Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything is different now.

Things weren't supposed to be like this. The Games were to be a shadow in the night, as inexplicable as they were unexpected, just like the death they heralded. Even the President can agree that it was all an honest mistake.

(Not to say that the President had very honest intentions. Even he could admit that he wanted a spectacle, something frivolous to stave off the guilt of so many dying beneath his watch, and still he refused to change anything. Even he might say that in willingly closing his eyes, he was letting it happen—maybe even propelling it.)

And even in this, things aren't as they should be. The President is only such in name—he won the title not by vote but because of his parentage. And even then, he's only ever made a few disastrous choices. Most others were made by the puppet-masters.

(Not that he feels very worthy, just between the two of us. After all, there was a bit of a close call last year. The Capitol swept it under the rug, but it did involve a knife and an angry Blade Cassidy and the both of them somehow unharmed. Mostly.)

(But no one's supposed to know that.)

One can see it everywhere, the wrongness. In the ruby-lipped smile of the once-withdrawn Head Gamemaker who finds she quite likes the publicity. Before, the Arenas were painstakingly glamorous, but meant only for the eyes of whose who would never testify of their beauty—Victors aren't supposed to say a word about the Games. That's how they stayed secret.

Now, though, Head Gamemaker De La Lune has a millions-strong audience to please. And it's different.

Not that secrets are in any scarcity. Stylist Chalet O'Shea, in fact, has a secret weighing his shoulders down, heavy as the fur cloaks he's making for the Ten Tributes. It's a secret that, despite his guilt, is at least kept to himself.

Isn't it?

And even if one ignores that mess as Chalet would wish, there is more to worry about. (Though that depends on who you're allied with.)

After all, though the revolution failed to execute any real activity last year, they now have an extra Victor on their side. Blade Cassidy almost died more times than he can count, but he's finally found something to live for.

Maybe this year, unlike so many years past, they'll be strong enough to fight back. Maybe with President Graymore looking tactfully the other way, there will finally be an opening to stop this.

Two is pumping more and more money into their Training facilities—once underground, now finally sanctioned by the Capitol. Despite their efforts, they haven't had a single Victor. One and Four have prospered not just because of the training facilities but also because of their preternatural strength and grace—at least compared to the malnourished crops that the Capitol reaps from other districts. This may have been advantage enough in the past compared to war-torn Two, but Tremor Atilius' final rebellion has made them all the more hungry for victory.

Perhaps a spoonful of Capitol gossip will curb their bitterness. After all, ratings for the Master of Ceremonies are only plummeting. Perhaps it's all the stress of keeping his mutinous wife in check (she's the head of the revolution, you see, and the fact that he can't do anything about this infuriates him, much to her delight.) In any case, he's perhaps the worst Master of Ceremonies the country has ever seen—though he's also the only one. People aren't exactly clamoring for the chance to interview children. Many are still squeamish over the idea of the Games in the first place. It shouldn't take them long to warm up to it, not after this year.

In any case, Pericles isn't planning on relinquishing his minuscule power. It's just small enough to be tantalizing. Thankfully, he has a plan—and blackmail at that.

Everyone is waiting with bated breath for retribution from the Capitol due to certain Tributes' rebellious actions last year—Blade's open distaste for the Capitol, Marquis' refusal to fight, and Luz Contreras' escape attempt to name a few. This only seems to reinforce the Capitol's belief that bad apples are more plentiful than good. But the Capitol hasn't lifted a finger against the Districts.

Not yet, anyway. It's July again. The only thing left to do now is wait.

And it's only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

Even after all these years, Mirabelle still remembers the Third Games with almost agonizing clarity.

Not that it's been that long ago, when one really strips away the hours to mere numbers. It was only fifteen years past.

All the same, she's not the same girl as she'd been that day, freshly married off and forced to wear a frilly pink dress whose uncomfortable tightness kept her from struggling. She'd been a full adult then, but something about the dawn of the Reapings always makes her feel girlish and powerless again.

They were still trying on new styles for the Games back then. Linnet's Games, the very first, were tailored toward young kids ages nine to thirteen, but Mirabelle's aimed to pit the most societally important figures against each other. The goal was to state that nobody was safe from the Games, and while Mirabelle was a Capitolite, she was only so in name. She'd barely arrived from her home country, and most saw her as a dangerous foreigner, making sure she remembered that her country benefited far more from this alliance than Panem did. She was expendable to them, only a pretty jewel to parade about.

She was never supposed to win.

Back then, she didn't know who she was. Back home, she'd hoped to bring her country glory, and maybe that's one of the only things she succeeded in. Her Victory ensured that there would be peace for them, though perhaps it was more because Panem saw them as a harmless speck on their radar. Still, she's here, isn't she, writing letters at dusk to her family? Adding Panem's wax seal when really what she wants is to stamp it with her country's name? She's not herself anymore, though—she's not a part of her country. She's Panem's. Has been for a while now.

