely exposed to each other for the first time. There’s no going back from here, we’ve reached a point that signifies something new, something that breaks through any supposed boundaries we’ve managed to have before.

            “Are you sure?” I ask one more time.

            “Yes.”

            “Me too,” I respond, though I know I don’t have to.

            He meets my eyes, face clouded by emotion and desire. It makes me shudder. He’s incredibly gentle, slow at first as he works out how exactly to hold me. More sure, next, when he hears my moans in his ear. Punishing, at last, when he finds his place within me. He takes me for everything I’m worth, lips on mine while he claims me. When I find myself building to my next release, he senses it. He slows the frenzy of his hips to a grueling pace, dipping low next to my ear to whisper.

            “I want to hear it again.”

            “Please, Finnick.”

            That’s all it takes to reignite him, pulling us at last to a simultaneous release. It’s short, but incredibly passionate. Neither of us could hold out against the urgent need to feel the other’s body.

            He collapses beside me, pulling my perspiring body flush against his own in the damp heat of the room. He rests his nose onto my head and inhales deeply. We lay together in silence, the crackle of the fire filling in the gaps.

            “I missed you so much,” I finally say it back, fingers interlocking with his own.

            “If a bit of time apart is what that costs, I’d gladly sacrifice it.” He chuckles, planting a warm kiss onto my cheek.

            I spin around to bury my face into his chest, forehead pressed firmly against him. I don’t want this to end. It seems so cruel that we finally know each other completely so soon before we’re forced again to bargain against our mortality. I wish it could be like this forever, wrapped up in his strong embrace, the walls around us keeping out a world of hate and despair. Tears flow freely, coating his already damp skin with another layer of salt.

            “Hey, it’s okay.” He cradles my head with his hand. “What is it?”

            “I love you.” It’s not much of an explanation, but he seems to understand.

            He carries me up the creaking stairs to his bathroom, where he sits me on top of the counter while he heats up the shower. We wash each other under the warm water, fingers and eyes tracing spots we’ve never properly seen before.

            Finnick has a birthmark just below his hip bone, loosely in the shape of a heart. I trace it with soap bubbles until I remember the outline.

            “I love you,” he breaths.

            It seems that now that we’ve begun saying it, we can’t stop. We take each other to bed with it, whispers of feelings below sheets that envelop our already warm bodies. The moon peeks through the gauzy curtains of his room, beckoning us towards the sleep that neither of us are ready for.

            We lie facing each other, each trying in vain to outdo the admissions of the other.

            “I started loving you on the victory tour.” He traces a finger along my arm.

            “I liked it when you kissed me on the train.”

            “I wanted to do it again when we went sledding.”

            “I think I started loving you when we danced together in District 4.”

            “You think?”

            “I’ve never loved anyone before. All I know is that I felt electric. I fell asleep thinking about you.”

            He kisses me.

            We hardly leave his house in the next few days, only making the short trek to my home in pursuit of food. Piper and Tandy show up one morning at my door, attempting to summon me to surf. When they see me emerge to greet them from Finnick’s porch, they simply giggle to each other and amend to leave us alone. I’m equal parts embarrassed and touched by their thoughtfulness. The other victors don’t bother with trying to reach out, they’ve seen the lights on in Finnick’s home and have likely assumed what’s happening between us.

            Finnick and I treat each second as time not to be wasted, never straying far from the other’s touch. We lounge in his bed, on his couch, in his study until we’re both itching with the weight of inactivity. When we finally tire of doing nothing, I tell Finnick that I’d like to teach him to surf. We make it all the way to the cove before Finnick tells me that he already knows how to surf. I should have expected it, honestly.

            He gazes at the three surfboards tucked into the shallow cave. He correctly identifies the pink and yellow one as belonging to Tandy, then deliberates for a moment between the wooden and the green one.

            “Green’s yours, wood’s Pipers.”

            I kiss him in response.

            He quickly moves to take Tandy’s, running to beat me back to the water’s edge.

            He’s much better than I am, which is totally unsurprising, but he says he’s impressed by my progress which causes me to swell with pride regardless. We take each other again, just within the cool confines of the cave, both aching to enjoy it as much as we possibly can.

            Things grow more and more desperate as the day of the reaping approaches. We hardly spend a moment outside of each other’s view, making love whenever either of us gets the itch. Every time we’re done, we say that we love each other and spend precious minutes tangled together.

            We only find ourselves behaving with a bit more discretion when, the day before the reaping, our visitors arrive. We receive no heads up before the group ambles into the victor's village. The only reason we’re able to throw on clothes in time to answer the door is that Fierian, as usual, loudly plays the role of tour guide on their walk. His voice drifting in through the open window is first and foremost a disappointing interruption, but after I’m into a set of clothes, I find myself grinning with the excitement of seeing old friends. We watch from the window as the gaggle of the Capitol team knocks first on the door of my empty home before making their way to Finnick’s porch.

            This time, the jeers of the prep teams are more so thrilled than disapproving. Giovani scolds them for their rude greeting, but shoots us his own smirk when things have calmed down. Evidently, the uneven buttoning of Finnick’s shirt and our rumpled hair tells a story we never intended to share. Fierian elects that we all go to get dinner together at one of the nicer seaside restaurants. Finnick suggests one and everyone quickly agrees.

            Though it’s just over two miles away, the Capitol team insists that we call a car to pick us up and take us. It doesn’t get us all that far, with little road infrastructure in the district, but it seems to satisfy them that we’ve cut down on walking times.

            It’s strange to see an upscale restaurant in District 4, I’ve certainly never been to one before. It’s up on stilts over the water, with large windows facing the beach. The sun has just begun to set when we all sit down. I sit wedged between Giovani and Fierian, far away from Finnick who sits at the opposite corner. We exchange a sheepish look of apology, trying in vain to flatten our hair down.

            “Giovani and I knew that it would happen at some point,” Fierian whispers in my ear, making me jump in surprise.

            “That’s what everyone’s saying,” I respond, feeling heat in my cheeks.

            “Well it’s no secret that the two of you are close.” Giovani leans in as well to join.

            “We’ve just had the privilege of foresight from seeing the two of you work together. You’re good for each other, you help balance each other out.”

            “Really?” I ask, feeling a fondness at hearing our friends confirm what I’ve been thinking all along.

            “Really,” Giovani confirms. “You help him to think more, he helps you to think less.”

            The cousins both snicker and elbow me in the ribs before straightening up and pretending the side conversation never happened. By the time everyone has their orders in, they’ve all moved on from teasing us.

            Despite the morbidity of the occasion, nobody seems to falter in the celebratory atmosphere. We all simply pretend that this is nothing but a reunion dinner, not the eve of something decidedly more sinister. Giovani speaks of his recent success in the realm of banquet attire, his new line of clothing has sold out. In my absence from Capitol nightlife, Genetty has reclaimed her position on the District 4 female tribute prep team (which she evidently missed quite a bit). I suppose that I’ll be thankful for that when they start work on the female victors tomorrow morning. I can only hope that they’ll be gentle with Taylor and patient with Wade as they prune and prepare us for the stage.

            After much arguing, Giovani pays the bill and we head out to the nearby pier to find a satisfactory bar. The one we settle on has Lucia and Katya wrinkling their noses a bit, but we all ignore their snobbish behavior and settle in at the outdoor barstools. The waves crash in the background as we order cocktails and beers, drinking until we’re pleasantly warm.

            With the onset of our collective buzz comes reminiscence. Fierian in particular continually slips into telling tales of old, which feel like they happened only yesterday. As he watches me shoot back a few ounces of vodka, he sighs heavily.

            “I remember when you couldn’t even smell liquor without gagging. You’ve gone and grown up on us.”

            “She didn’t grow up,” Giovani scolds. “She’s simply discovered the wonders of being a functional alcoholic at nineteen.”

            “I’m not a functional alcoholic,” I snort my disapproval.

            “So you’re saying you’re not functioning?” Finnick smirks, not helping my case in the slightest.

            “I only ever drink when things get really bad,” I defend. “I’m no alcoholic.”

            “Sure.” Finnick’s teeth shine out from behind his upturned lips, disconcertingly white.

            I have to concede to winning the argument in my head, not willing to waste the evening on a debate. I’m not like Haymitch or Chaff, I only drink to take the edge off of horrific situations. The weed isn’t exactly a problem either, it’s non-addictive and simply serves to clear my mind when things get a bit too busy.

            “Do you remember that night on the train, Fara? The party I threw, wasn’t it wonderful? We all had so much fun.” Fierian is back at it, sweeping us into tipsy nostalgia.

            I do remember that night, quite vividly. It was the first time Finnick and I kissed. I touch my lips with the tingling memory, savoring the memory of surprise and thrill. We were on the couch, knees tucked to our chests so that we could face each other. He was wearing that grey cotton shirt and black shorts. I wasn’t nervous, not in the slightest, only delighted that he had chosen me.

            I glance over at Finnick, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am. I decide that he probably is. He’s always been the romantic, filled with notions of cosmic purpose and devotion. It does a lot of good to balance out my flat practicality, which I’m sure is strikingly unattractive. He’s the better half of us, I’m convinced. Despite what Tandy and Piper say, I’m reaching far out of my league to snag him.

            Caught up in my reverie, I take much too long to notice that Fierian is weeping. When I glance at Giovani, I expect to see him move to comfort his cousin, but instead I find him in a stark state of disapproval. He shakes his head stiffly at Fierian then juts his chin out, a clear message to cease crying. Fierian simply nods and hurriedly dries his eyes on his crimson lapel. He murmurs a nonsensical excuse of allergies before downing the rest of his drink.

            I’m certainly not the only one who seeks to take the edge off with the thrall of liquor.

            That they try to maintain composure for our benefit is somehow comical to me. They pretend as if thoughts of the Quell won’t follow us around regardless of the topic of conversation. Finnick and I are ghosts at this outing, nothing more. It’s silly to pretend otherwise.

            When we return home, I have to mentally shirk my frustration at the door. There’s no use in being upset with my friends, they certainly have no ill will in their grief. My inclination is strangely towards outrage, just as it was when I first heard Tandy cry over my fate. Pity peels my skin back like a knife, leaving room for salt to score the wound. I’ve enough of it in my own mind, I can’t handle it from any other source.

            I take full advantage of Finnick when we climb beneath the covers. I cling to him, inhaling the scent of faint cologne from his bare chest. Neither of us sleeps a single second, but don’t speak our arousal into the night. We deal with the plague of our worries alone, offering only the comfort of an anchor to each other. I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more.

Chapter Text

            We walk up the hall to the reaping stage hand in hand until we can see the cameras peering into the tunnel. Then we walk as friends, leaning ever slightly against each other for balance until we’re forced to opposite sides of the stage, adhering to the tradition of the ceremony.

            The mayor gives her usual clipped address, leaving plenty of time for Fierian to make his speeches of grandeur. This year, he’s decidedly more somber. He no longer claims to love the district, but instead that he loves the victors that he’s come to know so well. He somehow talks even longer than normal, trying in vain to prolong the time before he draws our names from the bowls.

            When he’s finally prompted by the mayor behind him, he proceeds forwards to stand in front of the bowl of women. It contains only four slips. Every one of them surely has my name written inside.

            “Faraday Jones.”

            And there it is. It’s almost comforting, hearing it. Amidst the crowd, I can hear the hellish yell of Tandy, brash and angry. She’s silenced just a moment later, and I’m left hoping that it’s by Piper’s hand rather than a peacekeeper’s. I find my spot beside Fierian, leaning in to feel the material of his velvet coat against my skin. He clears his throat once more to prepare for his next words. I wish he wouldn’t say it. Just as last time, nobody will volunteer to take my place. Finnick and I will complete this journey together, just as we entered it.

            “Are there any volunteers?”

            There’s an unintelligible jumble of words from behind me. When I turn to find understanding, I find Mags walking towards us, with a bewildered looking Wade standing behind her, hand faltering back to her side.

            “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want a replacement.”

            But Mags replaces me anyway. I don’t move from my spot at the front of the stage until Wade takes my hand and draws me back. She doesn’t try to get me to sit, but plants me firmly between her and Taylor. When I meet her eyes, I find the same level of surprise that I feel in my own. Was she about to volunteer for me before Mags beat her to it? I don’t get the chance to ask before Fierian is announcing the next name.

            “Finnick Odair.”

            Nobody volunteers to replace him.

            Everything happens very quickly after that. The peacekeepers grab each one of the victors very tightly by the arms and begin to draw us away from the stage. I find myself screaming in an attempt to tear away.

            “I need to see him! I need to say goodbye! Take me to him!” My protests fall on deaf ears.

            I expect to be taken to wait in the justice building until I’m allowed to say my official goodbye. Instead I’m chauffeured directly to a train car. Am I supposed to be a mentor for them? Am I being shipped back to a life of Capitol slavery?

            Nobody bothers to tell me.

            This train is different from the usual one. There’s no dining car and wide, luxurious rooms. Instead I’m shoved into a cool metal container containing nothing but sleek silver walls. The door is shut behind me and I find myself panicking outright. I pound on the thick metal walls, demanding that I be let out. This can’t be right, there must have been some mistake. When the train surges to life, I’m forced to sit in the back corner to avoid being thrown to the floor with the force of acceleration.

            The president wouldn’t make a mistake like this. I’m on my way to some sort of death, no doubt. He realized that he couldn’t kill me in the arena, so he’ll ship me out to some remote location where he can do it anyway. I reach into the pockets of my jumpsuit, finding both the signal jammer and the comlink. I know it’s beyond dangerous, but I punch in the numbers that dial Ronan and hit the button on the jammer. After a few minutes of ringing, I elect to leave him a message.

            “Ronan, this is it. Snow must have found out what we’ve done. He’s doing it, he’s going to kill me. Tell Finnick that I love him. Tell Grant, too, and Blight. Tell everyone. I’m going to miss you all.” Tears fall onto the precarious wires. “I don’t want to die, I really don’t. God, please make it worth it. You’ve got to do it, and I mean really do it. Burn the Capitol to the ground, every last piece. Thank you for everything. Tell my dad too, and my friends in District 4.” Everything I want to say is coming in disjointed waves, no order to be found.

            “I just need everyone to know that I love them. Don’t let Finnick stew in it. Make sure that he still tries his best to get the Mockingjay through the Quell. I hope District 13 is everything we imagined it would be. I hope that they let you bake in the kitchens. Make sure that Grant has a guitar and Cashmere has a garden and Blight has flowers. Look after Gloss, see to it that he doesn’t get into any trouble. And I need you to promise that you’ll enjoy it. Don’t let anyone mope about this for a second. You have to live your lives to the fullest, and never ever let anyone tell you that you’re less than you should be.”

            I’m sobbing now, holding the device up to lips numb with terror.

            “Tell Mags thank you for me, I didn’t get to say it myself. Tell Fierian and Giovani too, for everything they’ve done for me. God I’m going to miss you all so much. I’ll think of you in the last moments. I’ll think of you when I stare Snow down. I’ll tell him to go fuck himself, just one time, for the road. Just until you can do it yourself. Goodbye Ronan.”

            I click the button again and throw both devices onto the ground. I can’t have Snow finding it when we arrive wherever I’m going, so I crush it to pieces beneath my heel and feed it through the small slotted windows on the wall. The whipping wind takes the metal greedily, sucking it from my fingers as soon as I hold it up. I’m free to pace the carriage now, having reached a resting speed. It’s much faster than usual.

            I realize after a bit of pacing that this must be a cattle car. It’s remarkably clean for an animal transport, but there’s just the slightest hint of musky hay when I inhale deeply enough. It also explains why it moves so much more quickly. There’s not as many regulations regarding the humanity of animal shipments.

             Is that all I am to Snow , an animal?

            I peel the heels from my feet, choosing to continue pacing barefoot.

            Where could he possibly be shipping me that’s better than having a peacekeeper gun me down in the private halls of District 4? He’s classy, that’s one thing to consider. He wouldn’t see a bullet as a proper end for all of the trouble I’ve caused him. It’ll be something more creative. I try as hard as I possibly can to try to find something that he might consider to be a poetic end. Nothing solid comes to mind.

            There’s no point in spending my last hours in panic like a caged animal. I finally force sense into the mile-a minute-dialogue. When I finally regain control of my own narrative, I guide myself to sit back in the corner. I close my eyes and breathe until I can block out the sound of wind hammering against the car.

            I’m going to die today. It’s okay. I’ve been living on borrowed time for two years. This is much longer than my story was intended to stretch anyway. And what a wonderful two years it’s been. Yes, there’s been trials and tribulations so steep that it makes my head spin to think of them, but I’ve had the privilege of meeting the most excellent people in the world.

            I’ve met people who are kind and selfless and have an innate sense of right and wrong that they didn’t get from a textbook at school. They make it all worth it, every single one of them. I won’t let Snow steal those experiences from me now. In this moment I refuse to think of anything other than the people who make this sacrifice worth it.

            I fill each moment with vivid images of memories, smiling faces and demonstrations of kindness. I can’t stop myself from crying, but find myself laughing, too, when I think of Gloss, Tandy, and Ronan. I swell with pride when I think of Cashmere, Blight, and Piper. I soften at the thought of Grant, and my father. I linger longest on my memories of Finnick, of our small respite in his home this past week. It makes it all worth it.

            I can’t tell how much time has passed when the train begins to slow on the tracks. The temperature has changed drastically, the inside of the cart is boiling hot and dry. I rise to my feet to find my heels and stand at the door, ready to stare my death in the face. When the panel slides open, I find myself eye to eye with a peacekeeper’s gun.

            She orders me to jump down. I do so without a word, landing heavily in the soft prairie grass. I recognize my old home instantly. I’m in District 3.

            “Hurry, we’re running behind schedule.”

             Schedule ? Evidently there’s a schedule for Snow to kill me in my birthplace. I scoff and walk between the small ensemble of peacekeepers that greet me at the unofficial train stop. It’s not long until I begin to see the tops of buildings over the tall grass surrounding the trail. As we grow closer, I hear the commotion of thousands of people milling about.

            We’re at the District 3 central hub.

            I find myself dizzy with deja vu, gazing at the distant platform of victors lined up by sex. When we grow closer, I see their faces. Wiress, Litmus, and Elenore stand on the left, while Beetee stands alone on the right. The crowd parts to allow our bizarre band through, and I mount the stage the way a child tribute would, the way I did two years ago in District 4.

            I don’t understand.

            This is too populated to kill me. There’s too many astute witnesses. And I can’t for the life of me find President Snow in the crowd. Hands draw me into line, gentle and kind amidst the nebulous haze that surrounds me.

            “What’s happening?” I shake my head to clear it. “Where’s Snow?”

            “The reaping, President Snow’s in the Capitol,” Litmus whispers in my ear.

            “Then how’s he supposed to kill me?”

            “Faraday, you’re representing your mother in the reaping.” Eleanore’s sharp voice in my other ear finally brings me up past the clouds that clog my senses.

            I’m not dying, not yet.

