A Finch's Lullaby

by The_Ballad_of_Evin_Mauve_Baird

Summary:

The Hunger Games are thriving. 25 years after the Dark Days, Evin Mauve Baird hopes to avoid yet another reaping. However, just months prior to Reaping Day, the newly-elected President Coriolanus Snow annouced that for the first time ever, a Quarter Quell would be held to mark the first quarter of a century of the Hunger Games. The twist? Each of the 12 Districts are to elect the pair of tributes for the annual slaughter. It doesn't appear the odds are in Evin Mauve's favor.

ALL CHAPTERS EARLIER THAN CHAPTER 22 (or whenever the narration starts being in third person) IS GOING TO BE RE-WRITTEN ONCE THE WHOLE STORY IS OUT!!! I've realized certain plot points aren't great and or are not fleshed out enough, and thanks to Sunrise on the Reaping adding some stuff to cannon I'm going to work around what I've most recently written and feel is the most important parts of Evin Mauve's life in Panem!!!

Thank you for reading anyway, and I hope you continue to read! Updates happen every so often

Chapter 1: His Name was Called out, to Be a Killer.

At first it’s just dark. So, so dark. Then, a bright spotlight lights up the all-to-familiar stage, fitted with two giant bowls. One bowl is filled to the brim, and the other, on the left side of this sickening stage, had one, singular slip of paper in it. My hand reaches into the bowl, fiddling around until I find the slip. In the crowd, My friends and family members are staring, girls are giggling, and the boys are holding in laughter. Opening the folded piece of paper, I see my name, in carefully placed letters.
I startle awake, bright light flooding my vision. “Just a nightmare,” I tell myself. But it doesn’t calm me. A little over 6 months ago, the newly inaugurated President Coriolanus Snow announced the twist to the first Quarter Quell. I replay the scene in my head, not being able to squash the panic that rises in my chest at the memory. “On this, the 25th Anniversary of the Hunger Games, to remind the rebels that their children are dying because of their choices, this year, the twenty-four tributes will be chosen, through a series of ellections, held by each of the twelve Districts”. I remember thinking how vile of a man he is. How can he possibly rule over us and use the Hunger Games as a way to silence us? Whatever, I think. Can’t do anything about it.
Sitting on my bed, I’m realizing just how real that nightmare could be. In a few hours, I could be hearing the Mayor say my name, saying I won the election, and are now to die in the Hunger Games. To think that I’ve somehow made the whole of District Eight hate me enough to want me dead is ridiculous. Definiatly didn’t help when me and the former Mayor’s son had a little thing going on, and he made me look as terrible as possible when I ended things. He was, still is, a brat. My Grandma said it would all be ok, that nothing would come of it. But here I am, the day of the Reaping, scared that this will be my last day in Eight. It's all her fault, really. She told me that she and my grandpa had been a part of some moving band, but wanted to settle down and grow a family. Now they live here. So much help that brings me, because now everyone treats me like an outsider. She never seems to shut up about it.
I stand up, deciding it’s time to get ready. Rather get ready now then when I’m shaking from fear. The one nice thing about District Eight is that all our clothes are decently colorful. Not exactly new, but very bright compared to what people in District Eleven and Nine wear. If I’m going to go up on that stage, I want to wear something I love. I put on a simple collared shirt, although that's not very colorful, and button it up. I have a matching set of pants and a vest, both made out of corduroy. My grandma says it's from my dad’s Covey days, and it must be because there is no way anyone in the Districts could ever afford matching corduroy pants and a vest that is decorated with embrodered flowers. It’s beautiful, really. Pulling the vest over my shirt, I notice a button is loose. Great, of course one is. I walk into the small cramped sewing room and grab a needle and some thread. Why do we even need a sewing room? We work in the factories with almost no free time. Turns out losing a rebellion 25 years ago means you get off of work at 8pm.
Buttoning up my vest, I turn to my mirror. It’s a broken little thing, something I found in the trash when I was 5. Quickly, I mess with my hair, trying to tame the dark auburn waves. It’s no use, but now it’s at least out of my face.
Putting my boots on, I hear the door open. Must be Momma, I think, standing up.
“Momma?” I ask, “Is that you?” I’m met with silence. The footsteps are coming to my room. I start to back away from the door, hitting my bed with the back of my knees. Maybe it’s just me being anxious, and I’ve seemed to be very on edge this morning. The door creaks open, revealing the one person I thought would never talk to me again. The person I never wanted to talk to again. How he even remembered where my house is will remain a mystery, as he’s only ever been here once. What's an even bigger mystery is how he got in. Doesn’t matter, I don’t want him to talk. I just want him to leave me alone.
“Evin, I-” Merino starts.