It's not as if she lives in squalor. The handles on her desk drawers are dotted with rubies, the wood itself from Seven's best oaks. Resting her weary hands—beginning to show the tally of the years in small wrinkles—against the desk, she feels a pinch of guilt, not for the first time. Even though she's managed to deceive her husband regarding the revolution—he knows something is happening, though not quite what—she's still living in endless luxury. What she's doing isn't enough, even though she's poured her soul into inspiring revolt within the Victors for years.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe she'll finally have the strength in numbers she's been lacking all these years, clinging to the promise that she can't be the only one to feel this way, trapped beneath the ire of her husband and chafing against the Capitol's regime. Now she finally has the power, if scant.

The only question is, can they make it this time? Or will the Games continue uninhibited?

…

It torments him most nights. Keeps him up long past twilight.

It leaves him frazzled as he is now, pacing, turning on and off the lights, tugging at the window curtains, fretting at the spot where the gunshot wound scarred. And even still, Blade Cassidy can't sleep.

He keeps seeing him, Tremor Atilius—that perfectly sculpted boy whose beliefs ever chafed with Blade's, the one whose staunch loyalty in the Capitol killed so many, including himself, in the end.

(No. It wasn't Tremor's fault. Blade's the one who killed him.)

He can't—he can't close his eyes because he's there right behind him, floating like an apparition, Tremor right before his death. The way he surrendered and nodded and tugged free his mask.

The way he wasn't a wolf in the end, but a boy.

And Blade still—

He still killed him. Just like he did to everyone in those days. Just like he almost did to Graymore.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he throws open the door to the hallway. He's not supposed to be like this. He's supposed to live and be brave for Alessio, for the Tributes he killed—though their mourning cries lap at his heels like a rising tide. But he was tortured as long as he was a vigilante, and even though he's let go of one, he can't seem to shake the other.

Part of him thinks it's for the best. Ought he live with all the evil he wrought and cast himself as part of that evil?

But no, he's improving. He saved his best friend's sister. He joined the revolution. He resisted the original intent to kill the President and both lived to tell the tale.

Maybe he just needs a breath. It never helped before, but Blade knows all too well that nothing is ever as it seems.

(He just wishes he'd learned that before it was too late. But then, he wouldn't be here, now would he? And for some unearthly reason, fate is intent on letting him live.)

(Unless he was supposed to die, and he's living against fate's wishes. It'd make sense.)

His restless legs take him into the main sitting room where the Tributes usually meet. He stops at the door, though, once he sees two figures, heads close together, hands intertwined.

It's Melinda—Alessio's sister who became an avox, the one Blade promised to find—and Swithin, seemingly having just arrived from Seven.

Bizarrely, the two have become close friends over the past year, whenever Swift finds time to visit. They haven't told him about the revolution—though Blade's senior in age, Swift is so much younger in everything else—but he does know that Melinda doesn't work for the Capitol anymore. She's freed from punishment, as much as she can be with the lingering scars of mistreatment. Swift is gesturing excitedly, chattering on about this and that, while Melinda's eyes crinkle and her shoulders shake with rare laughter. Blade watches momentarily, a bit frozen and unsure if he should intrude on this little tableau. He doesn't have time to make a choice, though, because Swift's keen eyes catch him out and he's running up to Blade with a giant smile that's surely meant for someone else.

They don't really talk. Not that Blade would admit to this, but Swift can be overwhelming even to watch sometimes, let alone converse with. Still, after a questioning look and nod of consent, Blade allows himself to be wrapped in a quick hug.

It feels nice, actually. Strangely.

Blade wears his facade for Swift, the one he'd perfected when he was much younger. Wearing a mask has always come naturally. Still, Swift always manages to see through it, and for whatever reason, the darkness behind it doesn't make him flinch.

Blade lets himself be gently dragged to the couch—he's had years to become impregnable, yet Swift Macona's pleading eyes are still something he can't resist—and the two of them sit beside Melinda. She raises tired eyes to smile at Blade.

"Nightmares?" she signs.

Blade nods after a pause, and the three of them meet eyes again, the connection between them feeling suddenly deeper. Blade hates the vulnerability of it, yet his lonely heart can't resist being known.

It was such a long time to be without a family or true friends, and now here are a few who will live for quite some time. It feels impossible.

"I'm sorry," Swift says. Melinda signs along, interpreting. Swift knows only a few words in sign language; he usually prefers speaking, though he's trying his best to learn. "What were your nightmares about?"

"The Master of Ceremonies' newest hairdo," he signs with a smirk, causing Melinda to let out a surprised laugh. Swift looks on owl-eyed, obviously not understanding, though he seems content just to be in their presence. It's nice to have him here, even if he's not fully participating.

"I dream about the Games," Swift confesses.

Blade nods. There's a candidness to Swift that's almost irresistibly disarming sometimes.

"I dream about Alessio." Melinda's eyes are lowered, tears catching on her lashes. Blade's heart gives a desperate twinge.

Alessio had wanted nothing more than to reunite with his sister after she'd been taken from him. Now that won't happen. But he's here in his best friend's stead.

"What was he like?" Melinda's hands tremble. "When you knew him?"