            Of course I’m representing my mother. I’m her only direct living family.

            The mayor proceeds with his speech after glancing wearily back at me. The ceremony proceeds just as it did this morning. Recycled footage of District 13 is played back before the Capitol escort takes the stage, walking to the bowls with much less meaning than Fierian had. The men are drawn first in District 3, just as I remembered from my childhood. The one slip flies daintily from the glass container, a cruel moment of suspense for a drawing that can go only one way.

            Beetee makes his way up to the podium. I can hear him mutter gently that he hopes someone will volunteer for him. He chuckles and pushes his glasses up his nose before straightening up in his new spot.

            The next slip is, somehow, just as expected as the first.

            I amble forward on stiff legs. No volunteers clear me from the path of duty this time.

            Beetee and I face each other and shake hands on the command of the escort. He smiles genuinely at me, hand large and warm around my own.

            “Shall we?”

            There’s no pomp and circumstance when the official ceremony is over. Just as quickly as they whisked Finnick and Mags away, Beetee and I are moved to the train with no opportunity to say goodbye to our loved ones. Gun toting peacekeepers rally around us, forming a protective square. The sun has nearly set, casting long shadows in front of us as we walk.

            My footsteps are clumsy in the dusk, placed with no regard for the ground below me.

            I’m alive.

            The air has never tasted sweeter in my entire life. Every single chirping bird and buzzing cicada envelops me in a world that is so completely alive that I can’t believe it’s real.

            I’ll get the chance to see Finnick again, and all of the rest of them too. Giddy joy bubbles up in me like an unsteady water fixture. I find myself laughing when I spot the train, this time equipped for passengers rather than cattle. One of the guards snaps at me to quiet down, but I couldn’t care less. I’ve bought myself an absolute ticket to live for the next few days. I’m untouchable until I set foot in the arena.

            Once the door snaps shut behind us, I saunter immediately for the couch in the dining car. Beetee follows close behind, strides sure and steady in contrast with my own. When I fall heavily onto the cushions below us, laughter starts in my belly once again. In no time at all, I simultaneously begin to cry.

            “Today's events were certainly unexpected.” Beetee comments, sitting in the chair facing me.

            “You could say that,” I agree, trying my best to sober.

            “I’d like very much to hear your side of events, if you wouldn’t mind.” He leans forward, clasping his hands in front of him.

            So I tell him every detail from the moment I set foot on the District 4 stage to when I made it to the one in District 3. Other than a brief apology, he doesn’t waste time with the emotional portion of events, instead grilling me about details regarding my arrival in District 3. I try my best to answer accurately, but my brain wasn’t exactly processing things at that point in my day. When he’s finally satisfied with my depictions, he suggests we take dinner here at the TV to review the Hunger Games highlights for the tributes entering the arena.

            “Naturally I’ve watched the footage from all of the living victors in preparation for the event. I suppose we’ll treat tonight as a review session for the test. It’s a shame they didn’t send our mentors with us. I suppose they’ll catch up on the next train. I was told there would be interviews to delay their arrival.” He smiles conspiratorially.

            I blush and nod along, as if I’ve been studying my competition at all and that I know what he means by interviews . It never crossed my mind once to watch footage from past Hunger Games. I spent all of my time training my muscles and my survival skills. My District 3 roots seem to have faded.

            We start by notating the reaped victors in journals that Beetee procures. He encourages me to leave plenty of space for notes between the pages containing names, claiming that we’re sure to gain more if both of us try our hardest to pluck information.

            The names are much too familiar to treat like a history exam. The reaping video first shows District 12, where Peeta Mellark scarcely leaves a second of pause before volunteering to take his mentor’s place. I can hardly stand to watch the District 9 footage as Rome Lockright is chosen in place of his deceased younger brother. The feeling is only erased when we reach District 5, and I see a stunning lack of Grant Opal on screen. He wasn’t drawn for the reaping bowl and he had the sense not to volunteer to take the spot of old DeAngelo Sloth. The good fortune is not continued in District 1.

            Gaia is drawn first. Her scream of terror reverberates through the room. I’ve never seen Gaia frightened before, it’s so unfamiliar on her face that I can't help but to think of clay stretched over a sculpture. The call for volunteers goes unheeded for a pregnant few seconds before Cashmere’s voice rings out, strong and clear. The point of my pencil breaks against my page and I have to resharpen it before looking back up. Ronan’s name is pulled next. I close my eyes in defeat. The volunteer comes with little pause. Gloss replaces him next to his sister.

            Beetee doesn’t offer a moment's pause before he begins playing the first tape. Footage of Katniss and Peeta in their flaming parade ensemble lights up the screen as my salmon filet is delivered. I wolf it down in between scrawled notes. I can’t allow my squeamishness to make me miss one of my precious last meals.

            I’m glad I’ve finished eating by the time we reach the tapes of the first person I know personally. The climate of the arena is temperate, encompassed entirely in a large sequoia forest. The runtime is two and a half weeks. He waits until two full weeks have passed before he starts to approach the other tributes offensively rather than running away. Blight’s first kill is jarring. It’s slow and methodical, done with the use of tripwire traps and hatchets. He kills four more by the same method. The fifth is done away with during a final brawl in hand-to-hand combat. When the tape ejects, I excuse myself to the bathroom for a break.

            I grip the porcelain sides of the sink and stare deep into my reflection.

             I’m alive. I’m here. I get to see my loved ones before I die .

            I’m stoic again by the time we begin to watch Johanna Mason’s year. Next we watch Treip and Skee from District six, looking incredibly young and unruined by the morphling drug throughout the entirety. Both kill only one tribute, both do so in self defense. The same can not be said of Porter Millicent Tripp from District 5. She’s cunning and ruthless in her arena, a miniature model of Panem. She kills each day she spends alive, until finally her last altercation leaves her spine horribly broken from a fall off of one of the replica buildings.

            I watch Finnick Odair’s tapes through unseeing eyes. My hand itches to pour myself a drink from the bar, but Beetee’s watchful eye keeps me from doing so. The best I can do in terms of self defense is to close my eyes during the worst of it. It didn’t seem this violent when I watched it as a child, not nearly so. I suppose I was too focused on how good he looked as he swam between the small islands dotting around the ocean arena. I fell for the exact same thing that everyone in the Capitol did. They worshiped him, sending expensive gifts at every turn of the event. It’s sickening to see the silver trident float into his hands. That gift cost him more than his life was worth, years of service to wealthy donors in the Capitol. He’s never gotten close to paying it off.

            Beetee is surprisingly detached while watching himself on the screen, young and scared. He jots down notes exactly as he’d done for the first eighteen tapes, as if his involvement is of no consequence. I try to do the same when we watch mine, but I falter first when I watch Audrey die. I’m able to keep my wits about me until I watch myself find Arik in the dirt, after which I demand childishly that we take an intermission.

            Beetee allows me to break away back to the bathroom again, but I hear the TV continue to replay clips of the worst moments of my life in real time. He can’t waste any time on sentimentality, it seems.

            By the time I’m back, we’re onto watching Brutus. His games are unsurprisingly violent. Brutus never found peace, not in the aftermath of his games or in the short years that I’ve known him. I don’t think he’s ever truly left the arena, which will make him incredibly dangerous to face off with in four short days.

            Gloss is no surprise either, I’ve felt firsthand the brute strength he possesses. He doesn’t hold back, tearing through tributes amid the tall amber waves of grain. He’s stunningly handsome as well as fearsomely uncaring. Just like Finnick, he’s paid dearly for every second of screentime that gained him favor.

            Gloss says that he drove the hardest bargain of his life to get Cashmere out of the 64th Hunger Games alive, and I can see why. Her competition is steep. The other career tributes are strong, capable, and plan in secret to kill her as soon as possible. Her notoriety as the sibling of the previous victor made them antsy, convinced that it gave her some sort of edge. They try to execute their plan in the middle of the night while she sleeps. Unfortunately for them, an earthquake interrupts the plot, leaving Cashmere to gain the upper hand. All four are dead by the end of the night.

            Beetee doesn’t pause for a moment before he asks that we begin to compare notes. He compiles everything we’ve written into a master list as we discuss. Once we’ve grazed the surface about every one of the tributes, he requests that we move to a bedroom. Once tucked privately inside, he makes use of a signal disrupting device.

            “Such a compact tool, you did a good job on these.” Beetee runs a finger over the jumbled surface of wires. “What do you call it?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a signal disrupting device.” I fumble to find a response.

            “S.D.D. still sounds a bit clinical. I find that the success of my inventions vary greatly with naming conventions. People tend to like something with a name. How about Sidd?”

            “Sure.” I shrug, not caring much how anybody refers to the device as long as it does its job.

            Beetee takes a moment to procure water for the two of us to drink. He drinks his quickly, slipping a pill into his mouth about halfway through. It’s a caffeine tablet, he explains, not enough time to be wasted on sleep tonight.

            “I wasn’t expecting you to show up in District 3. It throws a bit of a wrench into our plan.” Beetee looks over his glasses at me.

            “So sorry about that, I wasn’t expecting it either.” I can’t help the snideness that seeps into my statement.

            “No worries, it’ll just take some adjustment.” He takes my apology genuinely, as if he can’t hear the resentment in it. Maybe he doesn’t.

            He starts again by asking me to describe my strengths and weaknesses candidly. I do to the best of my abilities, taking care to mention the recent training I’ve been doing in District 4, and the sessions I’ve spent under Gloss’s instruction. He seems relieved at the end of my retelling. Apparently he had expected much worse.

            He explains the entire plan to me, seeming very genuinely to not worry about holding information back. None of the victors know the full extent of what to expect in the arena, not even Ronan and Blight. That being said, what we do know is enough to have created a rough plan.

            There will be water, lots of water, enough to engulf the tribute pedestals. This is my first advantage over the intended District 3 victors. I know how to swim, and I can swim well. This initial challenge led to the splitting of rebels into groups before the reaping. Blight and Johanna can swim, but Beetee and the former intended District 3 tribute can not. Their job was to pair up and get us away from the initial fighting. Finnick and Wade were assigned to do the same with Katniss and Peeta.

            “How did you know it would be Wade?” I narrow my eyes at his words.

            “She was going to volunteer for you,” he says, as if it’s of little consequence. “Mags apparently did not get that piece of intel. She’s our second unaccounted variable. She can likely swim to save herself, but won’t be able to help the two from District 12.”

            “I can help Finnick with them,” I insist.

            “No.” Beetee shakes his head. “We’ll assign them Nicole or Klein from District 10.”

            He ends up deciding on moving Klein to their group, leaving me to stick with him. Seeder, Cecilia, Chaff, Nicole, and DeAngelo Sloth will simply have to manage with five instead of six.

            “Why not have all of us stick together?” I ask when we’ve completed the personnel shuffle.

            “Haymitch says Katniss will be hard pressed to trust even two or three additions in the beginning. We’ll reconvene towards the end when she’s settled in with Finnick, Klein, and Mags. We need Seeder’s group to keep the heat of pursuit off of us, so their job is to keep Districts 1 and 2 busy.”

            “They aren’t going to… try to kill them? Right?” I question, thinking frantically of Cashmere and Gloss.

            “Not if they can help it. The goal is to have as few casualties as possible.”

            I don’t know that I believe him.

            “Our group will reconvene with the Mockingjay’s after things settle down. We’ll receive signals from our mentors about where and when that will be.”

            The thought of staying away from Finnick for any amount of time is worrisome, but I don’t voice my concern. The plan after this is difficult to follow. We’ve got to blow a hole in the arena big enough for District 13 hovercrafts to evacuate us, and do it quickly enough that the Capitol doesn’t get to us first. Beetee’s asked Plutarch to put a massive source of energy in the arena, something that he can use to overload the forcefield current. He delves into the mechanics of forcefields and I’m left to try my best to learn with an exhausted brain.

            The plan is terrifyingly simple. There are no details, everything is left so purposefully open ended to accommodate for the degree of change possible in the arena. There are simply steps leading up to an end, no description on how to complete them. When I begin to fade into despair, Beetee encourages me to go get a few hours of sleep. He adds that he’ll be awake for the rest of the night if I have any other questions.

            Audrey, Fitz, and Arik visit me in my dreams, hand in hand. They demand to know why I’ve forgotten them. They ask why their deaths haven’t haunted me, how I could ever have forgotten what happened only two short years ago. I beg them to stop, on my hands and knees asking for forgiveness. I tell them that I’m not strong enough to keep them in my mind, that it would destroy me if I did.

            We arrive in the Capitol just past dawn. I emerge from the train looking ruffled and worn. Beetee looks remarkably normal for a man who has chosen not to sleep at all. As luck would have it, it’s too early for crowds to gather around the train exit. Only a few sparse camera crews bother to show up, pointing lazy microphones at us and asking a few noncommittal questions, none of which we bother to stop and answer.

            We’re early enough that we don’t have to head directly for remake. Instead, we’re allowed to head to our District 3 floor. I try as hard as I can to jam buttons to take us to the lounge or to the District 4 floor, but Beetee quickly reminds me that we’re no longer victors, we’re tributes, and we’re not allowed to go wherever we please. To stifle the frustration within me, I suggest that we have breakfast together in the common area. Beetee quickly agrees, telling me that he’s come up with a lot more to tell me while I was sleeping.

Chapter Text

            We’ve just finished our biscuits and gravy when we hear the elevator stop across the room. I’m up and out of my chair in an instant, waiting for the doors to open to reveal a familiar face. I hardly see the face before I’m tackled forcefully onto the ground. The breath is knocked out of my lungs and I can’t take another with the crushing weight of arms around me. One large hand holds my face tightly into the fabric of a shirt, muffling my calls of protest.

            “You’re alive.” Ronan’s voice is shaky with tears.

            “Yeah,” I respond once I take a breath.

            He releases me enough that we can both sit up. He looks just as terrible as I do, hair a mess and shirt wrinkled like discarded paper. Beetee shuffles by to enter his room behind us, effectively giving us a bit of privacy.

            “I thought you were dead when I heard your message. The District 3 reaping came last this year, I couldn’t bring myself to watch any footage until Cashmere said you were in District 3.”

            “I thought I was dead too.” Finally, the tears of yesterday's events catch up with me again.

            We walk to the couch together on shaking legs. Ronan refuses to release his grip on my arm, as if I’ll die right here and now if he lets go.

            “I got your message just after the District 1 reaping. I couldn’t do anything or tell anyone, I couldn’t get away from Cashmere and Gloss for long enough. Holy shit kid, I thought for sure I’d never see you again.”

            We sit in silence for a bit until both of us can collect ourselves. I go and retrieve a joint from the nearest dispensing station and puff on it until the hollowness has left my bones. When I try to pass it on to Ronan, he weakly protests for only a few seconds before indulging as well. He whispers jokingly not to tell Beetee and I find myself smiling, Beetee’s sure to smell it from the next room over. This is the way it is with us, no moment left dark for more than necessary. We can’t sit in the despair of it all for too long or else we’d feel nothing else. There’s always something worse right around the corner so it’s better to enjoy the moments between.

            Only Districts 1, 2, 3 and 7 have made it to the Capitol yet, so Ronan tells me I’ll have to wait before seeing Grant until later in the day. When I ask about seeing Blight, Ronan reminds me that only mentors can travel freely between floors. I won’t be able to see him until the parade tonight. When I ask after Cashmere and Gloss, Ronan darkens significantly.

            Cashmere is steadfast as usual, but Ronan says that she’s lost the spark she had when she was seventeen. Gloss, on the other hand, is just as ready for the 75th Hunger Games as he was for the 63rd. This fact doesn’t surprise me at all, thinking back on my conversation with him before I left the Capitol last time.

            I make use of the time with Ronan to convey the changes Beetee and I have made to the plan. He agrees with Beetee’s decision to stick Klein with Finnick. He says that Klein isn’t particularly friendly in terms of personality but is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to battle. I remember this much from my rewatch of the 68th Hunger Games with Beetee last night. Ronan says Finnick is bound to do most of the talking in the group anyway, so it shouldn’t be too concerning.

            It’s not long before Ronan has to return to the District 1 floor to begin strategizing with Gloss and Cashmere. He says he’s going to try his best to convince them to steer clear of the District 12 kids, but knows that his instruction will fall on deaf ears. I wish him luck and embrace him tightly before seeing him off.

            Beetee reappears much too quickly to hide under the illusion of not eavesdropping, but I don’t mind all that much. He’s grown on me in a sort of benign way. Everything’s just a matter of fact to him, no room for awkwardness or recovery. He’s exactly what I used to idolize before I wound up here. No tolerance for transitional spaces or lack of productivity.

             “The moments between things are what makes us human, Fara. Tension, pauses, unspoken feelings. Those are the things that make us who we are.” Finnick’s words bounce around my head, recited like poetry. How correct he had been. I’d never have made any meaningful connections if I hadn’t shirked that strict philosophy of efficiency. Gloss would be nothing but a former trainer, Ronan would simply be an advisor, Finnick would be a friend. I can’t help but to wonder if Beetee has ever fallen in love with anything other than his work.

            We aren’t given long to discuss the parade tonight before our mentors arrive. Both women embrace Beetee and regard me with friendly greetings. I can’t help but to notice almost immediately how frail Wiress seems. She appears to have withered since we parted last night, grown smaller and less sure of herself. What happened while we were separated? I don’t get the chance to ask before Elenore demands that we all catch up over coffee. It’s not altogether unpleasant to hear the three of them talk rapidly about the changes in procedure. They’re like little sparrows, perched on a branch chirping at one another.

            I answer questions when asked, but I’m content to let them do most of the brainstorming regarding the parade and interviews. Overarching themes for both have been established for some time, but now they work to figure out my place in it all. Beetee’s responsibility is to cast intellectual doubt on the legality of the Quell, hoping to fill the Logos necessary to garner public confidence in the rebellion.

            Elenore and Wiress seem a bit squeamish at having to tell me that the same thing probably won't work for me. I butt in to spare them the embarrassment, explaining that I understand what’s happened to my public image in the past two years. I go on further to say that my best bet is to plead for help, considering that there are plenty of old rich men in the Capitol who’ve grown attached enough to the thought of sex with me that they’d probably consider donating exorbitant amounts to help me win. My statement reignites all of the discomfort I’d just quashed.

            None of them can look me in the eye anymore, not even Beetee who I’d just praised for practicality. I can’t help but to bristle at their prudishness until I remind myself that I would have behaved the same way if faced with that statement a few years ago. Sex in District 3 is taboo, and casual mention of underage sexwork is a complete perversion of the natural order. I do my best to brush it all off and urge them back into speaking about plans for the days in the training center.

            Beetee is the first to recover, saying that the two of us should stick together. It’ll look more realistic when we align ourselves in the arena, and we have enough breadth of knowledge to usefully teach one another new skills. The harder part is to do our part to win the trust of Katniss, and Peeta by extension. Haymitch will do the best he can to prime them, but it’ll be up to us to actually make the connection. Beetee admits to nobody’s surprise that he often doesn’t have the easiest time building relationships with others. I’m not Finnick or Ronan, but I tend to do alright in terms of meeting new people. I tell him to follow my lead, that this is one area where I can offer him some aid. He accepts my offer graciously.