“No, get out of my house. I don’t want to see you. Or talk to you. And how many times do I need to tell you my name is Evin Mauve?” I spit out. He’s just standing there, acting like my anger is misplaced. Like his father is not about to call my name from a slip of paper. Like I’m not going to be dead in a week because of him. He pulls something from his pocket. A scarf. My scarf.
“You left this at my house. I just thought I would give it back to you” he says. He doesn’t seem like his usual cocky self. I reach out and take it. My grandmother made me this scarf. I give him a curt nod, telling him he needs to leave. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anymore and I hear the front door slam.
Well, at least I have my scarf back. It’s made of yarn, with two little pockets at each end. It’s mainly dark purple, but it has a lot of different colors woven into the fabric in it as well. I wrap it around my neck. It might be cold in the arena, and this might as well be my token. Now with nothing to do but ponder my thoughts, and think about why Merino decided to bring it back today of all days. Of course I know why, I just don’t want to think about it.
A little past One-Thirty, I start walking to the town square. Our reaping doesn’t start until Three-Thirty, as District Twelve doesn’t kick off the yearly program ‘till Two pm. My grandma was still asleep when I left, and I’ve yet to see my mom. Guess I’ll get to see them before they take me to the Capitol. The closer I get to the square, the more busy it starts to get. Not nessciaraly from the reaping, but people just out shopping. Which is weird because we are all so poor our houses are falling apart, and today is Reaping Day. Reaping Day never feels this joyous.
As I continue to make my way past the crowds, I smell the lovely scent of fresh bakery bread. How I wish I could afford it! I check my pockets, hoping to find some change. Typically things are cheaper on Reaping Day, so I should only need three or four coins to buy a roll. Fiddling in my pocket, I find two coins. This will have to do. As I enter the bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread is overwhelming. My stomach makes a growling noise, letting everyone know that I haven’t eaten yet. The baker comes and greets me, a surprisingly warm welcome for someone who most likely has sentanced me to death. It doesn’t take any haggiling to get the bread for two coins, and soon I’m outside biting into its deliciously fluffy flesh. The bread is quickly devoured.
The shortcut I took to get the bread took enough time that now a stedy stream of people are walking to the square. I walk alone, my head tilted slightly down. I can feel the eyes of the people from my district. They must know what they have done to me, and the only real surprise of this reaping will be the unlucky girl who was unjustly voted in. As I reach the square, I get in the long line of sixteen year olds, waiting to get checked in. My nerves are going crazy now. I don’t want my nightmare to come true, but judging by the looks I’m getting, it’s almost impossible that my name won’t get called. Still, I have some hope. I walk over and stand in the area designated to the sixteen year old boys. I’m almost hyperventilating now, and trying to stay callm is getting harder. The doors of the Justice building swing open revealing the mayor. Mayor Weaver stands at around six feet tall, and is paper thin. His skin looks like it one day was a honey brown, but now is a sickly gray, giving him a disgusting appearance. Mayor Weaver is reading the Treaty of Treason, and explaining the rules of the Hunger Games. “However, on this, the Twenty-fifth Annual Hunger Games and First Quarter Quell, the tributes are to be voted into the arena by their fellow district citizens” He booms. This is it. Two peacekeepers bring a box to the Mayor, which shocks me at first, until I realize that it must have the names of the two poor souls who are to be killed. One of them is most likly mine. Or at least I think one is. The mayor opens the latch, and pulls out an envelope. Breaking the seal of District Eight, he says, “The Female Tribute from District Eight, with 6,483 votes, Polly Quail!”. I can hear a faint yelp from the girls section, no doubt the shock from the name pulled. If I can remember correctly, Polly Quail is only thirteen years old. I can’t see any reason as to why 6,000 people would vote her in, and being three years older than her I’ve never really met her. Anyway, the population of District Eight is only a little over 122,000 people, and 6,000 people is a ton. I can only guess at how high the votes for me are. Polly has gotten to the stage now, and I can only see how small and scared she looks. I must be wrong about her age, as she looks around ten, but must be at least twelve. Anyway, the mayor is now opening up the other envelope, breaking the seal and taking the slip of paper out. I brace myself, hoping that I’m wrong, that I’m not going to be called to that stage. Mayor Weaver takes a breath, and the hint of a smile on his face tells me excatly what is about to happen. “The male tribute from District 8, with 19,462 votes, Evin Mauve Baird ''.

Chapter 2: His Mother Embraced Him

Summary:

Evin Mauve has to deal with the aftermath of his reaping... and an unwanted face comes to see him off to the Capitol.