Blade watches Swift, whose hand is resting gently on Melinda's shoulder. Despite her grief, the girl's head is lifted defiantly, jaw set in earnest determination.

Maybe he can borrow some of their strength, at least for tonight. Or perhaps lend what little he has left.

He takes a deep breath. And he tells her.

…

Swift Macona is okay.

No, really! He has pain draped over his shoulders and a picture of Georgie in his locket and he's on his way back to the Capitol but it feels good to be sad. To own the feelings. To let them build and overflow, unblock the place behind his heart where he used to tuck them all away.

Guinevere rests her head on his leg in the train car they're sharing. She got officially registered as a psychiatric service dog last Spring, so now the Capitol has no excuse to deny her passage. Anger is still a tricky thing for him, but he allows a brief moment of bitterness before shooing away the feeling.

So maybe he isn't fine. But that's good, right? It means he's learning something, after all these years.

Swift strokes Guinevere's shaggy head. He named her after the tragic heroine from one of his favorite epics, because of course he did. Now he gets to read all the stories he likes, and sometimes he picks the ones he knows Georgie would like just to remember her…

Tears prick behind his eyes. He's afraid he'll forget the way his former District partner's voice sounds—but her mother and now seven-year-old brother, Miss Denali and Leo, help him to keep her alive without letting the loss of her consume him. They do memorials every year with the help of his new best friend—

Tap tap! Swift looks up as the train pulls into the station, only to see one of his very favorite people in the world, just the one he'd been thinking about.

"Yomi!" he crows, dashing down the aisle with Guinevere in gleeful pursuit. As soon as he's out of the train, Yomi has him in her arms, surrounding him in a gentle hug.

"Hey, you!" they say into his hair. "It's been too long. Have you gotten grayer? Let me see…" She reaches up to run a strand of his hair through her fingers. "Yep. Your age is most definitely showing."

"Yomi!" he manages through giggles. They're always teasing him about the two years he has on her, and the fact that twenty-four makes him 'halfway to the grave' in her words.

"And Guinny!" Yomi releases him to wrap Guinevere in their arms. "The Capitol finally let you bring her? Or is she a stowaway?"

Swift grins. "Nope! She's authorized and everything."

"So official." Yomi gives one last pat to Guinevere's head before straightening again.

Among many other things, the two of them share a love for dogs (Swift always makes them recount the time she won over Cerberus with poetry and charm. It's like a fairytale—except with sad bits, too. That's how all life is, he's slowly learning.)

Swift grabs Yomi's hand. "Are—are you okay?"

Yomi smiles, but there are tears glinting behind their eyes. "Yes and no. I'm sad and happy." She turns her gaze to him. "What about you, love?"

And there's just something about their gaze…

He starts to cry. It's wholly embarrassing and still feels unnatural, but he doesn't try to stop the tears. Yomi holds him through it. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I know."

Pulling back quickly, Swift tries to breathe. "I was okay earlier."

Yomi smiles solemnly. "Yes. I think that's just how life goes."

"I brought you this book of poetry!" Quickly, he pulls out the thin volume from the folds of his coat.

Yomi beams. "Well, thank you!"

"I mean, it's not as good as yours, but… I thought you might like it. The author writes all about death."

"Me? Enjoying a poetry book about death? What kind of psychic witchcraft did you learn since I last saw you?"

Swift blushes. "Do you like it? Miss Denali says it's very old—"

"I'm very old! You're very old! And we're still worth something, aren't we?"

Worth something. Swift smiles. It's not an all-encompassing one—in fact, it's small enough to be almost unnoticeable.

But it's real. And it's his. And he's worth something.

That's enough for now.

…

Well, well… isn't it just delightful to be back here?

Yomi watches Swift and Guinevere bounce away down the hall, a strange sadness curling around their chest. The walls are adorned with all the usual glitz and glamour—vases in alcoves full of sparkling emeralds, tasseled tapestries depicting Victors from One and Four, and needlessly elaborate stained-glass windows. It's a pale veneer of beauty covering a rotten core.

Yomi sighs, combing a hand through her hair. Are they thrilled to be here? Absolutely not. But it's the only way to see their friends—and to make that gamble of hope, once again. That maybe this is the year it will turn out.

(It never turns out. Even if one of them survives, there will still be three deaths. Make that twenty-three.)

(What is she doing here?)

A tear rolls down their cheek and they let it. They let themself come apart a little at the edges.

It matters. What her and Blade and the rebels are planning… it matters. And like her favorite tragedies, she'll keep rereading and rereading, expecting the ending to change.

They're getting better at making room for everything, at letting go. But it's hard being back in this place where they'd been a child, afraid to break something and afraid to be forgotten.

"Yomi?"

Looking up through a glaze of tears, Yomi catches sight of one of her dearest friends. "Chalet," they whisper, a few more tears sliding down to their chin.

Chalet wraps her in a quick, tight side-hug. There are purple bruises beneath his eyes, and he's shaking.

Yomi still isn't a master of people, but she can see exhaustion when it makes such a lurid appearance. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He looks different since they saw him before Blade's victory. More afraid than he had been before, which is saying a lot.