            After another hour of discussion, Beetee finally expresses the need for sleep. I parrot his sentiment, ready to retire to bed. It’s odd being in a tribute room again when I’ve grown so used to the long term housing in the tower. Everything on the District 3 floor is dark and warmly colored, reminiscent of the small woodlands dotting the prairies in my memories. It feels innately more like home than my room on the District 4 floor, but the unfamiliarity sets me on edge. I doubt I’d be able to sleep for a second if not for the exhaustion.

            It only seems to be moments later that Elenore is calling for me to come out, that it’s time to go meet my prep team at the remake center. In my sleep fogged brain, I find cheer in the idea of seeing Genetty, Katya, and Lucia. It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten the chance to catch up with them, regardless of how obtuse they can be. The elation doesn’t last long, the sight of Elenore’s face in the hall is enough to remind me that I won’t be seeing the District 4 team this year.

            The prep team I do meet is polite but much less outgoing than the one I grew used to. The stylist, too, is quite a bit less of a character than Giovani, though he’s a steep figure to measure against. I figure very few people would be able to fill in the path that Giovani started with me. None except the District 12 stylist, who everyone seems to be trying to imitate this year. The dress I’m given is dark green and covered in small flickering lights, a crude approximation of a circuit board. None of the lines connect properly, and this circuit board wouldn’t actually produce any result. I know better to mention that to the stylist, but Beetee evidently doesn’t. He emerges from his dressing room followed closely by a bitter looking man. Beetee laments that he wasn’t trying to be rude, just honest.

            We’re the first pair to be finished with their styling. When we enter the sheltered portion of the coliseum, we make a line directly for our carriage and do our best to maintain a steady stream of dialogue. I’m starting to feel nervous now, so I don’t take in much of what Beetee says anymore.

            Brutus and Enobaria are the next to arrive, they don’t bother with saying hello and I can’t blame them. Past a few greetings in the lounge, I never got the chance to talk to either of them. Next come the pair from District 5, Porter and DeAngelo. They, too, don’t bother coming over. But the person who shadows them does. Almost as quickly as Ronan this morning, Grant runs to embrace me.

            “I’ve missed you!” He says when he pulls back and holds me at arm's length.

            “I’ve missed you too, Grant.” I smile warmly at him. “It’s so nice to see you, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

            “Eh, it’s always something with us. None of us have ever managed to find a good reason to gather.” He jokes, not looking nearly as poorly as I’d pictured from his phone calls.

            “Are you permitted to be down here?” Beetee raises his eyebrows at Grant.

            “Well… no, not strictly speaking.” Grant sputters on his words. “I guess I should go.” He squeezes my hand one last time.

            “Oh! Happy birthday! It was a few days ago, right?” I remember just as he’s begun to walk away.

            “You remembered!” He grins over his shoulder. “Let’s hope twenty-seven is old enough to teach my tribute something new.” He gestures fondly to old DeAngelo Sloth before darting out of sight.

            It’s not long before Grant’s spot is filled by Blight, delivering a sweet, brief hello before joining Johanna next to their own horses. Finnick and Mags come next, both with warm hugs and kind words. Finnick is exasperated to have me here, I can tell at once. Obviously, he’d known about the plan to have Wade replace me and hasn’t mentally prepared to have me present. Shy in the face of publicity, we don’t dare to exchange a proper show of love, opting instead for meaningful eye contact. As a result of his frustration, Finnick is wired and restless, calling boisterous greetings to our friends across the room.

            When he spots Katniss walking out, he excuses himself and makes a beeline to introduce himself. Beetee and I exchange a look. This is bound to go poorly. Finnick this riled up is hardly going to make a good impression. Sure enough, I watch the girl’s stance become more and more rigid as he talks. He ignores the signals, stepping into her personal space with the lack of regard that only he can manage. I snort and shake my head at his fail. This is not a good start .

            When Ronan comes to our floor to debrief us hours later, it seems that nobody’s made very good impressions. Blight reports that Johanna decided to strip tease the kids in an elevator and that Chaff actually kissed Katniss on the lips. Finnick’s advance, too, was not taken in stride. 

            “Why the hell would they do something like that?” I groan, rubbing my fingers against my temples.

            “Don’t tell me you weren’t put off by every single one of us when you first met us.” Ronan laughs despite the grave situation.

            “Maybe a bit, but nobody kissed me or stripped when we were introduced.” I run my hands through hair crunchy with hairspray.

            “Yeah, you were also a bit more than touchy about that type of teasing for obvious reasons.” Ronan dismisses my sentiment. “All’s not lost, we’ve still got time to iron things out. I’m counting on the two of you to charm her pants off. Well, you know, figuratively.”

            We don’t even end up approaching her in the morning, she comes to us while Beetee’s teaching me to set tripwires. She corrects his technique, and quite thankfully he relents to her advice with a smile. She squats next to us, not fully committing by sitting, but not walking away either. I stick my hand out to shake hers, she does so hesitantly.

            “I’m Faraday,” I introduce myself.

            “Haymitch told me about you.” I can’t read her face.

            “Good things, I hope.” I try to lighten the mood and crack her facade.

            “He says you have a lot of friends in the Capitol.” There’s definitely implications behind that.

            “Yeah, well, there’s some gems if you know where to look.” I smile weakly.

            “Finnick told me all about the jewels and gems the Capitol has to offer last night. I take it that you like it quite a bit here too, from what I’ve seen on broadcasts.” There’s a bit of a bite there.

            “I take it from the broadcasts that you’re truly heartbroken that you can’t have an elaborate wedding here.” I take the risk of biting back.

            She’s quiet for a minute, fiddling with the twine of the tripwire before simply turning back to face me and nodding once.

            “Look, Faraday, remember what I’ve told you of forcefields.” Beetee actually interrupts at just the right time to dispel the tension. He points to the spot where the gamemakers watch from above.

            “Mhmm,” I nod. “I see it.”

            “See what?” Katniss asks, leaning in to follow our lines of sight.

            “There.” Beetee moves her chin just slightly to guide her.

            “It looks like glass,” she says, brow furrowing.

            “It’s evidence of a forcefield. It’s a chink in the armor, so to speak,” he explains.

            “It’s electromagnetic,” I say, looking at Beetee for his confirmation. “The lights have been flickering just a bit, on regular intervals, the air conditioning too. It’s drawing a lot of current.”

            “I think they put it there because of me. I shot an arrow at them last year.” Katniss doesn’t blush, but sheepish pride is written all over her face.

            I meet her eyes with a cheeky grin. She returns the barest of smiles back.

            When she moves on from our station, Beetee asks if we made a good impression. I tell him that I think so, but Katniss isn’t easy to read. We don’t dwell on it, instead continuing with our plans for the day. I take the better part of the morning block trying to teach him to swim with little success. Like me, Beetee isn’t exactly physically gifted.

            Lunch is a welcome break for both of us. On the walk towards the cafeteria, Katniss sidles up to us, wordlessly asking to join us. I welcome her with a small smile, not daring to comment on it. Our small company lasts only until we walk through the wide arching doorway, where we can see Finnick, Gloss, and surprisingly Peeta rearranging the tables to form a much more social horseshoe shape. I hear a small scoff from Katniss under her breath, she abandons us to go speak with her fiance. Though I’m disappointed to miss an opportunity to speak with her, I’m thrilled by the newfound freedom.

            I find Cashmere as quickly as possible and sit down beside her. She’s not one for hugs, but she lays a caring hand on my shoulder when she turns to see me.

            “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I wish it wasn’t here that we reunited,” she comments grimly.

            “Agreed.” I nod, mouth set into an awkward line.

            “Look.” She glances around and leans in. “I think I might have convinced Gloss to take you into our alliance. He wasn’t keen on it at first, but Finnick’s being dodgy and I suspect it’s because he’s not willing to leave you behind. Gloss wants Finnick enough that he’s willing to compromise on you. Beetee is totally off the table. I saw you training with him today, and I think that you’ve got to open your eyes to what we’re up against.”

            “Cashmere, I don’t know.” My mouth is suddenly as dry as sawdust.

            “I get it, you’re worried about what’ll happen if it’s just the four of us left at the end. We’ll split up to go at it solo and force them to deal with us by use of mutts. At that point it’s not any of our faults who wins or dies.” She’s entirely calm about it, practical.

            “I’ll have to talk to Finnick.” I manage to stammer.

            “Talk to Finnick about what?” Gloss sits down on my other side. “I hope it’s not about me, I haven’t even done anything.”

            “Gloss.” His sister groans.

            “Fine, I’m kidding. It’s good to see you sweetheart.” Gloss stoops down to plant a long kiss on my cheek.

            Finnick sits down across from us and eyes Gloss hotly.

            “Don’t worry, my hands are up here.” Gloss drums his fingers on the table and winks at Finnick.

            Finnick gets over it quickly, choosing to adopt a much more casual demeanor as Peeta sits down beside him, Katniss just one seat over. We quickly turn to catching up with the people around us. It’s rowdy, loud, and pretty much exactly what I need to help cure the perpetual nerves that sit in my gut. It drowns out the ringing in my ears, leaving me feeling quite relaxed by the time I finish eating.

            Despite his insistence that we stick together, Beetee abandons me after lunch to learn something about trees with Blight. Gloss watches it go down with a smirk on his face and promptly invites me to join him and Cashmere at the camouflage station. Finnick joins us when he spots us, dragging Peeta along with him. He’s at least managed to get in the good graces of one of the District 12 tributes, hopefully that’ll be enough to convince Katniss.

            After we introduce ourselves, Peeta takes the lead in teaching us about camouflage. Nobody protests, we all remember watching him save his own life with the skill last year. We’re all amicable, Cashmere is more than a bit stiff towards Peeta, but not obtrusively so.

            Halfway through the lesson, Gloss nudges me to show me what he’s painted above the line of his foliage-colored hand.

            “Very nice,” I mock, staring at the obviously phallic cartoon.

            “Watch, I’ll do you one better.” He reaches over to fingerpaint a similarly crude depiction of female genitals on my bicep.

            “So inspired.” I encourage him, dipping my own fingers into the mud-based paint and quickly smearing them across his face.

            Cashmere clears her throat in a measured show of frustration. Peeta just looks awkward, suggesting that we call it quits and clean up a bit. Gloss and I use the sink first, dispensing copious amounts of soap to rub ourselves free of the artistry. Cashmere and Finnick use it next, leaving Gloss and I to keep Peeta company.

            “I’m sorry about that,” I amend to the blond, trying not to giggle. “You really were a great teacher.”

            “It’s alright.” He smiles. He’s much easier than Katniss. “So how long have the two of you been together?” He gestures between me and Gloss with an air of uncertainty. Gloss promptly lets out a loud laugh and slaps me on the back.

            “You watch too much TV, kid. That’s old news. We do not fuck anymore.” Gloss answers for me, perhaps a bit more crudely than I would have done.

            “Oh, I’m sorry.” Color finds its way into Peeta’s cheeks, along with a look of concern. Gloss smirks at that.

            “It’s okay, you’re just lucky you didn’t mention it in front of the golden sailor boy. He’s a bit touchy about that.” Gloss jerks his head towards Finnick, still preoccupied with scrubbing his arm. “He’s the new news.”

            “Alright, I’m glad I didn’t upset anyone.” Peeta smiles and tries his best to take it in stride though it’s evident that he’s grown quite uncomfortable.

            When Peeta takes the last turn to go get washed up, we all disperse. I meet back up with Beete, finding myself wishing that I’d stayed behind to apologize on Gloss’s behalf to Peeta. For the rest of the afternoon Beetee and I work together, stopping last at the technology station. TJ is there, the man who I spoke with when I made the stop at the table three years ago. He recognizes both of us, greeting us with friendliness bordering on reverence. He’s nervous, seemingly intimidated by Beetee’s presence. He keeps stumbling over his words, second-guessing himself and asking for Beetee’s confirmation when he falters. It’s nice to speak with him, but we ultimately don’t gain much. There’s not a whole lot there for Beetee to learn, all it does is slow us down.

            At the very end of the day, we watch as a crowd forms around the spectacle of Katniss shooting fake birds out of the air with her bow and arrows. Beetee is impressed, remarking that this will make our job much easier in the arena. I don’t share in his celebration as I watch her, moving with the fluidity of a master.

            It was supposed to be Finnick looking after the kids, protecting them from the very real threat of death by outside hands. Now it strikes me that we’re not sending him off with kids, but with fellow victors. Katniss could very well choose that she doesn’t want allies at any moment in the arena. I feel very unenthused indeed at the prospect of leaving Finnick alone with her

Chapter Text

            Haymitch himself comes to visit us in the evening. He arrives just after we’ve finished dinner and have begun poring over our options for communication between mentors and tributes. Elenore has been describing an idea using bread when Haymitch exits the elevator. As I've found in most of my interactions with him, he doesn’t like looking at me for too long. It’s not quite as obvious now, in a room with four additional people, but it still doesn’t slip my attention.

            “I’m assuming the room’s secure.” His eyes dart around, suspiciously regarding the area.

            “Yes, our conversation is quite private,” Elenore answers crisply.

            Haymitch nods in response. When Wiress offers for him to sit in one of the dining chairs with us, he ignores her, continuing to hover just behind the back of an empty one.

            “How’s the mockingjay enjoying our company?” I ask, not bothering to take a beat for pleasantries.

            “She wants Beetee in an allyship, and Mags. Not so sure about you yet, but mentioned your name.” He shoots a lazy finger in my direction.

            “And what of the boy?” Beetee implores.

            “He’s making good progress with Johanna, Blight, and Chaff. He’s the easy one, though. He’ll go along with whatever Katniss wants.”

             What she wants is allies that she knows she can kill. Beetee and Mags are some of the least threatening competition in the games physically. Next she’ll be asking to bring the morphlings along with her as well.

            “One and two have offered alliances now,” Haymitch adds.

            “I’m not surprised,” Beetee says. “We all got to see Katniss properly use the bow and arrows today.”

            I heavily doubt that Cashmere was at the forefront of that movement. There’s no doubt that Gloss made the final decision to put the offer out. Katniss is too much of a wild card for Cashmere to consider, she’d want to keep the girl as far away as possible or else do away with her as quickly as possible.

            “Can Katniss swim?” Wiress asks in the wake of silence.

            “Yeah,” Haymitch confirms.

            “Then let’s just worry about getting her familiar with Finnick for now.” She smiles reassuringly at everyone in the room. “One step at a time.”

            I don’t like her implication. She’s suggesting that we won’t need to keep Klein with their small group in the beginning. That, just because she can swim, Finnick will be able to handle them alone.

            “I’ll stick with Finnick tomorrow,” I say. “I can keep him from scaring her off again, make him behave.” And I can keep an eye on the way she thinks.

            “That’s not a bad idea. Ideally you’d be able to ensure that Mags stays with as well. If Katniss is already fond of her, it might soften her opinion of him a bit.” Beetee nods, granting me permission.

            Haymitch has places to be, so he moves to depart soon after our short conversation.

            “Haymitch!” I call after him as he’s almost in the elevator. I jog to catch up to him and lower my voice to stay out of earshot of the others. “Did Peeta say anything about me? I made a few mistakes today and I’d hate to think I’ve caused any damage to our plan.”

            “He mentioned you to me, yeah.” Again, he won’t look at me when he’s talking to me.

            “And? Is it something to worry about?” I press him for the details he so frustratingly withholds.

            “He was concerned about Gloss, that’s all. It’s not normal in District 12, so a decade difference between partners is a bit dodgy in his eyes. I explained that things are different here. He’s not going to be an issue, best not to mention it in front of Katniss though.” He steps into the elevator and punches a button.

             As if I’d mention Gloss in front of Katniss , I scoff internally, I’m not stupid .

            The District 3 bunch don’t ask what I spoke with Haymitch about and I don’t tell them. Instead, we continue to flesh out Elenore’s plan with the bread communications. It’s simple and straightforward, which I find more often than not to be the best solution. We all take turns trying to poke holes in the idea until we’re satisfied with it. It’s difficult to sleep in the night, my dreams are fitful and filled with images of Finnick in distress. Every time I run towards him, he disappears like smoke into the air. As often as I see Finnick, I see Cashmere. Her hand is always extended out towards me asking for help, but she too disappears when I draw near.

            It leaves me feeling jittery and irritable when I finally call it quits on resting and head to breakfast. If my companions pick up on my mood, they say nothing. As I eat my eggs and hashbrowns, I hammer it into my head that my job today is to be pleasant. I can’t very well expect Finnick to behave himself if I’m sullen and on edge. By the time we get down to the training center, I’ve bled out the worst of my mood.

            I find Finnick quickly, at the very center of action as usual. He’s demonstrating net making to a circle of seated individuals, some of whom attempt to follow his steps with rope of their own. I sit between Woof and DeAngelo and try my best to pay attention. I’ve never managed to get the hang of knots, so I’ve hardly managed to make a single loop by the time Finnick is done. When I tell him that I’ll be sticking with him today he brightens. He tells me that he’s been missing my company on the District 4 floor and that he’ll be glad to spend some time together today. It feels like a betrayal that I have an ulterior motive to my presence.

            Mags tags along naturally, so I don’t have to worry about trying to keep her in tow. Finnick has a long list of stops to make, starting with edible plants. We sit through the trainer’s presentation with rapt attention. I take neat notes in a small journal from the supply area while Finnick simply touches everything reverently as if the texture will cement itself into his brain. Hopefully between the two of us we’ll be able to manage a passing ability to forage.

            We don’t come into contact with the District 12 tributes until lunch. They’ve settled at a spot near the end of the table, heads leaned together in conversation. I make sure to give them a bit of time to conclude as we walk slowly over. Both are in surprisingly friendly moods, with Katniss introducing Mags to Peeta, and Peeta properly introducing Finnick to Katniss. After a few minutes we’re chatting idly, as if we were met up at a bar and not the training center for a gauntlet of death.

            Finnick is much more polite, as I predicted, though I actually suspect it has to do more with Mags than it does me. He keeps shooting glances her way when he talks about District 4, as if to confirm that he’s correct, needing her approval in some way. It’s easy for me to forget that she raised him after his Hunger Games, that she’s not just a mentor but a mother to him. I’m suddenly aware of how thankful I should be to her, for being there to show him love before I ever came along, thankful that he wasn’t handed straight from his nightmare family to the Capitol the second he turned seventeen.

            At the end of the meal, Finnick trades an hour of trident lessons with Katniss for an hour of bow and arrow lessons. I’m inclined to allow them to go at it alone and so, it seems, is Mags. She and I tag along with Peeta first to the class on edible insects, where I find myself turning my nose up at the thought of eating the large dead black spiders nailed to a demonstration board. Mags doesn’t seem to mind at all, even accepting the instructor’s invitation to try a beetle from a small enclosure at the end. When Peeta and I consult her on where to go next, she says that she’s going to take a nap. Both of us think it’s a joke until we see her amble her way to a bench and fall quickly asleep. At Peeta’s suggestion, we leave her alone and head to the combat training area.