A mixture of emotions swirl through me all at once. Part of me is relieved to know that I wasn’t worrying for nothing, while another part of me is appalled that twenty thousand people want me dead. I feel like passing out, maybe even just dying here at the reaping. But no. And it’s the faces of my peirs looking at me that brings me back. A few look saddened, others are quite jovial. I take a deep breath and turn out of the crowd. I make my way to the small strip that spilts the boys and girls in half. I can see their faces out of the corner of my eyes, and every once in a while I turn and glare. I can hear laughter somewhere. I’m climbing up the stairs and staring Mayor Weaver dead in the eyes. The faint smile on his mouth has grown larger, and I can see his crooked teeth. As I turn to face the crowd, I see all of their faces. This will be the last time I see any of them. I feel my eyes start to water, and I can’t let it happen if I want to get sponsors. Finally, after what seemed like years, the mayor has started his closing speech, and his squeaky voice is driving me insane.

Looking out at the crowd one last time, I turn and walk into the justice building. It's funny how closely my life reflects my ballad. Looking around the justice building, I see how truely ornate it is. The place is beautiful, with its high ceilings and painted patterns, but I hate it. It smells like him. Even with its extravagance, it's still as run down as the rest of the District. Anyway, I’m escorted into a room in which I will get to say my final goodbyes. Each session is supposed to last three minutes, if you have anyone come. Which, I hope, I at least have one. I sit down on the plush sofa, finally taking in my death sentance. Oddly, I’m not incredably nervous. I can fight, or at least I hope I can. Only time will tell, I guess.
The soft padding of footprints makes its way to the door, stopping. I hear a small murmur of conversation before the handle turns, and the door creaks open, revealing my mother and grandmother. My mother is upset, tears streaming down her face. I’m so happy to see their faces. Quickly, they wrap me in an embrace, crying into my shoulders. “I’ll be ok, don’t worrry. If I don’t make it home, Mamma, are you listening?” She looks up at me, momentarily stopping the tears. “If I don’t make it back here, you gotta take care of Grandma and you. You’re gonna have to work extra hard to feed yourselves now that I won’t be here to help”

She looks at me with such sadness that my heart aches. I’ve not seen her like this since my father died. It was an awful illness. I remember hearing a similar conversation between them the night he passed, and I wonder if she is reliving those fleeting moments. She wraps her arms around my head, kissing my forehead as she says, “I’ll take care of us, but you need to take care of yourself too. I won’t ever lose hope that you’ll return to me. I love you, my Evin Mauve. Don’t ever forget who you are''. And with that, the Peacekeepers are taking them away and out of the room. My head is spinning from worry. I won’t ever know what will become of my family, but I can only hope that they don’t suffer as they watch me get brutally murdered at the Bloodbath. I realize now that I have been crying. I was trying to hold it in but the moment my mother started talking I just couldn’t. I look over my shoulder to find a mirror. I must fix my face before they brand me as a weekling. Although that could work for me, I wouldn’t bet on it. I’ve just reached the mirror when I hear the door creak open and slam shut. I thought only my Mother and Grandmother would show their faces, but no. There he is, his dark face shining with tears. He looks so unlike his father, you wouldn’t even know he was his son if it weren’t for his last name. Merino Weaver stands there, tall and strong as ever. Unlike his father, his skin hasn’t turned a repulsive shade of gray, and is much more reminiscent of chocolate. Not that I've ever seen much chocolate, but one day he brought me some and I haven’t ever been able to get the comparison out of my head. He’s looking at me with such sadness it takes all of my being not to scream and yell at him. He doesn’t deserve to be crying over me. I don’t know why he is here. “What do you want Mernio?” I ask, wishing he could just disappear.
“I’m sorry”

I wasn’t excpecting that. I was excpecting him to just turn around and leave, not an ‘I’m sorry’. I wish I couldn’t feel my face heat up, no doubt spreading red slpotches over my face. I truely don’t know how to respond to his apology, and that's upsetting me more. He’s walking closer to me, backing me into a corner. I hate this. Why can’t he just leave me alone? Why does he get the pleasure of being the last person I see from home before I die? I won’t give him this satisfaction. The closer he gets, I can smell the deturgant used to clean that stupid suit. It smells so sickly sweet that I start to feel lightheaded. I must show it because he puts a hand on my shoulder. His touch feels like fire, burning into my skin with the heat of a thousand suns. I don’t want this. My head lifts up, staring into his eyes, wishing he would just back away. He’s awfully close, much closer than I want him to be. To my luck, a loud knock sounds on the door, signaling his time is over. He starts to turn away, looking guilty. Well, not guilty enough. He reaches out for my collar, and drags me into a short, but incredably agonizing, kiss. I’m truly speechless as we separate. This isn’t out of character for him, yet still surprising. “Goodbye Merino,” I stutter, “I hope you enjoy watching me die ''. I gave him a shove as I burst through the door. A Peacekeeper is waiting on the other side. He looks startled, and starts to question me. I cut him off. “I’m ready to go, sir”. Truthfully, I am. District Eight has been my one and only home, but after today's revelations, I want to leave this horrid place. Still, I will miss it.
As I wait with the Peacekeeper, I can hear Polly’s sobs. I can’t blame her, but she had to have seen this coming. People wouldn’t just vote her in for no reason. The odds of that many people voting for the same girl at random is impossible. I won’t bring it up, at least not until she's calmed down from the shock of it all. Still, I can’t help but ask questions to the peacekeeper next to me. After all, he might know.