"Nothing! I'm fine, I'm completely fine, things are actually perfect."

Yomi can't help it—she bursts out laughing. "You're a worse liar than Swift!"

Chalet's eyes begin to sparkle and he laughs silently along. "Alright, fine. It's awful. I hate dressing them up so they can walk to their deaths looking more palatable for the Capitol's precious eyes."

And there it is—that old, familiar anger. "I could scream."

"You sound awfully calm for that," Chalet says lightly.

"That's because I'm getting ready to talk to four kids who have to fight to the death and I don't want to make things worse than they already are."

Chalet smiles at them. "You don't have any control over how other people feel, Yomi. It's not your fault."

She releases a shaky breath. Twelve still doesn't have a Victor, so they've been carrying the weight of four kids ever since that first year. She's glad to be of help, really—but it's so, so painful.

They glance furtively around the hallway to check for prying ears, then lean close to Chalet. "You haven't changed your mind? About joining us?"

Chalet visibly pales. He shakes his head slowly. "I… I can't."

"I understand. Really. You'll be safe, alright? I just wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind."

A sadness passes over Chalet's face, paying a brief visit before a frail smile replaces it. "We're lucky to have you."

"No no." Yomi twists the butterfly ring that Chalet gave them before they went into the Games, its intricate metalwork catching the light. "We're all lucky to have each other. I'd run for the hills if not for you and the Victors."

Chalet laughs. "And we couldn't have that." He glances down at his watch. "I have to go back to work. Take care, yes?"

"Yes." Yomi presses a hand to her heart. "I promise."

And for once, it's a promise they feel like they can count on. Sure, everything changes. But a lot of things stay the same.

They're still alive, blooming like the early Spring flowers. She survived against every odd that the Capitol tried to gamble on.

And as long as she can help it, she's not going anywhere.

…

It's been a long, long year.

Linnet places her cane in its signature spot by the door. The usual feast to welcome the returning Mentors took longer than usual. And Linnet always feels out of place at feasts. When she's by herself, she likes to keep her hand near the border of the plate so nothing spills—but it's not as if she can give the Capitol any more evidence that she shouldn't be a Mentor. As absurd as it sounds, they'd definitely write a tabloid about the blind Victor's 'atrocious' table manners.

She can't go back to Nine. Not after the Games were publicized by Signet Graymore a year ago. Not now that they know what she's become.

They were so young in the First Games—Linnet was among the eldest. And she hadn't meant to come out alive.

In fact, if Linnet could make the choice…

But no. She's here now, full-time, as constant as the Capitol's artificial lighting. And if she can make her Tributes' lives as bearable as possible—if she could help them live…

Wouldn't it be nice, though, if she could choose to leave? If she could ignore every glib taunt the Capitolites throw at her about how it's a shame she's not sighted, or her kids might have had a single chance…

Wouldn't it be nice? To have what she wanted?

But if she leaves, they'll pick someone else to Mentor—maybe one of the ruthless Careers who will secretly be rooting against Nine. And it's unclear whether the Mentors are even able to retire…

And if she did leave, what then? Yes, she'd be back in the wheat fields where the sun could be seen through the leaves of Autumn trees—but she'd have given up. On herself. On them.

And she'd be missing the nightly meet-ups with her friends—The Lonely Victors At Midnight Club, she'd dubbed it. She'd be abandoning Rima, the boy she might just be in love with. She…

She'd be forgetting her past, missing the chance to lob well-placed retorts at the snobs who mocked her blindness. She'd miss standing on the balconies and breathing in the air and hearing her Tributes' voices for the very first time.

And when the time finally comes when the Capitol will fall to its knees under the rebels' might? She wants to be the one to witness it and know that she had been apart of it. She had been one of the first brave voices to rise up.

And if she can make Luz and Asa's deaths worth it, and the deaths of so many Nines before them… if she can cling to her pride and remember the beauty in her brokenness…

That single moment would be worth a thousand tears.

Chapter Text

Hi friends! This is a very sad chapter :( TW for manipulative parents in Arden's POV, off-screen parent death by childbirth in Pandora's POV, and verbal parental abuse in Sammy's POV. Take care of yourselves!

NINE YEARS AGO

"Arden?"

Arden looks up from her block tower. Her mother and father are standing above her with strange looks on their faces. Last night they went out and didn't come back until two in the morning—Arden knows because the thunder of their footsteps woke her up.

"I need to talk to you," says Arden's mother.

"Your mother and I need to talk to you."

Arden looks quizzically at her father. "Mom just said that."

"Did she? I didn't hear her." His fists are clenched. It looks painful.

"Come on, Arden. We'll talk on the porch." Her mother takes her hand.

"We'll talk in the kitchen." Arden's father grabs her other hand and starts to pull. Arden pulls free, giggling. Maybe this is a new game.

"Mom just said we were meeting on the porch!" she insists.

But her father doesn't look happy. In fact, he's hardly looking at Arden. "I hadn't noticed."

Tamar Hornbuckle turns so sharply she kicks Arden's tower. "Maybe you should get your hearing checked right after you check your morals."