            While in normal years it’s forbidden for tributes to spar against one another, it seems that the officials have enforced no such rule now. I suppose it would be ridiculous to insist that Cashmere and Gloss couldn’t train together, which they currently do atop one of the mats. Gloss offers that the two of us join them, so after a quick look at Peeta for confirmation I accept. Gloss pairs up to help instruct Peeta while Cashmere and I take to sparring.

            “You fight like Gloss,” she says between breaths once we’ve finished a round together.

            “I learned everything I know from Gloss,” I admit. “I’ve only ever fought against him and Grant. But I don’t know if I should count Grant, he never really tried all that hard. It felt more like playing than anything else.”

            “It’s not a good style for you,” she comments.

            “Why not?” I push away my offense with the question easily enough.

            “Because you’re not six-foot-six and built like a truck.” She smiles lightly. “You do well enough against me with brute force because you’re a bit heavier than I am, but you’d be in real trouble if you tried that on someone stronger. You could be much better if you played to your strengths.”

            “And what strengths are those?” I ask, feeling a bit humored.

            “Strike fast, get out. Calculate your moves. If you get on the ground, use your legs, not your arms. Pin people with the point of your knees, not by sitting on them.” She begins to ramble off a list, touching her fingers to keep track of the number as she goes. “Try it on Gloss,” she says, getting up to walk over to the boys.

            Unsurprisingly, a list of verbal commands doesn’t do much to prepare me. I fight much worse than usual, focused too much on remembering Cashmere’s words. I have no chance, getting pinned three times in the span of a minute.

            “You just need practice,” Cashmere calls from the sideline.

“She doesn’t have time for practice, Cashmere.” Gloss shakes his head and reaches his hand down towards me. “She does well enough on what I taught her, which is good since I’m the only one who was willing to do it. I really think she might give Mags a run for her money if it came down to it.” He snickers and flicks me on my cheek before pulling me up off the mat.

            When the siblings leave, Peeta sticks around for a bit to stretch with me. He shows me a routine he does every morning, something I suspect started only after the announcement of the Quarter Quell, just like my own fitness regime. It’s gentle and refreshing, particularly relaxing on muscles hot with effort.

            “You fight better than I do.” Peeta’s comment is soft enough that I barely catch it. “You’re not bad at all.”

            “Oh, uh, thanks,” I respond, not looking over.

            “He’s not very kind is he? Gloss, I mean.” Peeta strives to make the comment casually, but I can sense the apprehension behind it.

            “He grows on you. He never really changes, but he’s there when it comes down to it. So no, maybe not kind, but he’s incredibly reliable. Not everyone has to be kind, sometimes you have to just appreciate someone for what they can do.”

            This time I do look over at Peeta. He’s staring out at the training center, looking oddly forlorn. I suspect that my words mean more to him than just helping to understand Gloss.

            The training sessions pass quickly after that. I spend my time anywhere and everywhere, finding time to spend with almost everyone. We all eat plenty and socialize often. It feels almost like it used to living in this tower, making friends with people whose lives are just as unusual as mine. When the time finally comes for me to speak with the one person who isn’t, I’m entirely unprepared. I’d seen the District 9 reaping when I was on the train with Beetee, but it was a mistake to forget Rome Lockright immediately after that. 

            He’s been almost a ghost for the entirety of the training sessions, eating his lunch in odd corners of the training center and traversing the stations alone. It was easy enough to put him out of my mind when I never had to interact with him, and no one is all that eager to bring up his presence. He’s the odd man out, having no ties or prior friendships with any of the people he’s up against. He simply had the misfortune of having a brother that couldn’t take it anymore. He also had the misfortune that I did my research.

            The first time he approaches Finnick, I’m standing beside him waiting to try my hand at archery.

            “You knew James, didn’t you?”

            Finnick and I both stiffen at the uncouth introduction.

            “Yes,” Finnick answers after a second. “Briefly.”

            “Do you know if this is how it was when he was reaped?” Rome asks. “Like the whole training part of it.”

            “There’s always training, yes.” Finnick nods. “But I’m sure it was a bit different for him.”

            “Sure, I guess so. I just can’t believe that the Capitol gets to take two of us in such a short amount of time. It seems a bit unfair.” That’s it for conversation, Rome has already started walking away.

            The second time he approaches Finnick, I make myself scarce. I can’t stand to be anywhere near him, fearing that I’ll lose all of my nerve if I do. Surely, I won’t be able to hold up any part of our mission if the thought of Rome’s death follows me like a plague. Later, when we’re in a quiet portion of the room, Finnick confides in me that Rome is looking to form an alliance. Rome claims that, while not well trained, he is strong and hearty from years of working in the fields of grain. Finnick deflates slightly when he tells me that he wishes he could consider it. Apparently Rome has two children and a wife back in District 9.

            Rome’s family doesn’t let me sleep that night, berating me with promises that they won’t survive without him. He’s the only thing keeping the family together, the kids will starve now that he’s gone. I try to answer back that it will all be worth it in the end, but my tongue is gone, cut out like an avox. All I can do is cry as they show me hardship after hardship that they’ll soon face.

            I feel entirely hollow by the time that the private sessions come around. They make us wait in the cafeteria to be called in, just as I remember. Gloss goes first, then Cashmere. It’s not long at all until I’m being summoned forward to prove my mettle. I’m not nearly as creative as I was last time.

            I spar against the masked trainer, I make a show of climbing the rock walls reaching up to the ceiling, I throw spears and axes quite poorly, and I end with a surprisingly impressive display of knife throwing. I hit the target three out of ten throws, a new personal record. At each injunction, I meet eyes with Plutarch silently asking if I’ve done enough. He’ll do his best to position us all as the perfect little allies for the mockingjay, I probably didn’t need to do much at all to earn a decent score.

            And a decent score I earn. While not particularly impressive next to Gloss and Cashmere’s twin tens, I’ve cemented myself as a competitor with an eight. Finnick follows with another ten, and Mags with a two. I suppose she really did take that nap she threatened before going in. Blight earns himself a seven and Johanna gets a nine. Rome Lockright is given a five, which I try not to dwell on. A change of interest is made easy when both Katniss and Peeta are displayed on screen next to a bold number twelve.

            “Districts 1 and 2 won’t want to ally with them anymore,” Beetee comments dryly.

            “That solves one of our problems…” Wiress trails off as she often does.

            “And creates another.” Beetee finishes for her.

            “They might as well have painted giant targets on themselves,” I agree. “Where are we at on alliances?”

            “As of two hours ago, Haymitch says that the girl still hasn’t decided on allies. He thinks that she won’t choose any, despite however hard he may try to convince her. He’s starting to think it might be best to take the element of choice out of it,” Elenore explains.

            “I tend to agree.” Beetee looks at us overtop of his glasses. “The choice of a child is a fragile thing to pin the rebellion on.”

            “Katniss might be young, but she’s sure to take some issue with being told outright that she’s in an alliance she didn’t want.” I contribute my own thoughts, immensely worried about putting any one of our friends in a situation with an angry Mockingjay. “If there’s a way we could tell her just before the arena, so that she’s not stewing on it for too long, that might be best.”

            “That’s an excellent point,” Beetee agrees. “Best to force her hand in real time than to enforce rules like tyrants now. Wiress, Elenore, bring it up to Haymitch, would you? You’ll be meeting with the other mentors again tonight I assume.”

            They nod together in agreement.

            The rest of our brainstorming session is brief, and I’m released to go to bed early. I try my hardest to force sleep, but find that I’m just as restless as the past few nights. Images of Rome’s family are replaced by that of Finnick, palms raised outwards, trying to reason with a smoldering Katniss who has her bow drawn taut at him. Every single time, the short dream ends with her releasing the bowstring from her fingers, sending an arrow to burrow directly into his chest.

            When we dine together for breakfast, I try my best to nonchalantly bring up the idea that I might stay with Finnick at the start of the fighting. Beetee’s quick to shut me down.

            “They’ll be able to handle themselves together, they won’t need your help,” he reassures me.

            “Finnick isn’t great at planning, it would be good to have someone who puts in time and effort into decisions rather than rash intuition. It might be dangerous for him to lead them,” I argue.

            “Finnick won’t have to make many choices other than keeping them alive. The mentors will be using Elenore’s bread code to communicate with him.”

            “But I think I’ll be able to contribute in ways that none of their group can.” I’m grasping at straws now.

            “Faraday, you know exactly why it simply can’t be allowed to happen.” He’s almost trespassed into a tone of scolding.

            “No, I don’t see why.” I furrow my brow in hostility.

            “You’d be a distraction,” Beetee explains after a second. “If you were there, Finnick wouldn’t focus on anything other than your safety. It would put everyone else in danger. I apologize, I thought you understood that.”

            I take a moment to process what he says and to tamp down my anger.

            “I’m worried that Katniss might try to kill him,” I voice the actual reason for my concern.

            “If she did, it’s better that you’re not there. He’ll be better able to defend himself if he’s not preoccupied.”

            I take a deep breath in through my nose. Beetee’s reasoning makes perfect sense. I can’t help but still want to stick by Finnick’s side, but I can’t find any reason logically that I should. I choose to spend the rest of my morning coming to terms with our plan. Elenore says that Haymitch agreed to our idea of forced alliance, going as far to offer a way to convince Katniss of our intentions. We’ll all be crafted a piece of delicate golden jewelry, a signal that apparently means something to the District 12 tributes. I think it’s a solid plan, but Finnick doesn’t share my sentiment when we see each other before getting prepped for interviews.

            “You aren’t going to wear a gold necklace into the arena, do you want to give someone an easier method of choking you?” Finnick snaps at me.

            “Fine, then we’ll wear bracelets or rings. It doesn’t really matter what it is.”

            “It does matter, it matters very much. Bangles and rings can mean broken fingers and infected cuts.”

            His pupils are blown wide, I see a manic sort of jittering when I look closely.  He’s sweating profusely, beads of it dripping down his brow.

            “Are you drugged right now?” I lower my voice and cast a glance at the closed door of my dressing room.

            “Probably.” He laughs hoarsely. “Madam Larch likes to slip concoctions into my drinks when we eat. It’s only been a few hours.”

            “You’re still seeing clients?” I ask, dumbfounded.

            “Snow hasn’t exactly grown a heart since the reaping. Of course I’m still seeing clients.” Finnick swipes a hand over his brow.

            “Is everyone else?” I ask, forcing him to take a seat in one of the chairs.

            “Not Cashmere and Gloss, not Blight, but Ronan and Grant are.”

            “Ronan and Grant aren’t preparing for the arena.” I run a hand over his shoulders. “That’s entirely unfair.”

            “Nothing has ever been fair.” Finnick scoffs.

            “Come, we’ll tell your prep team to find you something to sober you.” I focus on the one thing I can fix right now.

            He begins to look better when we get medication into him, but I can’t stay long. I’m forced back into my own room by my prep team, they nearly have to strap me down to keep me from checking in on Finnick every few minutes. This time, they do make a thorough effort to talk to me. They begin with mundane topics like fashion trends and color theory. Despite my indifference to their ramblings, I do my best to respond in turn. I miss the easy conversation of my original prep team, it made this process much easier to bear.

            The man doing my hair makes things a bit more interesting by asking me what my opinion of the “Victor Quell” is. I temper my response to fit the room, but I don’t bother trying to cover my disdain. The prep team encourages my barely covered outrage, telling me that I can vent if I need to. I don’t bother, there’s no use in losing my cool right now. Especially not in a room full of people just desperate for a bite of gossip to tell their friends. The man who originally asked the question concludes the moment by condemning the founder who wrote that card, that it was particularly horrible of them to do so.

            “Wasn’t it just terrible?” I respond, meeting my own eyes in the mirror.

            “Well yes.” The stout lady pipes up. “All of you victors had gone on living your lives, made lives here in the Capitol. They let us get attached to you and now they’re taking you away.”

            Of course this is nothing but an inconvenience for them. There’s no thought of human rights or human suffering. We are simply television characters on a show that’s particularly compelling. It takes a lot more effort after this point to play the role of an active conversation participant. In fact I don’t respond again until I’m startled into it.

            “What?” I ask, taken aback.

            “I said that I really enjoyed your film with Grant Opal. You two make a dazzling pair to look at. Well, don’t blame me if I was mostly looking at Grant. He’s just my type, you see.” The stout woman explains herself.

            I have only the vaguest memory of making a film with Grant. He and I weren’t often paired up for films or parties. It must have been a while ago and I must have been high enough to not remember the details. Towards the end of my time in the Capitol, I always used dionyse for the pornographic films. I’ve never been very good at acting for cameras and it took the embarrassment away.

            “Don’t look all sour on me,” she chastises. “I paid for it.”

            “Drusilla, can’t you tell that she’s embarrassed? I’m sure she doesn’t like talking about that part of her life in front of strangers,” the man interjects.

            “Then she shouldn’t try to sell it. She certainly had no hang ups about it on camera, she enjoyed Grant enough for the both of us. Tell me, darling, how does he stack up? Better or worse than Gloss?”

            I want to put my fist through her teeth. I want nothing more than to show her exactly how much fun I had when I was forced into filming those videos for her consumption. She may not have been the one ordering me into his bed, but she sure voted with her money to ensure that I kept doing it. If there were no willing consumers, this industry wouldn’t exist.

            “A lady never tells.” I smirk. The room erupts into raucous laughter.

            I can’t turn to violence now, I can’t afford to cause a scene when there’s a much more important goal I’m pursuing. I simply must go on knowing that this woman thinks that I willingly chose to sleep with one of my closest friends for a quick source of income, that she was doing me a favor by choosing to watch.

            By the time the team vacates and my stylist arrives with my dress, I’m sitting on the edge of the seat, foot tapping against the ground rapidly. It does nothing to stem the flow of anger from me, I feel as though if a bucket of water were poured on my skin it would evaporate instantly with the heat of it. I go on playing the part of the sweetheart victor, though, knowing the stakes that are present if I don’t

            The dress is undoubtedly beautiful, yellow yarn is woven into winding shapes along my body. The knit is tighter around areas which are deemed inappropriate for the entire nation to see, but the material around my midriff is quite loosely bound. Just enough to remind them of what they’ve already seen without giving it away for free. Not when there are still people willing to buy videos of it for a quick look.

            My thoughts are mirrored by the other tributes waiting in the hall to go on stage.

            “You look nice,” Katniss comments, sounding very forced and unlike herself.

            “No, she looks like cheap sex.” Johanna strides up to stand in front of me appraisingly.

            “Well, I didn’t think that would be the best greeting,” Katniss responds dryly.

            I shoot a wry grin at her and she smiles gently back.

            “And what are you wearing?” Johanna starts back in. “Is that a wedding dress?”

            “Yes. Snow made me wear it.” Katniss’s voice has dropped nearly an octave lower.

            “Make him pay for it.” Johanna breaks her stride of anger to wink at Katniss.

            “I’m just glad that I get to keep some modesty,” Katniss breaks the moment with another joke.

            “It’s nothing half of the audience hasn’t seen already,” Johanna sighs heavily, fingers pulling gently on the fabric at my shoulder. It’s as if she’s read my mind.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Katniss asks, suddenly broken out of our resigned stupor.

            “That’s none of your fucking business,” Johanna snaps, grip on my dress tightening. “It’s nothing you’d understand.”

            “It’s fine, Johanna.” I gently break the grip of her fingers. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

            The redhead storms off, not sticking around to hear the confused apologies from Katniss. I tell her not to worry, that all of my limited interactions with Johanna have ended similarly. She’s a firecracker, ready to be set off by any small comment or move. I’m used to dealing with Gaia, so Johanna’s fiery disposition isn’t much of an obstacle anymore.

            Mags arrives in the hallway and with her comes Giovani. We embrace the moment we lay eyes on each other. He runs a hand over my dress, and I can feel him holding criticism back behind his grimace. He comments that he wishes he could lend me his cardigan, and I respond that I’d like nothing more than to make use of it. I have no such luck in terms of flexibility, I’m forced onto the stage dressed in exactly what my stylist chose. Despite the critics in the hallway, the audience seems to like my appearance very much.

            Cesar is, as usual, generously kind to me on stage. My interview isn’t very interesting. Most of my air time is eaten up by Cesar, who sees fit to speak about my kindness as if I’m not there. I get only a few rushed seconds devoted to my original goal of goading old clients into donating to help me come home . I feel that, by the end of it, I’ve probably won at least enough to execute the bread communication plan.

            Beetee’s interview is much better suited to the more broad elements of the rebellion. He questions the legality of the event, commenting that mere humans are in charge of it. His implications carry into his evasive conversation about the government. He’s mastered the art of indirect damnation, wielding it like a blade to cut down the illusion of power. It’s as much poetry to me as what Finnick recites next.

            He’s gone for a similar angle to my own, tugging at the heartstrings of his many adoring lovers by claiming to read a love poem to the one who actually mattered to him. It’s a perfect play, save me to find out if it’s you . It serves doubly to boost his sponsorships and to cause festering outrage in the hearts of citizens in the heart of the Capitol. I find myself smirking near the end of his lament. He’s always known how to work a crowd, how to trick everyone into thinking he’s interested. This is simply an exercise in flattery for him, one more game to play before we descend into survival tomorrow.

            The rest of the night is predictable. Johanna is angry, Blight is quiet and thoughtful, Katniss is real, Peeta drops another gigantic end-of-the-night revelation. He’s so convincing that I almost find myself believing him for a second before I take the time to look over at Katniss. She’s not letting on much, her face is tight and uncomfortable. No, if she were pregnant she wouldn’t look quite so startled. It’s excellent thinking on Peeta’s part, it leaves the crowd churning so loudly that the sound of the Capitol anthem, thumping from heavy speakers in the walls, can barely be heard above the roar.

            I don’t know who starts the movement, but suddenly I’m holding hands with Beetee and Brutus in a chain reaction. The fact that even Brutus locks hands with us is jarring. He’s formidable, looking murderously out at the pandemonium of the night. Chaos erupts on stage as well when the lights go out, and I find that I’m glad Brutus’s attention is fixed on the Capitol right now and not the thought of thinning the competition here and now.

            My hand is taken into another, and I know without any exchange of words that it’s Finnick that’s holding me. He pulls me, somehow seeing through the darkness to find a quiet hall backstage. We’re silent for a moment, Finnick’s arm bars my chest from the rest of the room as if we’re to be rushed at any second. We’re broken from our terror by the loud drone of announcements telling all occupants to go home immediately. We won’t have long before we’re found.

            “I meant every word of what I said on stage.” Finnick says into my ear.

            “What?”

            “That poem, I wrote it for you.”

            “Oh.” I suddenly feel terrible for thinking that he was simply trying his best to convince the audience that he was in love with them.

            “I love you.” He turns to face me and I can almost see the shine of his eyes.

            There are so many things that I want to tell him. I need him to know about being taken from District 4 and the fact that I rationalized dying entirely within a few hours. I want to tell him how much it meant to me that we finally got a reprieve from our lives long enough to fully know each other. But I simply don’t have the time, so I just reply in turn.

            “I love you too.” I lean in to kiss him gently.

            He holds me as long as he can, letting go of me only when peacekeepers come with flashlights and guns to round up stragglers. In the bright blue beams of light they carry, I see the one thing I love most being dragged away from me, kicking and fighting to get away. I go quietly with my own escorts. Nothing I say or do will buy me another second with Finnick before tomorrow comes.

Chapter Text

            With each passing second, I repeatedly hammer home the mantra in my head, I can't lose focus.

            I’m going to rise on my podium and swim away from the Cornucopia. Blight and I will help Beetee to shore while Johanna swims to make a grab for supplies. We’ll meet on the beach and find any foliage we can. We will wait until we receive the signal to find the others (just one serving of grain). I’ll see Finnick again. We will cut out our tracking devices. We will destroy the forcefield. We will fly to District 13.

            I wish I could tell my father goodbye one more time.

            I’m going to rise on my podium and swim away from the Cornucopia. Blight and I will help Beetee to shore while Johanna swims to make a grab for supplies. We’ll meet on the beach and find any foliage we can. We will wait until we receive the signal to find the others (just one serving of grain). I’ll see Finnick again. We will cut out our tracking devices. We will destroy the forcefield. We will fly to District 13.

            I can’t do this.

            I’m going to rise on my podium and swim away from the Cornucopia. Blight and I will help Beetee to shore while Johanna swims to make a grab for supplies. We’ll meet on the beach and find any foliage we can. We will wait until we receive the signal to find the others (just one serving of grain). I’ll see Finnick again. We will cut out our tracking devices. We will destroy the forcefield. We will fly to District 13.

            The podium beneath my feet surges to life, pushing me upwards and sparking the chain of events that runs on repeat through my mind. It takes longer than last time, I think, for the bright light to hit my face. This time, the wave of heat is accompanied by an instant humidity. It smells of home, of District 4, salt, surfing, and fishing.

            My eyes adjust to find a sea surrounding me. The Cornucopia sits at the center, with long spindly strands of rock extending out from it. Each spoke encompasses two tribute podiums. To my right is DeAngelo, to my left is Rome. I falter in my laser focussed thoughts.

            Is Rome going to survive to make it to District 13? Or will he die because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut?

            The gong rings out.

            Shit.

            I haven’t even looked to see where Beetee and Blight are. I inhale deeply though my nose and peer around me. Far to my left I finally see Blight, diving headfirst into the water to his left. I take an even deeper breath and begin the long swim to intercept them. I register climbing over the spokes of land twice before I realize how much time I’m losing. On the third spoke, I pull myself up to survey the scene. There’s fighting at the Cornucopia, I can see it in the corner of my eye. But towards the shore, I see Beetee and Blight running a few spokes away, towards the vast jungle on shore.

            I spare only one glance back to see if I can spot Finnick, but only a blur of moving bodies assaults my line of sight. There’s yelling too, and I can’t tell if any of it belongs to him. Before I can think, my feet begin to run towards where I know he must be locked into combat. My tunnel vision leads me to collide with someone running on my spoke.

            “You’re coming with me, miss sweetheart,” Johanna’s visceral yell erupts in my eardrum.

            Right, we’ve got to find Blight and Beetee.

            “Yeah,” I say dumbly, fumbling to get a running start in the proper direction, Johanna’s footsteps are heavy behind me.

            Everything is numb, I feel like I’m running in a dream, paces in slow motion. I can hear my breath heavy in my skull and my ears are unhearing. Every single one of my senses has been removed and filtered, as if through a few feet of silty water. Though my limbs move impossibly slow, the world flies by me.

            We catch up with Blight and Beetee at the edge of the trees. We barrel in without a glance backwards. The four of us run until Beetee forces us into a jog and eventually a walk. Our progres is infuriatingly slow. I’m about to remark on it when I actually take the time to look at our group. Beetee is plastered in sweat, skin taking on an odd pallor. Could he really be that out of shape? No. when I look closer, I see the deep red staining the rear of his shoulder.

            “What happened to your back, Beetee?” I ask, stopping in my tracks.

            “I had to get this.” He pants and holds up a small spool of wire in front of me.

            “I was going to get it for him,” Johanna snaps irritably. “I wouldn't have gotten stabbed for it either.”

            “We should stop here,” Blight asserts, brow lowered in assessment. “I don’t think District 1 and 2 will start hunting tonight.”

            Blight doesn’t know Gloss like I do. He’s going to be raring to thin the competition. His hunt has already begun.

            “Are we sure we can’t keep moving? Just to find some sort of hideaway?” I ask hopefully.

            “You’re not going to find some secret oasis like you did in your ‘games.” Johanna is still prickly. “You’ll have to make do like the rest of us did.”

            “We’ll set up camp here,” Blight says, more insistantly now.

            So we do. While Beetee is the most technically gifted of us all, there’s no doubt that Blight has assumed leadership. He orders Johanna to show us what she gained in her mad dash to the Cornucopia, which turns out to just be a single ax and a set of throwing knives.

            “It was only weapons in there,” she explains. “Plus the stupid wire.”

            I finally recognize Beetee’s possession as his own invention. It’s a delicate thin wire, capable of conducting a full city’s worth of electricity. This is what we’ll use to dismantle the forcefield, no doubt. Whether Johanna’s dismissal of it is for the cameras, or if she simply doesn’t know the full extent of the plan I can’t be sure.

            When we’ve rested for a few minutes, Blight orders Johanna to cut trees and foliage to build a lean-to. I’m instructed to find something to eat and drink, given the set of throwing knives and an expectation that Gloss has taught me how to use them adequately. He did teach me, but I’m only mediocre in my skill level and I certainly won’t be able to hit a target smaller than the human dummies in the training center

            My assessment was spot on, I can’t seem to land a knife into any one of the skittering creatures in the trees. Just as disappointing is the extreme lack of water. What I do return with is an armful of onion bulbs. They’re larger than the type we’d dig up in District 3, but they're unmistakable. When I bring them back to camp, I warn the others not to start eating them until we’re able to run some cursory tests to prove that they’re not poisonous. While Johanna and Blight continue to build our shelter, I take the time to perform field checks on the onions. First I place one of the fleshy layers on the skin of my wrist, waiting for a few minutes to see if any reactions develop. When nothing comes of it, I next place it on my tongue, waiting a similar amount of time. Then, I chew a small amount of it and let it sit on my tongue for as long as I can stand. Finally, when I come away no worse for the wear, I invite the others to begin eating and hope for the best.

            Johanna’s lean-to is remarkably well built, likely from years of practice in the forest district. We lounge underneath it, eating the tangy onions until we’re content with full bellies. It’s an oddly peaceful afternoon, spent crunching and commenting idly about the environment we find ourselves in. Blight and Johanna each try their own hand at exploring for water and come up empty. Beetee sleeps fitfully, wound no longer bleeding quite so quickly. None of us have experience in medicine, so we agree hesitantly that it’s probably best to leave it alone. It’s a huge oversight on my part, not having read up on first aid more heavily.

            When Beetee fully regains consciousness sometime in the dusky evening, he forces us into more analytical discussions about our situation. He grills us about what each of us know about jungles, which turns out to be very little. He asks me about the onions and whether I’d seen any other familiar foliage in my hunt. I tell him that there were ferns that, similar to the onions, were simply much larger than those in District 3. He grills me about why that may be, and I give an unfounded answer that the humidity and soil profile here simply garners more nutrients. The claim is backed up only slightly by our collective note that bugs here are bigger as well. The swelling itchy bite marks on our exposed skin is enough to demonstrate that.

            We all make a show of planning our strategy to stick around this area as long as possible, though we know that we’ll be forced to move at the whim of our mentors. All things considered, we’re in a very good position. Yet, I can’t seem to shirk the extreme weight of fear in my gut. If we can’t find water, we’re going to die. Perhaps not as fast as Audrey did in the desert, but we certainly can’t outrun our thirst for long.

            The air itself is so heavily laden with moisture that it drives me mad. I don’t understand how there aren’t collection pools on the forest floor, it seems counterintuitive. If only there was a way we could drink the humidity. An idea strikes me then, and I take the next few minutes to silently mull it over.

            “Who’s willing to strip for water?” I ask finally.

            I’m met with blank stares.

            “We can use our suits to collect the moisture in the air. They’re waterproof, sort of a nylon blend. If we hang them at the correct angle and tie them shut at the ankles, we’ll create a way to harvest the humidity.”

            “That certainly sounds like it has potential,” Beetee responds, which in turn urges the others to nod along. “If we’re all alright spending time in unclothed company.”

            What a clinical way of saying it.

            “Well we certainly won’t freeze,” Blight chuckles, wiping sweat from his brow.

            “I was in from the second you said strip,” Johanna adds, shooting a sly glance my way.

            So we shirk our jumpsuits and floatation belts, with some difficulty on Beetee’s part. Blight has to help him, trying his best not to aggravate the tender wound on his shoulder. When we’re done, there’s a line of clothes hanging from the trees, openings propped ajar with sticks. We’re left in our underclothes, sitting gingerly on the grass floor. Nobody other than Beetee is phased by this. Blight and I have seen each other stark naked many times before, having been a fan-favorite pair in my hay day. Johanna tends to doff her clothes whenever it suits her, so she simply doesn’t have the urge towards modesty anymore.

            There’s no doubt in my mind that the Capitol is having a field day with this. Seeing Blight and I, nearly naked, is likely evoking a strong sense of nostalgia from our patrons watching at home. Hopefully it’ll drum up a few more donations. I can picture Wiress and Elenore blushing furiously as funds rush into my tribute allowance, likely with all sorts of rude comments attached. I find that I can’t hold back my laughter at the idea.

            “What’s so funny?” Johanna snaps, apparently in a sullen mood again.

            “This,” I explain. “It's the cheapest Blight and I have ever been.”

            I hear the rumbling chuckle of Blight to my left.

            “Right,” she says, backing off from her hostile approach. “Now that the cameras have certainly cut away from your scandalous comment, I think it’s time that I forgive you.”

            “Forgive me?” I ask.

            “For never calling.” There’s hurt in her voice now.

            I remember with a start that she gave me her phone number on the victory tour. I never remembered to call her.

            “I get that you were a bit busy with getting sold to the top bidder or whatever, but it would have been nice to talk to someone. I don’t exactly hand out my contact information to just anyone.”

            “I’m so sorry, Johanna,” I apologize. I never knew it would actually mean anything to her.

            “Ugh, you would be.” She shakes her head in humorous disbelief. “But anyway, I figured I’d forgive you just in case you die soon. Leave nothing on my conscience that way.”

            Blight and Beetee have busied themselves with a side discussion, seemingly seeking to give us a sliver of privacy.

            “For the record, I think I probably would have been better off too if I’d dialed you up. I could have used a friend that wasn’t as messed up as the lot I was with,” I respond

            “Well, I can’t exactly promise that I’m normal . But no, I’m not as bad as Finnick Odair and Gloss Nightingale,” she says, peeling apart a fern by the stem. “Though it seems to me that crazy is sort of what you’re into.”

            “Maybe a bit,” I say with a grin. “It certainly makes things more interesting.”

            In the next few hours, Johanna and I work as a pair to complete more water-scouting missions. We extend our search in a wide circular radius, coming back each time with nothing to show for it. She encourages me to continue trying to kill some of the little animals and I do give it my best shot. She also tries her hand at throwing her axes at them, but relents after a few tries that she’s better at logging and close combat than long-range throwing. All we come back with for dinner is more onions, but nobody complains.

            Blight and Beetee have built up a rather lush bed of ferns inside the lean-to, which fits three people if we squeeze. The fourth person will remain on watch while the others sleep, so the capacity suits us. I volunteer to take the first shift, Johanna the second, and Blight the third. We leave Beetee out of it so that he can try to sleep the pain of his wound away. Everyone’s yawning by the time the sun has fully set, tired out from the adrenaline of the first day.

            We’re fully reawakened by the loud blaring of the Capitol anthem and the shine of the seal in the sky. I’d entirely forgotten about this part of it. My concern for my friends returns in full, like a heavy punch to the gut. How many hours have I gone without wondering about Finnick? Too many to be a good partner, that’s for sure.

            The first to be shown in the procession of dead tributes is DeAngelo Sloth. I feel oddly detached, never having met him before the Quell. I feel extremely guilty that relief floods me, that I care much more about the fact that Districts 1 through 4 are safe than the life of this man. He’s followed by Treip, from District 6, who I do remember meeting on my victory tour. He and his district mate could hardly be considered verbal, but they did have an affinity for food and music. I still feel surprisingly little grief at his loss. I’m finally shocked into feeling something when I see Cecilia.

            How long had I spent with Cecilia in the peripheral of my life? We were never close, but we talked in passing plenty and even shared a few unmemorable co-bookings. We only ever spoke about small things, about our Districts or her family. That same family she spoke of must be watching from home right now, devastated to have lost a wife and a mother. Woof is gone too, so if he’s got family in District 8, they’ll be grieving as well.

            Next is Evelyn Amber from District 9, followed closely by Rome Lockright. I can’t stand to look at his picture in the sky, so instead I focus on sorting plucked ferns in front of me by size first, then by shape. Nicole Stark from District 10 is next to be displayed, then Seeder. Evidently our Career-lure group did its job a bit too well.

            Of course, the most important takeaway of the night is that Katniss Everdeen lives. But I can’t find it in me to celebrate that win anymore. It’s my fault that the children of both Rome and Cecilia will go to bed tonight knowing that their parent won’t ever be returning home. Rome’s parents have now lost two sons to the Hunger Games, regardless of the fact that James won his own.

            Once the broadcast is over, we go through the motions of checking the jumpsuits for water. Sure enough, each one holds just about two tablespoons. It’ll be nowhere near enough to keep up with our demand, but it’ll buy us a bit more time. We each drink our fill and return to the shelter. Johanna and Beetee climb in without a word, but Blight remains outside with me, sitting beside me on my watch. I don’t have to ask why he doesn’t sleep with them.

            Blight is just as much to blame for this as I am. Sure, I caught the snag in the plan that made this whole thing happen, but Blight was there with Ronan to create it in the first place. He hasn’t said anything to confirm it, but he doesn’t have to. He’s the creative one, I’m sure that he helped to mold the idea before they pitched it to Plutarch.

            What a pathetic pair we make. Two washed up victors, stripped to our underwear without a care because we do this for a living. Ronan once told me that Blight and I had the potential to become fast friends. I don’t know if I’d like to explore that avenue anymore. I’ve got enough tight bonds from the Capitol, and each one of them has molded me into what I am now. I’m a killer. Not in the way of knives and tridents, but through the use of planning and forethought. I knew what the outcome of my decisions would be and I made them anyway. I played God in a microcosmic world of our own design, just as I condemned Seneca Crane for doing so long ago.

            I am one in the same with every single person who I’ve ever judged. First it was Finnick, for his blatant disregard for modesty and respect. Now I strip at the drop of a hat and have sex with strangers on command. Then it was Johannes and the other Careers in my ‘games, for their drive to survive at the cost of others. After little thought, I’ve decided that I would have ultimately been relieved that Mags volunteered for me, happy to let her die so that I had a shot to live just a bit longer. I judged Fierian and Giovani for finding comfort in the Capitol, but I myself indulged in some of the lowest forms of debauchery possible in my time there. I judged Gloss for his willingness to return to the arena, but I made it happen. I judged Cashmere for not wanting our nation to live through a war. But now, I sit here and wonder whether all of this is going to be worth it. There’s a good chance that none of it ends up working, and we will have sacrificed the lives of those most dear to us in order to meet our end.

            Neither of us wake Johanna as the hours pass, instead we sit together, speaking only in the wake of surprise as a large beam of lightning repeatedly strikes somewhere nearby. Rain follows, working to fill the jumpsuits with precious water. Blight says that this is a good thing, but I can’t stop myself from shaking to acknowledge it. The rain is good, yes, but I know the power that Capitol manufactured lightning holds. I know that it’s deadly and hot and it can melt the skin right off of your body. After observing me for a moment, Blight tells me that I should wake Johanna and go relax but I don’t feel even the slightest hint of sleep. I feel as though I’ll never sleep again.

            I am one in the same with every single person who I’ve ever judged. First it was Finnick, for his blatant disregard for modesty and respect. Now I strip at the drop of a hat and have sex with strangers on command. Then it was Johannes and the other Careers in my ‘games, for their drive to survive at the cost of others. After little thought, I’ve decided that I would have ultimately been relieved that Mags volunteered for me, happy to let her die so that I had a shot to live just a bit longer. I judged Fierian and Giovani for finding comfort in the Capitol, but I myself indulged in some of the lowest forms of debauchery possible in my time there. I judged Gloss for his willingness to return to the arena, but I made it happen. I judged Cashmere for not wanting our nation to live through a war. But now, I sit here and wonder whether all of this is going to be worth it. There’s a good chance that none of it ends up working, and we will have sacrificed the lives of those most dear to us in order to meet our end.

            Neither of us wake Johanna as the hours pass, instead we sit awake, speaking only in the wake of surprise as a large beam of lightning repeatedly strikes somewhere nearby. Rain follows, working to fill the jumpsuits with precious water. Blight says that this is a good thing, but I can’t stop myself from shaking to acknowledge it. The rain is good, yes, but I know the power that Capitol manufactured lightning holds. I know that it’s deadly and hot and it can melt the skin right off of your body. After observing me for a moment, Blight tells me that I should wake Johanna and go relax but I don’t feel even the slightest hint of sleep. I feel as though I’ll never sleep again.

Chapter Text

            By the time the broadcast of dead tributes is done, Gloss is on his feet and ready to go out for another round of hunting. Cashmere sighs, wishing that he’d just let them get a bit of sleep. She finally convinces him to stay put in the Cornucopia, conceding to go out with him in the hours before dawn. She understands his restlessness, he’s on the lookout for the only man who truly scares him. While Brutus and Enobaria are trained killers, Gloss hardly considers them as threats in his plans. He’s watching for Finnick.

            Nobody in this arena is a friend of the Nightingale siblings anymore, each one must be killed in order to survive. It would have been much easier if Finnick had just agreed to the offer of alliance, both for the sake of not having to kill an old friend and to mitigate the danger of one of the most lethal tributes in the arena. Finnick made himself known as a threat rapidly in the wake of the buzzer. Cashmere and Gloss are proficient swimmers, but Finnick moves through the water like a sea lion. There was no chance that they’d reach the Cornucopia before him. Instead, they watched the initial fight from the beach, silently hoping that Brutus or Enobaria might be able to take Finnick out. No such luck. Finnick, of course, came out on top. The siblings simply waited to make any move until they saw him leave with his small pack. Strangely, he was accompanied by both of the tributes from District 12 and Mags, with no sign of Faraday to be seen. Cashmere figured then that she’d been killed in the initial bloodbath by District 2. She tried to put it out of mind.