"My morals? You're the one who broke my trust!"

"I'm sorry—which is worse? Breaking a business contact or—"

"You broke our family, Tamar!"

Arden's eyes start to well up. She stares at the remnants of her block tower. It was going to be a castle—now it's just rubble.

"Oh baby." Tamar kneels beside her, stroking her hair. "I apologize for your father. He shouldn't have shouted."

"And I apologize for your mother," Webster says, sitting on her other side and wrapping his big, strong arms around her. "She's completely unreasonable."

"My father? My mother?" Arden wipes tears from her cheeks.

"What's that, honey?" Webster leans down so he's eye-level.

"That's not what you call each other. You guys are married. You don't have to say 'your mother.'"

"Well, that's what I was trying to speak to you about before Tamar interrupted. We're getting… separated."

"What?" Arden's heart is sinking fast. Maybe it ran into an iceberg. Maybe it got filled with stones. Maybe—

"We won't be living together anymore. That is, that man—" Tamar shakes a finger at Webster, "—will be moving out, but he'll still be on the property."

"I'm confused." Arden shakes her head, feeling more tears roll down her cheeks.

"You'll still have your room," Tamar says soothingly. "And we're not going to stop being your parents, okay? That's what matters."

"Are you going to take my blocks?" Arden squeezes her eyes shut.

"No." Tamar collects the blocks with a big sweep of her hand, scooping them back into the box. "See? They're all safe right here. There's just one thing I want you to do for me. Can you be my brave girl?"

Arden straightens and lifts her chin. "Yes!"

"Your father and I will not be speaking anymore."

"Is he on time-out?" When Arden is on time-out, her mom won't talk to her no matter how much she dances or shouts or tells hilarious jokes. Maybe her dad stole a cookie from the jar (not that Arden would ever do that! It's just something she's heard of other people doing.)

(Arden is a good girl. She's her parents' brave girl.)

"No!" Arden jumps a little as Webster takes a breath. "I mean no, honey. Of course not. It's just—your mother has made some choices—"

"Your father has made some terrible choices that have kept him from living here!" Tamar shouts over Webster's explanation. Arden dips her head.

"What kind of choices? Did—did he steal a cookie?"

They both fall quiet. Tamar takes a deep breath. "It doesn't matter, baby. What I need you to do is give messages to your father."

"When your mother wants something from me, you'd be letting me know," Webster says.

"You'd be carrying mail for us, too, and phone calls."

"And I'll get you some pretty new blocks for when you come visit me. How about that?" says Webster.

Arden smiles, but quickly flinches as her mother scoffs. "She already has blocks!"

"Well, it would be nice to have two sets, wouldn't it, Arden? These are getting pretty shabby anyway."

"No! Don't throw them away!" Arden snatches the blocks from her mother and clutches them to her chest. Her hands are shaking.

Tamar lifts her chin. "Look at me, baby. Can you do that? Talk to your dad when I need to tell him something and tell me whatever it is he wants?"

"I—yeah! Sure!"

Arden doesn't know what's happening. But she knows she doesn't want her parents to stop loving her the way they've suddenly stopped loving each other.

"Good girl. Let's practice now. Would you tell your father to pack his things?"

Arden drops the blocks. She takes a shaky breath.

(She's their brave girl. She's their brave girl…)

"Dad?"

"Yes, love?"

"M-Mom wants you to pack your things."

Webster heaves a sigh, sends Tamar a cruel glare she's never seen her father wear before, and leaves the room.

"Is he going to take me to school tomorrow?" Arden whispers.

"School? Oh." Tamar begins cleaning up the blocks again, moving fast like a butterfly. "You're not going to school anymore, baby."

Arden feels her breaths start to quicken. "But—but I'm the line leader tomorrow! I have to go."

"Remember what we agreed to?"

Of course she remembers—she's not stupid, and all this time she thought her mother had understood that. She nods sullenly.

"We need you to be our little helper and stay home. You'll have a teacher, but she's going to come over so you can still be there when we need you."

"O-oh…"

And to Arden's shock, Tamar's eyes start to glisten. She puts a hand to her forehead. "I can't do this without you, baby. I know it's hard—but I know you can do it. I know you can be brave."

She doesn't ask if that's something Arden can do this time. And Arden wishes she had, because she would have said no, no, no.

But her parents love her. They need her. The least she can do is help.

She'll still have her blocks. She'll still have her bed. She'll still be happy.

But when Arden looks up, all she can see in her mom's eyes is sadness.

…

FOUR YEARS AGO

Pandora flings herself into her mother's arms. "Mama!"

"Oof! Panda, the baby!" Mama is laughing, but her eyes are tired.

Pandora jumps up, dusting off her pants. "I'm sorry! I forgot!"

"That's alright, sweetie." Mama lays back down. Her head looks heavy, lolling against the pillow. She lets out a shaky breath. "Tell me about your day!"

"I read a book!" Pandora shouts.

Mama laughs. "What was it about?"

"A baby monkey! Just like my baby sister! When is she coming?"

"Your baby sister isn't going to be a monkey."

"You don't know that! How many bananas have you eaten today?"

Mama feigns sadness. "You're right," she sighs. "I ate twelve. She just kept saying 'Mama, please! More bananas!'"

Pandora shrieks with laughter. "Can I listen to your tummy?"

"You won't hear anything, but you can feel her." Mama takes Pandora's hand and places it on her tummy. As soon as she feels the tiny kick-kick, she starts to cry.

"Aww, what is it, love?"

"I'm just so excited! It'll just be me and Thea and Daddy and a brand new baby. Can I take her to visit the goats?"

Mama laughs. "You'll have to wait until—" Her voice cuts off and she starts to fold over, breaths coming fast.

Pandora starts to scream. She can tell something is wrong, Mama's been sick for so long and—

"Pandora!" Thea runs into the room, swoops Pandora into her arms, and looks her in the eye. Thea has her serious face on. "Listen—Mom's okay, but it's time for the baby to come. I need you to go play until it's dark outside, alright?"

"B-but—"

"The baby won't come if you stay here. Don't you want to see your little sister?"

Pandora jumps from her sister's arms before Thea can even finish her sentence. She's running faster than anyone has ran before, through the door and out into the sprawling farmlands. She leaps over the fence into the pasture and runs to the other side where she won't be able to hear anything.

She leans against the rail, thumping her head on the metal. Rainy the horse wanders over to push her nose against Pandora's neck. She giggles, feeling Rainy's warm breath tickle her hair.

"We're having a new baby soon," she whispers into Rainy's mane. "And then Mama will be all better and she'll ride you again! I know you miss her."

Rainy knickers. She's Mama's favorite horse, but they haven't been together for at least a year. Pandora thinks of Mama's thin hands, her pale face, the effort it took to lift her head.

"She'll be okay," Pandora vows, stroking Rainy's velvet nose. "It's all going to be fine."

She sits there for what feels like a century, leaning into Rainy's warmth. It's finally dark, and Ten gets cold at night. Pandora leaps to her feet, throws a blanket over Rainy, and bounds away, back through and pasture and home to see her baby.

Pandora throws open the door with a loud whoop, closing it as quickly as she can while kicking off her shoes. She races around the corner, stands on her tiptoes and—

Oh. Oh no.

Thea is stripping the sheets from Mama's bed, but they're covered with blood. And Mama's not in the bed.

"Is she feeling better already?" Pandora chirps. She dances closer, despite the icky feelings rising in her chest, to get a look at the bundle Thea is holding.

Thea looks up with hollow eyes, more serious than normal, which is quite grave indeed. She hikes the bundle up, holding it closer to her, settling it in the nook between her head and her shoulder.

"Are you holding her for Mama?" Pandora says, her voice a little lower this time.

In the corner, Dad has a strange bottle she's never seen before. His eyes are—they're not really there. He's not even looking at her.

"Pandora… I need you to listen very carefully, okay?"

"No."

"Mama's gone—"

"No!" Pandora screams. Her baby sister wakes up and starts to wail. "Stop lying! I hate you! I hate you!"

Pandora runs into her room, the door rattling in its frame as it slams. She collapses onto her bed, unable to breathe through the tears.

She must fall asleep, because the next thing she knows, Thea is sitting on the side of her bed. "Pandora? Honey?"

Pandora looks up at her sister. "Is the baby okay?"

"Amity's sleeping. But Mama isn't—she's not here right now, remember?"

Pandora blinks. "Not here… right now?"

Thea takes a steadying breath. "Yeah, sissy. She—she left."

Whenever Mama leaves, she comes back. Pandora exhales, wiping tears from her face. "She's the best mama in the world, Thea! She probably just went to the grocery store."

"Uh-huh." Thea's voice sounds weird—like she just swallowed a stone.

"Or—or she's on vacation now that she isn't sick anymore!"

"Maybe."

"And she'll come back and tell us everything she's seen."

"Y-yeah."

"Right, Thea? Won't she?"

Thea wraps Pandora in a hug. "We have to look out for each other now. More than ever. I'll take care of you, but you're gonna be a big sister now. Can you watch out for Amity and keep her safe?"

Mama always says to look out of each other. She always says to be good.

Pandora hugs Thea so tight, and she doesn't let go. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't hate you, sissy."

Thea lets out a shaky breath and strokes her hair. "I know, baby."

"And I'll take care of Amity until Mama comes back. Then we'll be happy."

"Happy," Thea whispers. She fluffs Pandora's comforter and turns for the door, not seeming to notice Pandora watching from the corner of her eye. Thea's face curls into sadness, the door failing to muffle her sobs.

…

EIGHT YEARS AGO

You can barely see past the smoke in Eight.

The factories are like palaces, coughing clouds through the smokestacks and scenting the air acrid. Most kids start coughing by three and don't stop.

Nylon's mom's a healer, but even she can't scrub the marks of Eight from his lungs.

But being inside isn't much of a help—at least, not for Nylon. He stopped attending school because they were going to die if they didn't get more money, and the idea of reading picture books while munching on cookies as his mother starved was laughable. Mama cried the day he told her he was going to start work, but not for anger at him. It was only one of those continuous moments where she realized what kind of a life they were living.