            There were only scraps left by the time the siblings made it to the Cornucopia, nothing but weapons. They spent the afternoon searching for traces of water and other tributes on the opposite side of the jungle from where they saw Finnick enter. They were attacked almost immediately by a large pack of victors. They escaped unscathed, taking down three tributes in the process. The woman Cashmere killed is one whose name she can’t seem to remember. Gloss, however, took out both Seeder and Cecilia, whose names she definitely knows. The remaining two survivors of their large group disappeared into the forest before she or Gloss could handle them. They tracked them for an hour or so before losing the trail. Regardless, she counts it as a success. They moved Gloss three tributes closer to victory that afternoon.

            It was a surprise when night fell to not see Faraday broadcasted onto the night sky, Cashmere’s fairly certain that Finnick would have never chosen to let the girl out of his sight. Gloss suggests that he may have instructed her to run and wait in the jungle, but Cashmere doubts it. He absolutely would have sent Mags along with her if that was the case. There’s something incredibly suspicious about it. There’s some plan that the siblings aren’t privy to. It makes Cashmere itch.

            Just when the moon hits the peak of the sky, Gloss wakes her.

            “There’s rain, over there.” He points out in the distance and Cashmere has to squint to focus. “That’s our chance for water. I’m sure it’ll draw in tributes as well. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

            Begrudgingly, she agrees with his logic and hurries to prepare herself. They equip themselves with knives and spears with military efficiency. She’s incredibly thankful that they’ve kept up their training in the past years. They move at breakneck speed, worried that they’ll miss out on the opportunity to drink if they’re not hasty.

            The exact boundary between the beach and the jungle is where the wall of rain begins. There must be a reason for it, but now’s not the time to delay with thought. Cashmere pulls the curved circular shield from her back and lays it on the ground. Gloss does the same with his, and soon they’re drinking tepid water. They keep their heads on swivels, one guards while the other drinks. They have unspoken agreements about these sorts of things, there’s never any question of who does what when. It’s fluid, one of the few reasons Cashmere is glad that they’re alone in this together.

            When they’ve drunk enough to make themselves nearly sick, they begin their hunt. They agree to split up to cover more ground and to meet on the beach at the first stroke of sunrise. She moves silently, like the mountain lions that stalk the cliffs of her home. The darkness and rain makes her invisible, but it also hides whoever may be milling about around her. It’s only by luck that Cashmere spots the camp. She sees the people through the trees, standing in a neat row. She drops to the floor, hoping against all odds that they haven’t spotted her. Her intention isn’t to enter into a brash altercation with an entire camp solo, only to pick off tributes in the night. She chances to raise her head to peek. She finds that they’re not people at all, instead it’s jumpsuits, hung up on branches.

            She dares to maneuver closer and counts four suits. This means that at minimum there are four tributes in the thicket. When she finally reaches the high ground, she’s able to look into the camp. There’s two people sitting upright on the forest floor and two people sleeping in a tented shelter. The entrance of the shelter faces her, and when she moves forward a bit, she can see who sleeps. Johanna Mason and Beetee Latier. When she maneuvers to a new spot, she makes out the sitting figures. What could Faraday be doing here? There’s certainly something odd going on.

            She finds, within herself, confidence that she could make quick work of this pack. Blight first, then Faraday before she could sound the alarm. Then Johanna, who would probably rouse at the impact of bodies to the ground. She could pick the girl off easily, and then complete the task of taking out Beetee, who would be nothing more than a sitting duck.

            She goes over the plan in her head a few times and decides that it should be Faraday first. Blight might have been a killer in his own Hunger Games, but he hasn’t spent a second training since. He has years of inactivity fighting him. Faraday, while not possessing the temperament of a fighter, has received hours upon hours of training from Gloss, which makes her the more dangerous target.

            Four targets, four knives. She’s done it before. This won’t even be hard. She’s got the element of surprise and the shroud of darkness on her side. She runs her fingers along the smooth handles of the blades in her belt. They’re excellent knives. They fly true. One has already spilled blood. She pulls that one out first, gazing reverently at the distinct outline in her palm.

            Four tributes closer to getting her brother out alive. That’s all that matters now.

            She cocks her arm back, shoulder muscles taut like live wires. Her eyes lock onto Faraday. She sits stiffly, poised upright in nothing but her underwear. Cashmere won’t be able to strike her chest from this angle, so it’ll have to be in the temple. Blight will turn once the first knife lands, so she’ll be able to aim for his heart. She can’t predict how Johanna and Beetee will rise, but she knows that there’s no chance they’ll be quick enough to evade her.

            Cashmere breathes in deeply, setting her sights on the first target.

            Then Faraday turns to look at her. Through the darkness, Cashmere can see the glint of moonlight on her eyes. There’s a sheen of water on her face, just as bright. She’s crying. She wipes her face and turns away again. She hasn’t spotted Cashmere.

            Cashmere recenters and takes another breath. Except, when she initiates the throw, her muscles won’t obey her commands. She’s frozen solid. Except, when she tries lowering her hand, she finds that she can. There’s no trick of electricity or force fields, only her own synapses. Her throwing arm dangles weakly at her side, limp in the rain.

            She turns on her heel and flees as quickly as she dares. Purely by accident, she finds Gloss patrolling the forest.

            “What, why are you running?” He hisses when he sees her.

            “We need to go back to the Cornucopia,” she says. “There’s something dangerous in there”

            What she doesn’t mention is that the dangerous thing was her.

            Ronan watches the screen with bated breath. There’s nothing he can do to stop Cashmere, nothing at all. Then, suddenly, she’s running away from Beetee’s group. She lies and tells Gloss that she’s encountered something dangerous and they flee back to the Cornucopia.

            “Shit!” Gaia exclaims, slapping her computer monitor aggressively. “No way that just happened. I could reach through the screen and strangle her!”

            “That’s always how mentoring is. You’ve just got to trust in them, no matter how infuriating they can be,” Ronan placates her with a tone of annoyance as if he’s not shaking with relief.

            He desperately needs to find a way to send a signal to Chaff and Klein. There are no mentors for District 11 and 10, no one to send signals through gifts now that Cecilia is dead. They sustained heavy losses today, yes, but they still have a job to do. Grief be damned, they’d better send up smoke signals or storm the Cornucopia itself. If Beetee and Blight are killed, then this whole thing will have been for nothing. In their hesitance to disclose too much information across the board, Ronan and Blight decided against telling any of the other tributes the full plan.

            Ronan chews the exposed flesh of his lip, gripping the back of the chair he stands behind. He hesitates for a second, standing stock still before jerking to make the short walk to the lounge. Haymitch lies on the couch, positioned as if he intended to sleep, but his eyes are wide open and peering at the TV.

            “How long ‘till your girl is ready to play with the full team?” Ronan leans over the couch from behind.

            “You getting antsy without your golden boy to protect your players? Your little pawns across the board weren’t enough to keep the District 1 dogs satisfied?” Haymitch sneers at Ronan.

            “I don’t care much for chess,” Ronan responds in the same tone. “Do you want this to work or not?”

            “She needs another day at least. Finnick’s done some good with the whole chest compression Peeta stunt, but she still doesn’t trust him.” Haymitch puts the grudge aside to talk business finally.

            “He doesn’t exactly make it easy, does he?” Ronan tuts, flopping into a nearby chair.

            “No he doesn’t. All of you Careers are the same like that.” Haymitch gets up and leaves, scoffing as if he can’t stand to be in the same room as Ronan for longer than absolutely necessary.

            Ronan looks around the room lazily, exhaustion compelling him to stay sitting and simply fall asleep for a few hours. Wade is doing just that, stretched out on the couch that normally belongs to Gaia, Enobaria, and Cecilia. She snores softly, completely unaware that she stakes claim to a dead woman’s territory. Grant, too, is asleep. He hasn’t managed to find a chair or couch and has instead opted to pass out face first onto the floor. Poor kid . He reacted particularly poorly when DeAngelo took one of Katniss’s arrows to the chest. He hasn’t managed to get up to his room since the cannon.

            Heavy with exhaustion but itching with inactivity, Ronan finds himself compelled to undertake one last task for the night. He walks over to his young friend and rolls him onto his front. Grant’s shirt is stained with old vomit, plastered dry to his chest. He doesn’t wake when Ronan moves him, only groans a soft complaint.

            Ronan pulls Grant into his arms and staggers to his feet. Grant is much lighter than he remembers. He can’t be much over a hundred pounds anymore, which tracks in Ronan’s head as unhealthy for his height. The stench of liquor is powerful on the kid, coming off in noxious waves. It makes the journey to Ronan’s apartment feel much longer than it actually is.

            Ronan doesn’t want to wake Grant for a shower, so instead simply works to change him out of his filthy clothes. Grant’s always been particularly thin, but he’s definitely cut weight since the last time Ronan saw him shirtless. Ronan can’t blame him, nobody’s had much of an appetite recently. He amends to force some breakfast in him come morning and clothes him wordlessly. He looks comically small in Ronan’s shirt and shorts. It makes him simmer with fury to look at too long.

            Ronan grabs an extra blanket from his closet and tucks the kid in on the couch. After a second, he adds another layer on top of him. There’s no way he’s generating much heat with such little weight on him.

            Ronan's thoughts run at a mile a minute, keeping him miserably awake despite the tide of exhaustion behind his eyes. He reaches for the familiar bottle of sleep aid in his bedside drawer, palming two and swallowing them dry. Minutes after his head touches the pillow he’s out. He wakes feeling just as tired as he was before he slept, despite the dreamless night. He groans as he rises, only remembering after that he should try to be quiet for Grant’s sake. Ronan heads for the shower, glancing at the pile of blankets on his way by the couch.

            Grant’s gone.

            Ronan proceeds with his shower and grabs a fresh set of clothes. On his way to mentor control, he stops in the District 5 common area and the lounge. Both locations are empty.

            Ronan’s disappointed, but knows that he ultimately can’t force Grant to stay or go anywhere. He’ll catch up with the kid for lunch or dinner. Hopefully he just went back to his own bed to sleep the day away.

            When he arrives in mentor control, Ronan’s greeted by terse looks from Wiress and Elenore. To maintain proper illusions, he ignores them and first stoops next to Gaia to relieve her of her post. He says that he’ll watch recap footage so that she doesn’t have to worry about giving him a long rundown right now. She’s thankful for his dismissal and walks out rubbing red weary eyes. Gaia’s departure has left only rebels in the lounge. As soon as the door slips shut behind her, they congregate in the center of the room. Ronan takes care to utilize the signal disruptor before he asks for updates.

            Mags is dead, so is the morphling woman from District 6. Mags died in a moment of self sacrifice, saving the others from her burden while fleeing some sort of poisonous fog.

            “The arena is a clock,” Wiress interjects while the others explain the tragic losses.

            “What?” Ronan asks, raising an eyebrow. Wiress has always struck him as intelligent, but he’s heard rumors that she’s begun losing her touch in recent years.

            “I think she’s correct,” Elenore corroborates. “There’s twelve sectors divided by the land strips. It’s always been exactly on the hour that we’re seeing a new manufactured threat. The fog was two hours after the rainstorm, then the monkeys were an hour after that.”

            “The sectors activate one after the other, rotating like the hour hand on a clock,” Wiress continues. “If they can outrun the hand, they’ll be safe.”

            Ronan is convinced, it makes sense. It holds with the dramatic flourish Plutarch tends to approach things with. He just wishes that the man had bothered to fill him in on the nature of the arena earlier. It would have made planning much easier. It probably would have spared Mags’s life if he would have known. Damn the man for his showmanship . Though he works for the rebellion now, there’s only so much Capitol breeding that can be washed away.

            “We’ve got to try to send that message to Beetee.” Ronan decides as he speaks.

            “We should send him a watch,” Wiress suggests. “He’ll understand, I’m sure of it.”

            Wiress is the expert when it comes to communicating with Beetee, so nobody argues.

            “Once he gets it, we need to tell them to find Finnick’s group. Katniss is just going to have to put up with a crowd, we need to get the information spreading.” Ronan wraps up the plan, patting the top of Wiress’s computer with a palm. “Good work, everyone.”

            He settles in his own mentor station before revoking the effect of the signal disruptor. He spends the next hour retracing the steps of his own tributes, relieved to find that they didn’t bother going back out to hunt again in the night. He winces when Cashmere admits to Gloss that she found the group in the rainstorm, but that she couldn’t bring herself to kill them. Gloss is furious, tearing into his sister like a live wire. He claims that if he were there, he would have done it without a moment of hesitation. He says that the other tributes made up their mind when they chose to ally against them.

            Ronan wishes that he would have tried harder to talk the siblings around to the cause. The truth was, it was too dangerous to try. There’s a chance it might have worked on them, but there’s also a chance that they’d have taken the opportunity to shut down the revolution. Cashmere was always plenty vocal about her disdain for Ronan’s vague talk of change and reform, going as far to paint him as a villain for even thinking of it. A very likely end to the scenario of trying with them would have been Ronan’s neck in a noose.

            He traces a hand over the skin of his throat. Regardless of the Nightingales, there’s been a noose around his throat from day one. It’s grown tighter and tighter with each passing day, locking him into this world of lies and deception. There’s no option to stop anymore, there’s only one direction he can go to keep from choking.

Chapter Text

            “It’s a pocketwatch,” Beetee says, turning the smooth metal casing over in his hand. “What an odd gift.”

            “Are they telling us to watch out?” Johanna suggests, then drinks deeply from the leg of her hanging jumpsuit.

            “No. We already know to ‘watch out’. This gift was delivered to me which means it is from Wiress. She’ll have figured something out that we haven’t, I’m sure of it,” Beetee mumbles, eyes squinted in thought. Fondness traces his features as he processes Wiress’s message.

            “It’s got something to do with time,” Blight adds, shrugging his drained jumpsuit back over his shoulders.

            “But what does the grain mean?” Johanna asks, gesturing to the oats that were delivered to me soon after the watch.

            “That’s the signal to meet up with the rest of the alliance,” I explain. “They want us to find the others. It’s safe now.” I’m surprised Blight didn’t tell her that already.

            “We can think on the watch while we search for the others. Everyone get dressed so we can set out,” Blight instructs us.

            Johanna and I finish drinking the water in the suits and get dressed while Blight assists Beetee. The long cut on his shoulder has stopped bleeding, which is a great sign. Now we’ve just got to figure out a way to stave off infection.

            Once everyone’s ready to go, Blight climbs one of the tall trees to get the lay of the land. I watch his ascent with bated breath, not fully understanding the speed with which he rises. On land, Blight is stocky and ambling. In the sky, he’s nimble and graceful. At one point he leaps into a neighboring tree, scaling the interlocking canopy as if he was made for it. Only once he’s back on the ground can I fully catch my breath.

            He tells us that he couldn’t see anybody, not a single sign of which way to go. He suggests that we try to head near the beach, that there’s a good chance that it’s where Finnick will go after receiving his own mentor signal. From what Blight can tell from his survey, we’re about halfway between the beach and the forcefield. His plan has us cutting laterally first, there seems to be a thinning of foliage a few hundred yards away that will make our trek down much easier. He tells me and Johanna to prepare ourselves for anything, it goes without saying that our goal at all times must be to ensure Beetee’s protection.

            I’m left in command of the knives, and Blight and Johanna wield one ax each. The way they carry them is as if they’re simple cutlery used every day to dine. Contrarily, the knives feel like explosives in the belt, something foreign and altogether dangerous. I think that they’re overestimating my ability to use the weapons. It might be smarter for them to hold onto them, regardless of how accurate of a throw they have. I don’t think I could actually use them against someone if it came down to it.

            Blight’s correct in his topographic assessment, the path down is a lot clearer the further we travel parallel to the beach. It leaves us with an easier trek, but feeling much more exposed. Beetee still moves slowly, surely terribly sore from yesterday and cautious to disturb the wound.

            I feel a raindrop fall heavy into my hair.

            “It’s raining again. Maybe we should take cover in the forest until it blows over.” My mind becomes preoccupied with images of flashing lightning and charred skin.

            Another drop lands heavily on my face, trickling down with a sluggish viscosity.

            “We should stay to fill our jumpsuits, I’m still thirsty,” Johanna says, stopping to survey us.

            Blight holds his palm out, raised up to the sky reverently. A drop lands on it. It’s black, thick, and absolutely not rain. He takes a finger and smears through the small splattered droplet, wrecking the forensic satellites and spikes. The streak turns from black to crimson.

            “It’s blood,” he says.

            It’s as if his identification unlocks a torrent. All around us, dark beads begin to pelt down, consuming more and more of the sky until all we can see is sunlit waves of red. When I breathe, it coats the inside of my nose and I’m forced to open my mouth. It’s metallic and tangy, just the way blood is supposed to taste. For a desperate moment I wonder who is the source of the blood. Has the Capitol drained people of it to unleash it in here, perhaps rebels from the Districts? My friends?

            “Move!”

            Blight’s order forces my feet into action, stumbling over the greenery underfoot that’s slick with red. If not for Blight’s continuous calls to keep moving, there’s no way we’d all stay together. We run blind, pelting through the forest towards the sound of his voice, thankful that we’re not in the thicket anymore. Twice, I feel Johanna panting beside me before I move to reach for her hand. She locks back onto mine with a vice-like grip. We won't be losing each other now. The only comfort I have for Beetee’s location is an occasional cry of pain, lagging further and further behind.

            “We need to slow down!” I yell, hoping Blight can hear me.

            All I receive in return is an abrupt yell.

            “Blight!” I call, panic rising in my chest. “Blight!”

            There’s no response. I keep trying, moving cautiously forward in search of him. Johanna is silent beside me. She’s trembling. I stop yelling at once. If there’s something hunting us in here, there’s no way that we’ll survive. Our best bet is to remain silent and look for him. I can hear Beetee stumbling up beside us and I reach out for him, taking his wrist into my hand despite his flinch. We fan forward slowly, trying in vain to locate Blight in the rainfall.

            “We need to stop moving.” Beetee’s harsh voice cuts through the thick downpour. “This is dangerous.”

            Johanna and I agree and sit down beside him, hunkering down together amid the gentle caress of wet jungle plants. Nobody dares to speak, instead panting with heads downturned to avoid swallowing too much blood. Johanna mumbles breathy words under her breath in some semblance of a prayer. Though I have no belief in higher powers, I’m thankful for it anyway. It certainly can’t hurt to bargain right now.

            Steadily, the torrential downpour lessens to rain, then back to dustings, and then suddenly the sky is clear again. We all rise in tandem, taking to calling for Blight once again. We search the radius around us, splitting up to cover more ground.