Now he stands among giant machines twice his size, working threads to make silk. The sound of tiny metal teeth clinking is deafening.

He doesn't have friends for two reasons. First, because you don't make friends in the factory where a single word or glance away from the machine earns a whipping and a reduction of salary at minimum. But mostly it's because Nylon doesn't have any room to care for someone else. If he gets attached to Vinyl or Jeanette, he'll have to watch their fingers being lost in a sewing machine or their little shoes wearing through from constantly pressing the pedals.

And not only that, because he already sees those minuscule destructions that turn into tragedies every day. He'll have to know that he can't help—or no, that he won't help. He'll sleep with the guilt of passivity on his chest.

But he doesn't have to be guilty because he doesn't care about all these nameless kids in the choking smoke. And if it weren't for his mom, he wouldn't be working here at all—he'd be sleeping in the cold gutter with ashes in his hair. He'd be swallowed by Eight.

In front of him, the threads weave in and out. He watches them carefully, making sure not to let them get tangled.

The only reason he's working at all is because of his mother. He doesn't worry too much about his own well-being, but his mother survived a war and the loss of her husband and she'll survive to see some amount of peace if it's the last thing he does.

It's smoky in Eight but it's also colder than anything. The wind rattles the windowpanes at night.

Nylon jostles the machine, causing the shirt to slip. He hurriedly rescues it, examining the hole in the collar. Quicker than a flash, one of the overseers is next to him.

"Look what you did!" He wags a finger in Nylon's face. "We can't give this to the Capitol! They'd be horrified!"

Nylon shrinks away from the man. He reminds himself of what he'll gain.

His meekness seems to calm the man somewhat. He heaves a frustrated sigh, wrenches the shirt from Nylon's hands, and tosses it into the scrap pile.

The bell rings. Kids lift heavy heads, blinking slowly, and begin to shuffle out with hunched shoulders. Nylon does what he's always done best—he melts into the crowd. He becomes no one but also everyone.

And as he walks past the scrap pile, he slips the shirt beneath his arm.

Nobody notices. Nobody cares. And it's good that they don't, because he doesn't either.

When he gets through the door, Mama's not home. She'll still be at work, most likely. He sits down at the table and begins to mend the hole in the collar. He'll either sell it on Sunday or keep it—their clothes have become little more than rags at this point.

They've only one more can of beans. He stares at the food, tapping his finger on the edge before setting it aside. He'll be fine without it.

He's not sure when Mama will be home. He pops off the lid all the same and leaves the beans to drain.

Leaving the kitchen, he climbs into bed with his clothes still on—he doesn't have the energy to change—and pulls the blankets up to his chin. Distantly, he hears the door open and shut.

"Ny?"

For the first time all day, Nylon allows himself to smile.

"Nylon." The door swings open and Nylon's mother comes inside. Nylon throws back his blanket and runs into her arms.

"My baby," she whispers, combing her fingers through his hair. Her hugs are strong and her eyes are fierce—she has all the light and life that Nylon has never been able to muster.

"How was work?" Nylon says.

Mama smiles. "It was wonderful! Got promoted at the café."

Nylon lets out a little breath of relief. Mama works three jobs simultaneously, juggling them with more expertise than any circus clown. But even with every spare minute spent on the job, she still barely gets recognized at work for what she does.

"Did you eat today? I can see your ribs!"

Nylon looks away guiltily. "I'm fine."

Mama puts her hand gently under Nylon's chin, lifting his face until they're eye level.

"I know what you're doing. And I am so grateful that you're so selfless and kind—"

"I'm not." Nylon shakes his head quickly.

"But," she continues, "you're not supposed to be a grown-up yet. And you're certainly not supposed to be taking care of me."

"We're going to die if I don't." Nylon says it simply, softly.

Mama sighs and pulls him close again. "Do you want to know what would make me the happiest?"

He nods.

"Seeing you healthy and safe. That's what matters."

"But I want that for you, too," Nylon says.

Mama sighs. "I know." She exhales shakily, a moment of broken despair, far removed from the bravery he's used to. "I never thought you'd have to do this. I thought I could keep you safe."

"It's okay, Mama," Nylon whispers. "I don't mind, really. And it's not your fault. It's the world."

"Oh, my darling."

There are tears in Mama's eyes—and when Nylon blinks, he feels the sting of salt.

Mama takes a steadying breath. "Do you want a story?"

"Yes," he whispers. "Something happy."

…

Sammy Kalakari is ten years old, and everything is right in the world.

The pavement is all sparkly with the rain. He splashes in the puddles and watches the water disperse and coalesce.

"Look, Sammy, I found a ladybug!" Delphine, his best friend in the world, runs up to him brandishing a stick.

"Oh, careful." Sammy gently takes the stick from Delphine, watching the little bug crawl down its length and onto his fingertip. Its little legs tickle. He grins.

"She's so pretty," Delphine says, absentmindedly brushing the hair from their eyes.