            “Over here.” Beetee finally sends out the call. I can tell instantly in his tone that there’s no hope.

            Blight is flat on his back, staring up at the sky. His eyes are coated completely with the thick blood, already coagulating to form a shield upon the tender surface.

            “He hit the forcefield.” Beetee gestures behind us to where he must have seen it.

            “We should try to restart his heart or something,” Johanna insists hoarsely, dropping to her knees beside him.

            “It’s too late for chest compressions,” Beetee says, shaking his head. “He’s been dead for too long.”

            “I didn’t hear a cannon,” she argues.

            Just after she says this, a large boom reverberates around us. Every piece of timing in the entire event is precise, a mockery.

            “The viewers couldn’t see through the rain either,” I say. “The Gamemakers could see his heart was stopped, but it’s not much of a show to tell the crowd that when they haven’t gotten to see the body yet.”

            It’s easy enough to convince myself that the body isn’t Blight’s. It’s coated in blood, like a thick layer of paint. It could be anyone, really. There’s no reason it has to be him. I’ve convinced myself so nearly after a few minutes that I have to paw to wipe his face off to prove it’s him again. I use my sleeve, which is already coated with red, to smear the skin clean more clearly. It’s undoubtedly him, the same once-broken crooked nose and full beard that greeted me nearly every day in the Capitol.

            “Would someone like to say a few words?” Beetee offers, leaning into my line of view.

            He’s just as plastered with blood as Blight, a horrifying amalgamation of rot.

            “I didn’t know him very well.” Johanna shakes her head.

            I close my eyes to shut out the world for just a moment.

            “Neither did I.”

            My statement falls into silence. Nobody dares to question it.

            So this is how Blight dies. Surrounded by people who barely knew him. I saw him nearly every day and yet I can’t think of a single thing to say about him. He likes flowers, he’s kind, he’s wise. Or rather: he liked flowers, he was kind, he was wise. All of these things are so generic, that it seems a mockery to say any out loud. I so deeply wish that Ronan was here. He’d know what to do.

            I feel the sudden urge to hug Blight, but immediately it seems wrong. He never wanted to be touched while he was alive. Why would that change in his death? He’s had enough unwanted touches for a lifetime from people who barely knew him. Mine would only raise the tally one in the completely wrong direction.

            “What do we do now?” Johanna is crying. Beetee is wheezing, bracing his hands against the ground for support.

            “We find the others.” I straighten up. “We go to the beach. That’s where we’ll find Finnick. Up. Now. We don’t have time to stick around.”

            The strength rises within me from a place that I didn’t know existed. The command flows through me like a vessel, I can’t possibly be the one saying these things. I take the wire spool from Beetee’s clutch and clip it to my knife belt.

            “Come on, get up.” I stand, offering a hand to aid Beetee.

            My companions stumble to their feet, uncertain at first, but increasingly steady when we begin walking.

            Johanna and Beetee look like creatures, Capitol mutts with shiny red skin. I know I must look similarly horrifying. As we walk, I feel the blood begin to dry, pulling at my skin with each move we make. I wonder if the blood on Blight has dried completely, or if it’s still wet wherever they’ve taken him. Will they clean him before they prepare him for a funeral in District 7, or will he be left as is?

            By the time we make it to the beach, we’re practically carrying Beetee. His breathing isn’t shallow like it was yesterday, but labored, which I think is a good thing. It’s much harder to walk through the sand with his added weight, our feet churn desperately to find purchase in the soft terrain. It’s terribly reminiscent of the first time I had to carry someone in the Hunger Games. The prospect doesn’t bode well for Beetee, I wasn’t successful at it before.

            I swear I can feel the lick of the desert sun against the back of my neck, threatening to blister the exposed skin. Fritz walks beside me, stumbling as he too reaches the brink of exhaustion. We can’t go on any further. This is where Audrey will die, in the coarse sand beneath our feet. Before my eyes, the sand begins to rumble.

            I throw my head up to look and I’m plunged back into the ocean arena. A giant wave cascades down the hill across the sea from us. It’s massive, a wall of churning turbulent power. It roars and crashes into the sea, causing a massive surge in water level. Though we’re at the top of the beach, our feet are engulfed in a thin layer of salty water. Then there’s the cannon and yelling.

            “Over here!” The call comes from up ahead. “Fara!”

            My eyes snap to the source of the sound, a voice I’d recognize anywhere. He’s running towards me, arms extended outward, clad only in underwear with a green sheen across his skin.

            “Finnick!” I shout back, wanting nothing more than to run to meet him in the middle. “Beetee’s hurt.”

            “What happened?” He’s right in front of us now, impossibly present.

            “There was rain, but it was blood. It was hot and thick and we couldn’t see through it.” Johanna is yelling, giving up her grip on Beetee and causing the both of us to topple into the sand.

            I decide the ground is the best place for him for now and move to interrupt her erratic rambling.

            “We got the signal from our mentors to find you, but we got caught in blood rain,” I explain, shaky but coherent.

            “Where’s Blight?” Finnick asks, peering behind me as if I’m hiding him.

            “He hit the forcefield when we were running to get out.” As I say it I feel as though I’ve swallowed a ball of lead.

            Finnick embraces me, pulling me tight to his chest. He smells of lotion and menthol, a mix that suggests medicine.

            “I’m so sorry, Johanna,” he says, voice rumbling against me. “I know how much he meant to you.”

            “That’s the thing!” Her shrill voice calls out. “He didn’t. I barely knew him! He spent all of his time in the Capitol with you. You all know him much better than I did!”

            “Well, you meant a lot to him, then.” Finnick amends.

            Quite suddenly, he lets go of me and takes a step away. Katniss and Peeta have arrived. Johanna’s face contorts.

            “He died trying to get Beetee to her ,” she spits, voice laced with venom. Her foot darts out to kick Beetee’s prone body.

            “Knock it off!” Katniss yells, moving to defend Beetee, hand ghosting over the quiver at her back.

            “Are you kidding me?” Johanna scoffs, then in an instant she winds back and slaps Katniss directly across the face.

            “Johanna!” Finnick and I yell at the same time, both intercepting her from hitting Katniss again.

            “Let’s go get cleaned up,” I urge her, tugging gently towards the beach. “It’s okay now, we’ve just got to get clean.”

            She deflates a bit at my words, conceding to walk with us to the water’s edge. To my relief, when I look back, Peeta is carrying Beetee away with Katniss at his side. I can only hope that one of them is better at medicine than our group was.

            It seems that, at the very same time, Johanna and I have lost steam. Once seated in the shallow water, neither of us move to clean up. Instead we sit silently as the waves gently hit our backs. After standing and watching us for a moment, Finnick stoops to help. He starts with me, forcing me to lean back so he can wash off my face and hair. Then he tentatively approaches Johanna. When he finds that the fight’s drained out of her, he does the same to her. His actions have served to jumpstart me, so I begin to scrub at my arms. Johanna needs his help more than I do, I can give her that gift at least.

            I leave him to help her, treading on sore feet over to where the remainders of the alliance gather. They have Beetee laid out naked on a woven mat of grass, wound coated in thick moss. That’s much better than anything we did for him. I set the spool of wire down by his head, sure that he’ll be looking for it the moment he wakes.

            “He had a watch in his pocket, but we lost it cleaning his jumpsuit,” Peeta offers up as a greeting.

            “Don’t sweat it, I don’t think it was important,” I explain. “We think it was a signal from our mentors. They’re trying to tell us something. We can figure that out later. Do you have food?”

            They have piles of shellfish that Finnick apparently retrieved not too long ago. I hold off on eating, wanting to wait at least until Johanna has returned.

            “Did Haymitch give you that?” Katniss gestures to the tight gold band on my wrist. “Finnick has one too. I’m assuming Johanna does as well.”

            “She and Beetee opted for a ring,” I inform her. “And yes, Haymitch delivered them. He says your escort picked them out.”

            “That makes sense. Effie - our escort - always liked the little details,” Peeta says.

            When Johanna and Finnick return, we gorge ourselves on the shellfish and spile-tapped water while we bring each other up to speed on the events of the last two days. Mags is dead, claimed by the same poison fog that leaves the surviving trio without jumpsuits and coated in green lotion. When describing the battle with the monkey mutts, Katniss laments her confusion for the actions of Skee’s sacrifice. She can’t fathom why she would possibly have done it. It’s for the best that she doesn’t know yet, so we assure her that the morphlings aren’t rational in many of their actions. She remains unconvinced.

            At dusk, Katniss and Finnick go out in the water to gather more shellfish and come back with the pocket watch. I tell Katniss that she can keep it, to think on it if she’d like. I’m much too tired to do anything other than curl up in the camp and sleep.

            The sun is high in the sky by the time Katniss is shaking us awake. She tells us that we need to move, that she’s figured out what the pocket watch means. Her explanation strikes me as fact almost immediately. Of course it’s a clock, there’s twelve segments, twelve districts. It’s a perfect expression of Plutarch’s flair for the dramatic. The lightning and rain happens at noon, at the tall tree that Katniss points out.

            Beyond the notion of the arena, it hits me. Electrical surge. We’re going to use the lightning to blow the forcefield. Plutarch promised that he’d give us a predictable source of energy and he’s delivered. All we’ve got to do now is get to the tree at midnight or noon and hook it up to the forcefield without drawing any attention from Snow. Easy enough in concept, but incredibly difficult to deliver on.

            As my thoughts engulfed me, a spat has broken out between the two other girls. Johanna threatens to rip out Katniss’s throat and Finnick plays the role of mediator. It doesn’t suit him, his words do nothing more than to keep them from brawling here and now. No tensions have actually been smoothed. I can’t be bothered to negotiate a more stable peace.

            We all agree to move to the Cornucopia so that we can be sure of the clock theory. I’m convinced already, but I figure it can’t hurt to approach the safe place to plan. I doubt that anyone who sees us coming will stick around, so we’ll probably be safe from attack. Our group has the prospect of being incredibly strong in combat, even with the loss of Blight.

Chapter Text

            The Cornucopia is as empty as I predicted it would be, nothing but stacks of weapons line the inside of it. Scrounging from the piles, I add a hatchet to my belt of knives. While I never gained any accuracy with it in terms of self defense, it’s still an excellent tool for survival. The immediate thought of Gloss leaves me feeling a bit queasy.

             Have the siblings been here? I’m sure they have. It’s the logical place to remain while the other groups were lurking in the jungle. When I groom through the area for traces of them, I find a rat-like animal, freshly killed and skinned. There’s a dagger shaped hole in its head, perfectly centered between the eyes. This fact confirms that they were here, nobody could have done it but Cashmere. They were wise to clear off, and I suspect they won't return while we’re here. Rushing into a two on six fight with our group is a death sentence, even at their skill level. We’re the kings of this hill for now.

            I wonder what they’ll think when they see Blight on the list of dead tonight. Surely, they’ll grieve just as Finnick and I are for our friend. Even if Blight wasn’t inclined to self-divulge personal information, he was dear to us as a presence. He was a kind man, unfailingly patient and gentle. I can’t begin to think of how Ronan must be feeling right now.

            Despite this, I can’t picture Gloss being anything other than relieved to see news of his death. Memories of his remarks about going back into the arena sting me. He probably would be relieved to see Finnick and I plastered in the night sky as well. I think he’d probably do it himself if he needed to. He’s stone cold, never rattled, never bothering to be anything more than self indulgent. If not for our greater plan, I’ve no doubt that it would be him or Finnick winning these games.

            When I rejoin the group outside, they’ve begun discussing the sectors.

            “Midnight is lightning.” Katniss points to the tree, barely visible in the distance. “One o’clock is blood rain. Two is fog. Three is monkeys. Ten is the wave”

            “The tail of the Cornucopia points at midnight.” Finnick gestures up at it. “We can use that to keep our bearings.”

            “How can we be sure that the sections are only dangerous at their proper time?” Johanna asks, still hot from her fight with Katniss.

            “Because it’s artistic,” I say. “The Gamemakers like that sort of thing.”

            “She’s correct,” Beetee agrees. “It’s a theme, I doubt they’d stray from it for our sake. It’s more entertaining this way.”

            Peeta notates our findings with a knife on a leaf. While he gently whittles away at it, I head for the tail of the Cornucopia, standing just below it so that I can peer out at the lightning tree. How on Earth are we going to attach it to the forcefield? It’s not exactly like there’s going to be an outlet to plug it into. We’ll need some sort of anchor to attach our conduit to, something that we can place at the barrier to establish a connection. But it’ll have to be done fast, fast enough that nobody on the outside can stop us.

            Then I think quite suddenly of the solid metal spears sitting inside the Cornucopia. If we time it just right we could throw one at the barrier attached to the wire. It would work, it would send the energy careening directly for our target. Or, I think morbidly, directly through one of us. I turn on my heel to go find a spear with conductive enough metal.

            Then I’m punched in the shoulder, hard. The force of it knocks me onto my hands and knees. The breath is ripped from my lungs and I can’t inhale. Then I feel as though an electric shock pulses through me. I whip around to see who hit me. As I turn, something clangs on rock and my shoulder is yanked back along with the metallic impact. Another electric shock pulses through my nervous system, my heart lurches in my chest. When I look down, I see the spear, protruding a few inches from the skin below my clavicle, the other end pressing against the rock behind me. Then the pain finds me with force enough to blacken my vision. I blink rapidly to clear my eyes and I see Gloss pulling himself out of the water. I need to warn the others . My legs churn to run, but I stumble immediately back onto the ground. Again, everything goes dark. I yell desperately, capillaries bursting with the effort of trying to remain in the present. Grainy spots of color take over and I can see the outline of someone running directly at me.

            Without a thought in my mind, my hand finds the knives in my belt and I throw one with as much force as I can muster. It flies true and sinks directly into my target. She stumbles and falls almost instantly. Cashmere’s chest is rapidly turning crimson, spreading like an ink blot on parchment. Her face is awash with surprise, mouth hanging open to gape at me before looking down at the knife protruding from her ribs. She finds my eyes once more before toppling over onto the ground. Gloss’s mouth stretches open in a roar, but all I can hear is the ringing in my own ears. He looks at Cashmere’s limp form for only a second more before tearing towards me, teeth bared in a snarl. 

            The ground begins to rumble below us.

            The land jerks sideways in a spin, knocking Gloss to his knees below me. I have to grip the rock behind me with my good arm so that I don’t fly off with the force of centrifugal motion. It doesn’t seem to affect Gloss though, he continues crawling up towards me, armed with a deadly looking bowie knife. The heavy metal spear rips into my shoulder as my muscles flex with effort. I can’t hold on . He’s only a few yards away now, muscling up the stones like the rock walls we used to climb together.

            I begin to weep, begging into the roar of the rumbling for him to leave me alone. If he gets a hold of me, there’s no doubt that my life will be over. Dead at the hands of one of my dearest friends.

            His eyes are dark, lifeless, and predatory. If he hears my cries for mercy, he doesn’t bother to listen. He’s upon me now.

            I realize my only chance to escape the moment before he grabs me. I let go of my hold, tumbling instantly down the rocky land into the water.

            The magnitude of my impact tears the spear from my shoulder, cutting through muscle with a force audible above the rumbling sea. Everything grows dark once more and I can’t seem to move my limbs to swim. Down, I sink, down into the depths of the turbulent water. It would be so easy to simply keep sinking, so much easier than clawing my way to the surface like an animal.

            In the end it’s not my choice to make. I’m pulled to the surface by something that I can’t quite make out. When I hit the air, I cough and cough until my throat burns, but still I can’t seem to take in anything around me. There’s a few distinct moments of calm before I’m jostled again, up into someone’s arms. I feel the impact of each step they make shoot up to my shoulder.

            I finally fully grasp where I am when I’m back on the ground. I can hear voices around me, frantically discussing something. Someone shoves a hand against my shoulder. My eyes snap open and I try my best to maneuver away.

            “Stay still, you idiot. We’re trying to stop the bleeding.” Johanna’s fierce voice pierces the veil of my consciousness.

            I register what she says and I try my best to stay still.

            “Do something, damnit, do something!” My head lolls to the side to see Finnick berating Katniss, hands clamped on her shoulders.

            I mean to tell him to stop, to leave her alone, but all I can manage is to say his name. It works just as well. He’s on his knees beside me after only a moment. His hand comes to rest below my jaw, holding me in place as he looks at me, terrified. Katniss is down next, bafflingly cutting the sleeves from my jumpsuit. I finally understand when I feel her tie them tightly around the wound, replacing Johanna’s hands with a solid knot of fabric.

            “I don’t know anything about this kind of injury, but it’s probably good that you’re awake,” Katniss says, sitting back and exchanging a look of fear with Finnick.

            “Hurts. It hurts.” I sputter, grinding my teeth against the unyielding pain.

            “I know,” Finnick says gently, moving his trembling thumb against my face.

            “It’s not losing blood that fast,” Johanna says. “Well, that fast. It’s not as bad as it could be.”

            “We should get moving.” I hear Beetee’s breathless voice from behind me. “If someone can carry her we should move.”

            I nod frantically, not wanting to put the group in any danger.

            They decide that we should move to the twelve o’clock section after little debate. But once I’m up in Finnick’s arms, it’s quickly realized that nobody knows exactly where that is. Through the haze, I hear more debate ensue before we begin to move. Every step Finnick takes is agonizing, sending waves of searing pain to my wound. I lose consciousness again after only a few minutes.

            I wake again after an indiscernible amount of time, tucked away into the soft embrace of the sandy beach. I pry my eyes apart to stare at the blue sky above me. The sky is cloudless and bright, the sun eats at my retinas.

            “She’s awake,” Beete says from somewhere to my right.

            “How are you feeling?” Johanna leans into my field of view.

            “Like I got impaled.” I wince as I sit up. Johanna’s hand ghosts behind my back, evidently not trusting me to stay upright. I look around. “Where’s Finnick?”

            “Stuck with Katniss in the four o’clock sector.”

            Her resigned tone tells me that they’re not in imminent danger.

            “What’s in there?” I ask.

            “Jabberjays,” Beetee answers.

            “What are they saying?”

            “We can’t hear. But I’d be willing to bet it’s not a pleasant conversation.” Johanna dips her head. “Peeta is with them at the barrier, just over there.” She points just behind us. “We figured we’d give them some privacy.”

            “It shouldn’t be long now, the hour’s almost over.” Beetee pulls the pocket watch from inside his jumpsuit.

            My thirst is immense, but apparently the spile is trapped with Finnick and Katniss. So instead, I sit forward on my knees and wait. The blood coming from my shoulder has mostly stopped, leaving only a dark red stain on the front of my now sleeveless jumpsuit. The pain is ever present and I know that if I don’t distract myself it’ll only be worse, so I ask Beetee to explain his plan to me.