"I think I should name her. She looks like a Mia to me."

"Mia." Delphine nods. "I like it."

It's a rare summer day of freedom for Sammy. Not that he dislikes staying inside studying up and reading the latest books by Capitol politicians, not at all! Just that the sky is so beautiful and blue and all-embracing today. And he hasn't been able to see Delphine for months.

"How are your parents?" Sammy knows all the right questions to ask and the social games to play—? mother the mayor has been teaching him ever since he spoke his first word. But it doesn't feel forced with Delphine—it feels just right.

Delphine's face falls. "I…" They stare at their shoes, old trainers with worn-through toes. Sammy hopes Delphine doesn't notice his brand-new sneakers, polished with such precision that they gleam in the sunlight. It doesn't feel right that he should have them.

(Sometimes he wonders if he ought to have anything at all. His parents are always telling him—)

"Can I tell you something?" Delphine looks around shyly, searching the corner, not for a moment looking at Sammy.

"Of course!" Sammy reaches out and squeezes Delphine's shoulder. He's unsure if he's doing it right—his parents don't really even do things like hug or kiss him, let alone squeeze his shoulder. "You can tell me anything. We're best friends."

Delphine looks too sad to be a kid. The corners of their mouth draw into a frown. "I think we're gonna lose our house."

"What?" Sammy almost drops the ladybug. "I don't understand. You mean you're going to move?"

"No—well. Yes. Kind of. We don't have enough money for the house, so the Capitol's going to take it from us."

"They're going to steal your house?" Sammy shakes his head. "My mom's the mayor—I'll just tell her and she'll fix everything, Del, I promise—"

"Son."

Sammy feels a peculiar jolt in his stomach—almost like fear, but that would be crazy because it's just his mom, standing on the porch, calling out to him. His mom who loves him, who wants him safe.

"Come inside this instant," she says.

Sammy looks helplessly back at Delphine. "Just a minute! I'm with—"

"Inside. Now."

"Y-yes, Mother." Sammy begins walking on instinct before remembering Delphine. He turns back, only briefly, struggling for words. "I'm sorry…"

Del looks hurt. They shake their head.

"I'll tell her everything," he whispers. "Don't worry. I'll help you."

Delphine doesn't answer. They turn and walk down the street toward home.

Sammy drags his feet despite himself. He wasn't ready to come home yet. He and Delphine were going to play—they hadn't seen each other in such a long time because school was out and he was so busy, always busy.

He looks up at his mother as he mounts the steps, his expression completely polite as she and Father had taught. "Hello, Mother. Was there something I could help with?"

"Did I not tell you to come inside?" She throws him a frosty smile.

Sammy ducks his head. "I—you did, Mother. I apologize."

But she's already turning away, pushing open the door. A cool draft comes from inside the house with its colorless drapes and white tablecloths. Sammy can't help but feel stifled by it all—

But no. Those are bad thoughts. He shouldn't—can't—think them.

He sits across from his mother, who is watching him with almost piercing focus.

"You are not to see that child again."

"What, Delphine?" Sammy stares at his mother, stricken.

"If that's their name, then yes. They are beneath you—far, far beneath you. They are not good enough for this family."

"But…" Sammy doesn't feel brave enough for this. He's never been brave—only weak. He clears his throat, fighting back tears. "But they're going to lose their house. I thought we could help—"

Mother starts to laugh, but it's a cruel sound that only builds until it's loud enough to drown out Sammy's words.

(He's so small.)

"You really are delusional, aren't you?" She lifts his chin. "My son. You know how important it is that we stay in favor with the Capitol."

"Of course," he whispers.

"And we've been so tired lately, so in need of assistance."

"I could help! I want to help."

A smile blooms, like magic, on her face. "You're such a good boy, Sammy. I know you are. But sometimes you have traitorous thoughts, don't you? Thoughts that are not helpful."

Sammy swallows. "Yes."

"Do you like having those thoughts, Sammy? Do you enjoy dishonoring the family?"

"N-no!"

She kisses him on the cheek, quick and sharp. "Good. Otherwise we'd have difficulties."

"I—I don't want that." He blinks back tears.

"Are you really crying?" Mother stares at him like he's gotten Chicken Pox. "How disgraceful. You must act your age, my son."

"I'm sorry." He scrubs furiously at his eyes. "I'll do better, I promise."

He had promised Delphine too, hadn't he? But maybe promises get broken. Maybe they have to be for other, bigger ones to be made.

"See that you do." She turns, opening the door to her office. "And son?"

He sorely misses his own name on her lips. It's so rare that she uses it. "Yes?"

"Stay inside."

The door swishes closed.

And it's only then that Sammy looks down and realizes Mia the ladybug is gone.

…

Hi my dears! That was a rollercoaster! Thank you so much for reading it :) for context, I've chosen to focus on a past event for each of the kids, going chronologically for how old they were at the time! So Arden was six, Pandora was eight, and Nylon and Sammy were ten. I hope you enjoyed! I love you all so muchly :) the chapter title is from "As A Child" by Madeline the Person. Talk to you all soon!

Much Love,
Miri