            What he says is entirely sanitized for the sake of the cameras, but it follows my reasoning completely. He claims that we should hook his wire to the lightning tree and work the wire down to the beach to electrocute the three remaining Careers. The translation of this is that we hook the wire to the tree and use the beach tactic as a red herring for the audience. He suggests that Johanna and Katniss work together to lay the wire while the rest of us stay up at the tree to help him. He says that he’d prefer that I’d be able to go with them, but in my condition it might be best to stay put. What he means is that he’s not sure that Johanna can handle Katniss alone, that it’ll be hard to cut out her tracking device and keep her imobile without backup. 

            I tend to agree with him. Katniss is more than capable of doing strictly what she wants and nothing more. If she doesn’t fancy getting her arm cut open, she’ll take matters into her own hands. Beetee and I work together to iron out small details until the rest of the group returns.

            Peeta is carrying Katniss in his arms, clutching onto her as if she’ll die if he’s not holding her. Finnick walks, head cast downward, past us and directly into the water. I call after him, but it’s no use. If he wants to be alone right now, there’s not much I can do to stop him.

            There’s a heavy silence as the five of us sit on the beach. I watch Finnick swimming through the waves, ducking under the water for impossible intervals of time. I don’t bother to contribute when the others begin arguing about whether or not the jabberjays got their sound from a real source or not.

            “You said you heard Faraday, she’s right here. They didn’t do anything to her, those weren’t her screams.” I begin to listen after I hear my name from Peeta. “How would the Capitol have her screams if she’s here?”

            “Trust me, they’ve got plenty of those on file,” I say, not bothering to look over. “They’ve got one for every day of the month.” My fingers grip deep into the sand.

            “But they wouldn’t do anything to your sister, if they killed her, the whole nation would riot.” Johanna somehow manages to sound annoyed by the sentiment.

            I stop listening after that, too tired to care that Johanna is toeing the line with her words. Instead I stay watching Finnick swim, worried that one of these times he’s not going to come back up for air. Johanna and Beetee go to collect water from the jungle and likely to talk a bit more about the plan. After a second, Peeta jumps up to go help them, evidently worried that they won’t survive an attack without backup.

            “Finnick loves you, you know,” Katniss’s voice is soft as she moves to sit beside me, not close enough to touch, but not so far that she can’t whisper.

            “Yeah,” I reply.

            “I thought that everything was for the cameras. After what you told me in the training center, I thought it might be that way for the two of you.” Like it was for me . I can almost hear the words that she doesn’t bother to say.

            “Finnick is the one real piece in all of it.” I have to squint to see him now.

            “There were others, too. There were men that the jabberjays imitated. I didn’t know them.” She says it distantly, as if she’s retelling a dream.

            “Grant and Gloss probably.” I nod. “Maybe Blight and Ronan too.”

            “I’m sorry about Blight,” she says, “Mags too.”

            “Neither deserved to die.”

            We leave it at that.

            Finnick returns ashore with shellfish, acting as if he hasn’t a care in the world. By the time the spile group comes back, Finnick has brought us a few fish as well. We skin them and roast them over a small fire. As we do, we hear a cannon and watch as a mangled body is lifted from the treeline a small ways away. Peeta simply adds the word beast to his new map of the arena. By the time the anthem begins to play, I’m nodding off. When I force my eyes open to look at the sky, I see Cashmere’s picture plastered onto it.

            “Who killed Cashmere?” Johanna asks. “It was so fast I didn’t notice.”

            It takes a long moment before I realize who could have done that.

            “It was me.”

            Nobody replies.

            Next up is Mags. Nobody dares to breathe anymore. Porter. Skee. Blight. Klein.

            I roll over onto my side and pretend that I’ve fallen asleep. I don’t even care to rise when the telltale delivery of bread happens. Two dozen loaves from District 3 signal us to put our plan into action within twenty-four hours. It’s time to blow the place up.

            But it doesn’t matter, not really. Not when I killed one of my closest friends without even a shred of remorse. There is no world where I deserve to leave this arena. There is no place for me in the wake of taking a human life for the sake of preserving my own. I’m no better than Gloss, who trained so that he could kill when it came down to it. I learned to throw the knives, so I threw them when it came down to it.

            I should never have tolerated weapons training. My first instinct of avoidance was correct. I must face the consequence of my actions. But I just can’t seem to wrap my head around it. The whole experience was out of body, as if somebody else was in the driver’s seat while I was away. It couldn’t possibly have been me who killed her. But it was.

            Finnick comes to rouse me when the group decides to move to a safer zone for the night. I stumble along beside him as we walk, leaning against him for support.

            “Are you alright?” he asks softly, arm coming to rest on my shoulders.

            “I’m a murderer,” I reply.

            “Join the fucking club,” Johanna growls from my other side.

            “Johanna!” Finnick snaps her name like a rabid dog, nerves worn raw after the horrible day.

            Finnick tries to talk to me again once we’re settled in, but I feign sleep once more to ward him off. It seems neither of us is willing to verbally process our emotions today. I expect him to leave me well alone, but instead he settles in to sleep beside me, forehead pressed inches from my own. He must know that I’m awake with the irregularity of my breathing, but he grants me my wish of silence.

            When morning comes, everything feels thick. As if the air itself is laden with sickness, I can’t stand the feel of it rushing in and out of my lungs. My mouth is impossibly dry but the air around me is muggy with moisture. I groan at the headache behind my eyes obscuring my ability for rational thought.

            Cold. Thirsty.

            These are the only things I can truly understand. The rest of it, the pain and the obnoxious voices are too much to process. All I grasp is the sense of time passing between moments of lucidity. There are a few words I latch onto. Fever. Infection. Medicine. Time .

            I’m moved between locations, memories of pain and Finnick’s face above my own tell me that much. Still, all that makes sense to me is the cold and the thirst. Nothing else seems to break through the glossy sheen that my life has become.

            The first time I open my eyes and truly see, I’m staring up at a sky pink with sunset. Not far away, I hear Finnick’s voice, low in conversation.

            “Finnick?” I call through my dry mouth, wincing with effort.

            Silence, then a flurry of movement.

            “You’re awake?” he asks, hovering above me. His hand quickly drops to my forehead and I close my eyes with the sting of his fingers on my sensitive skin. “Your fever broke.” He sighs heavily and sits back on his heels. “That was fast.”

            “It doesn’t usually happen that fast,” Katniss’s voice affirms, not far behind. “The Capitol medicine must be much better than what my mother uses at home.”

            “Both the onset and elimination of infection was incredibly quick.” Beetee has joined in, hovering just out of my peripheral vision.

            “How do you feel?” Finnick asks, not bothering to engage in the mystery of my recovery.

            “Thirsty,” I respond, finally able to voice what I’ve been feeling all day.

            In only a few minutes a woven bowl filled with water is pressed to my lips and I drink greedily. I try to sit up into the drink to gulp more heartily, but I feel the tearing of muscle at my upper chest and fall back into the sand once more. Water spills freely down my front, but it’s entirely inconsequential.

            “How long was I out?” I ask Finnick, finally meeting his eyes. I lock onto them and hold, terrified to slip away again.

            “You never really woke up after we went to sleep last night. It’s almost six now,” he says, reaching his hand down to touch my head again, as if he doesn’t believe his first examination.

            “We went somewhere,” I say, though I can’t be entirely sure.

            “Beetee has a plan to eliminate the rest of the careers. We went on a trip to see if it would work,” he explains.

            “The lightning tree?” I ask.

            “The lightning tree,” Beetee affirms, finally stepping truly into my field of view.

            “How did you know that?” Katniss asks, still present behind me.

            I suppose I’m not supposed to know about that yet. It would only rouse Katniss’s suspicion if I told her that Beetee and I had plotted together before my infection took me out and it would be an insanely good guess for someone who didn’t already know that we need an extreme electric current to blow the force fields. I’m in no state to come up with a lie, so I’m thankful when someone else does it for me.

            “Did you not watch the footage from her Hunger Games?” Johanna, evidently feeling left out, joins in. “Or Beetee’s for that matter. District 3 always seems to find a way to fry the competition with a bit of voltage. I bet they’ve both had an eye on it from the moment we set foot in this shithole. Isn’t that right, Volts?” She winks at Beetee, who reddens slightly at the crude nickname.

            “We’re taught quite a bit about current in our early school years,” he says, not bothering to respond to her other claims.

            With a heaving effort, I sit up, much more carefully than my last attempt. Finnick moves to sit slightly behind my back so that I have something to lean on to stay upright.

            “Give me the details,” I say, though I already have a pretty solid grasp of the plan.

            Beetee outlines every step for me, going slowly enough that my still-foggy brain can grasp everything. We’ll set out at nine o’clock, so that we can hook up the wire in the wake of the ten o’clock wave. He’ll begin setting up the wiring while we wait for the wave to pass, then we’ll receive further instructions.

            I lower my eyebrows at his careful cutoff of events. He’s playing his cards close to his chest, keeping Katniss and Peeta in the dark for as long as possible. I can’t help but to feel that it’s a terrible idea. Before, in the Capitol, Beetee always argued to keep the Mockingjay in the dark for fear of her stewing in her resentment. In this instance, it’s most definitely worse to thrust it all upon her at the last second. It’s like moving too quickly near a feral animal, you’re almost certainly going to get bitten. I don’t say anything about it though, an ununified front is even worse than a rushed one.

            At Beetee’s clear dismissal, the group returns to hunting and fishing. Left alone for the first time in my waking memory, I feel a distinct sort of pressure in the air around me. I can’t put off thinking about it forever. I have to acknowledge it.

            I killed one of my best friends yesterday, and one of my best friends tried to kill me. But a small nagging in the back of my head tells me that Cashmere isn’t dead. This isn’t a real Hunger Games, we’ve simply rigged the arena for a quick getaway. In the end it’ll be revealed that we were all acting for the sake of the cameras, that the knife in her chest was a prop used to make things more realistic. It’s just that the weight of the knife in my hand was too spot on, and the crimson stain on her chest was too realistic for me to bear.

            But Gloss never would have tried to kill me, and I never would have tried to kill Cashmere because we’re all friends. We’re much too close to have turned to violence the second things got tense. I’m a pacifist, I avoid violence at all costs. I’m a pacifist who willingly began combat training when things started to weigh on me. I’m a pacifist who encourages brutal revolts and fuels a bloody war. I’m a pacifist who decided to attack rather than flee. I’m a pacifist with a kill count.

             I’m not a pacifist.

            I’m a soldier in a war that I started. I am a woman willing to lay the lives of others on the line for what I perceive to be the greater good. I, in all of my arrogance and knowledge , presume to understand in terms of black and white what is acceptable and what crosses the line. It’s just that the line keeps moving. When I started, touching a knife was condemnable. Now, I’m going to have to find a way to move the line to envelop murder.

            Finnick comes back after a short while with a pile of shellfish stacked in his arms. He sets them down in front of me and begins to set to work opening them. I reach for one of the two remaining knives at my belt and begin working to help him, not stopping when I catch his look of warning. He tells me that I should rest my shoulder and I don’t bother responding. I start using a rock to hammer the edge of the knife into the shells to pry them open, wincing only slightly at the pain.

            “You’ll ruin the knife doing that,” he warns, setting his own tool aside.

            “Good,” I respond

            We head out of our camp at nine, full to the brim on the evening’s catch. While my fever remains chased away and my wound no longer pulses with heat, I can’t walk for very long without struggling. Finnick is forced to carry me at odd intervals, just as Peeta is burdened with helping Beetee along. I resent the help, hissing every time I feel him stooping to pick me up off of my stumbling feet. There is no world in which I deserve his help anymore.

            Finnick begins to tire of my complaints after the first half hour, snapping at me to keep walking, then, if I don’t want his help. The burst of anger startles me into silence for the remainder of the hike. Finnick is hot-headed, but I’m not usually the subject of his anger. He’s taken a fair share of proverbial swings at me out of his own sense of twisted self preservation, but this is the first time that I feel he’s justified in his actions. I am being obnoxious, and he does have the right to tell me so.

            I’m struck by the sudden urge to cry. It’s just about the worst thing I could do in this situation, though, so I simply try to fixate my mind on combing through the details of our plan. I only begin to relax when I hear Katniss lash out at Peeta for stumbling into her. Everyone is tired. This is not the time for me to get teary eyed about the frustrations of someone running on little sleep and less true rest. I’m prickly right now, why shouldn’t everyone else have the right to be as well?

            “I’m sorry for being so surly,” I murmur in Finnick’s ear the next time he has to lift me up.

            He snorts slightly. “I swear you’re heavier when you’re bad-tempered.”

            “It’s my huge brain. The heavy thoughts are a hefty load.” I eye him sideways, hoping to get a reaction.

            “Then surely we can trade for a bit and you can carry me since my brain’s so small.” He smirks gently and I’m reassured that everything’s alright between us.

            The site of the lightning tree is fairly clear of the thick underbrush that encompasses the majority of the jungle. I immediately find a spot where I can lay down, entirely exhausted from the journey up. Beetee begins to wind the wire in a precarious pattern around the base of the tree with Finnick’s help. He also attaches a dislodged branch to a length of satellite wire, which serves no real purpose in the ordeal. It takes me a minute to make sense of it. The branch is simply a placeholder for whatever tool we’ll use to attach the wire to the barrier. It’s another red herring. Chances are that nobody watching on in the Capitol will understand enough about current to question it.

            Katniss and Peeta, however, watch on in person and can ask at any time what Beetee means by the extraneous connection. It’s by sheer luck that neither of them sees fit to point it out. Only once the work is done and the ten o’clock wave has come and passed does Beetee disclose the next steps of the plan to them.

            It comes as no surprise that Katniss and Peeta are decidedly against being split up. Beetee does an admirable job of disarming them with logic, citing that Johanna and Katniss are the only two who are actually fast enough to pull off their job without being in danger. Peeta and Finnick are both too large to move nimbly through the forest, not to mention the slowing effect Peeta’s prosthetic leg has in the awkward terrain. I’m down for the count on this mission, relegated to sitting in my mossy bed and keeping watch.

            Once the girls leave, Beetee focuses himself on inspecting his work. He prods the tethered branch and asks me to take a look at it.

            “Do you think that this small of a branch will act as a co-conductor for the electric force? The material is quite resistant to all charge. Do you think perhaps a more light alloy would allow for a balancing of electrodynamics?” What he says is utter bullshit, none if it actually makes any sense in the scheme of our plan.

            “I’m not sure. I think it might be safe to use a different alloy, perhaps something with gold or aluminum. Wait!” I make a show of wheeling around to face Finnick, wincing at the protest of my torn muscles. “You grabbed a spear from the cornucopia, didn’t you? I’m sure that would work as an anchor to the forest floor!” My acting has always been bad, but hopefully on screen it will be attributed to my poor condition.

            “That’s a fantastic idea, Faraday.” Beetee nods his encouragement at me.

            Beetee quickly uses my excuse to swap the branch for the spear, wrapping it quite meticulously around the grooves of the grip at the base. He stabs the tip into the ground when he’s done, just deep enough to make the spear stand up on its own.

            “You’ve trained in weaponry, have you not?” He asks me when we all settle onto the forest floor.

            “Yes.” I nod. “Gloss taught me everything I know.”

            “And you’re most comfortable with throwing knives?”

            I take a moment to assess his line of questioning before answering. “Correct. I’m familiar with most general classes of weapons. But I’m nothing like Gloss, or Finnick for that matter.” I reach over to pat Finnick’s boot. “He’s the one to put in charge of any defense tonight. He’s got a hell of a throwing arm with that trident.”

            Beetee nods. “A trident, an ax, a spear , not much different are they? When you already know how to wield one. Yes, I think it’s wise to task Finnick with any throwing that we may need tonight.”

            I glance at Finnick, hoping he’s followed the meandering path of our conversation. When I dare to look at him fully, he’s gnawing on his lower lip, lost in thought. He gives no indication whether he understands what his role must be. We’ve almost said it outright, so I don’t think it would be wise to continue on. If anything, we’ll simply have to yell at him to do it in the moment.

            Then, before I can stew in my thoughts for any longer, the taut wire leading down to the beach slumps and recoils backwards.

            “Fuck!” Finnick yells, leaping to his feet at once.

            “Katniss!” Peeta screams out, darting out into the brush.

            “Fuck!” Finnick yells again, chasing right after him.

            I stand and almost take off right after him before I’m called back by a short cry from Beetee.

            “Knife, not spear,” he stumbles over the words. “I think that it would work better as an anchor for conductivity.”

            The responsibility of breaking the force field is mine now. All I want to do is to track Finnick to ensure his safety, but this base instinct is overridden by conscious thought. The best thing I can do for him is to get the District 13 hovercrafts in, not charge blindly into the night like a martyr. I squeeze my eyes shut and hammer the sentiment home until I’m no longer rocking on my toes to run.

            “How long until midnight?” I ask, desperately shoving the single remaining blade into Beetee’s palm.

            “Fifteen minutes,” he says before dropping down to work at transferring the wiring over to the knife.

            A cannon goes off in the night and I begin to cry, hands fumbling weakly together.

            “Five minutes.”

            I stand shakily, pulling the now unattached spear into my hands. I survey the forest around me steadily, ready for anything. Each movement of the wind in the underbrush has me wheeling around, peering into the threatening darkness.

            “Two minutes. Faraday, I need your help. The flight time from the Capitol here is roughly ten minutes, we’re clear to start.” Beetee brandishes his forearm at me, pointing to the spot where the tracker sits just below the skin.

            My stomach drops at the thought of turning my back on the forest, but I pull the wired knife into my hands all the same. My fingers shake around the hilt as I position the tip against Beetee’s aged skin. I have to grip the spear with the crook of my elbow and use my other hand to palpate the area, searching desperately for the small bead beneath the surface. When I find it, I waste no time in digging it out. Beetee groans in pain and drops to his knees the second I’ve finished. I turn the knife onto myself the second that I’m finished with him. I fish messily in my own wound to find the tracker, finding little success in doing so. When I turn back to address Beetee for help, I find him lying feebly on the floor, unconscious presumably by the shock of the gore.

            It’s all on me, then. The rest of it from here on out is up to me to carry out.

            There’s a sharp pain on the back of my head, then a flash of ground as I fall to my knees. I strain wildly against the coming wave of sleep that threatens to encompass me. This time I cannot blink away the tide of black that engulfs me.

            I hear a voice harsh yet comforting, like old wool. It beckons me forth. The jet darkness warms around the edges, everything becomes softer. The sense of urgency leaves my body, I inhale through my nose and smell home. Dark soil and saltwater alike greet my palate, caressing me like old friends. I’m not hot or cold, I’m not hungry, I’m not in pain. Everything is perfect here.

            The voice urges me to come closer, to leave behind what plagues me. This is the only place in the world where nothing matters anymore. There is no famine or suffering, only existence. This is the place where I belong. The voice persists, pulling me in slowly.

            It’s my mother. Through the mist she greets me, telling me that it’s not my responsibility to make the world keep spinning. I’m just a child and I shouldn’t put the weight of the war on my shoulders alone. I should never have started this journey in the first place. She tells me that I’m only nineteen and I should listen to my mother.

            I do.