“Do you happen to know why Polly got reaped?” I ask the question, cutting through the silence of the hall. I might have been too bold, but what else do I have to lose?

He shakes his head, before saying, “Nope. I do know why you’re here, though.”

Of course he does. Everyone does.

“That's not what I was asking. Any idea as to why you felt the need to bring it up?” I snap. I’m digging myself a hole that I’m not going to get out of.

He turns and looks at me bewildered. I see hurt cross his face. Must have been babied his whole life because that can’t possibly have hurt him that badly. After all, I’m the one who’s going to die. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I utter, “Sorry”. God I’m stupid. Always apologizing for things I haven’t done.

He looks confused for a second, and almost is about to speak when Polly walks out of her designated room. Her face is pale and stained with tears. I walk over to her, offering my hand. I whisper a few words trying to calm her, and it appears to be working. “Let's not give them the satisfaction of seeing our tears.” I whisper into her ear. At this she brightens. A bit louder I say, “The moment we walk out that door, Polly Quail, we’re going to be laughing like we are old friends, like I’ve known you since you were born. you got it?”. She nods her head, looking less afraid now.

The door is right in front of us, so I take her arm in my arm and push the door open. I can feel the eyes looking at us, making Polly visibly tense. A little to the left, I see a square-faced old man looking on at us. I whisper into her ear, pointing him out to her. Quickly, a small giggle escapes. Then we’re just talking out in the open, about our favorite colors, fabrics, weather buttons are the ‘thing’ of this year, and whether or not we like them in general. Nevermind that my vest has buttons and my fellow tribute's shirt is covered in them. The cameras are rolling, and the people of the Capital will love this.

Now we’re waiting to get on the train, gossiping about potential dramas that could occur after we leave. It’s actually cheering me up, and it almost feels real. The moment we step on the train, however, that all goes away. We both stare in awe. I know that the Capital has been enhancing the train’s quality in the past few years, but never have I heard of something like this. This is luxury. Crystal bowls, plates, and glasses fill a table. Above, a crystal chandelier hangs. Me and Polly sit down onto the velvet chairs, something few in our District, or any District, can afford.

The conversation has ended, leaving an awkward silence in the room. I’m snapped out of my stupor the moment I see that Peacekeeper walk into this car. Of course he is coming along. He just stares for a second, making me feel self conscious. I don’t know why, but I feel the heat in my face start to swell. Maybe it's the tears. He then introduces himself as Caius Blandus Caeso, and that he is going to be our escort. Great. Seems like I won’t be getting rid of this Caius Caeso anytime soon. He informs us in a slight accent that our Mentors will be here shortly.
His accent is puzzling. It doesn't have the drawl that we have in District 8, yet doesn’t have the sqeakyness of anyone from the Capitol. Maybe he’s from One or Two? His name is so ridiculous that he can’t be from anywhere else. Not that I care.

With this final message, he leaves to go check on the food. Polly is still awestruck, clearly not having heard Caius at all. Then she looks at me, with a wide eyed expression on her face. “Are the rumors true? Did you really do that to Merino?” she squeaks. My blood goes cold. I wasn’t expecting her to ask. “No, I didn’t. But there is no use in trying to prove my innocence when the whole of District Eight already thinks I did,” The venom in my voice is so thick that I can feel my saliva thicken.

“Sorry. It's just that I’ve been questioned about it so much. Merino was the one that did the assaulting, anyway. But none of them would believe me over that darling Weaver boy.” Polly just looks at me with shock. After we broke up, Merino tried to spin the reason why around me. He hadn’t gotten far, but it had been enough over my boundaries that I broke up with him. So he naturally said I had sexually assulted him, even though it had been the other way around. No matter though. We both turn our heads at the sound of a door sliding open. There, our one and only mentor stands there.
“Hello, Evin, and Polly,” Woof says. The one Victor from District Eight so far. He won the 8th or 9th Hunger Games, and the age is showing on his face. Oddly, the simple way he says my name angers me enough that I correct him; “It’s Evin Mauve. Not just Evin”. He appolgises, laying it on thick as to not be genuine. He knows where I’m headed and that it won’t matter what he calls me. He motions for us to move to the diner table, and Polly and I move accordingly.

Just as he sits down, the food arrives. It looks spectacular. The scent alone is enough to make me drool. However, the small bout of questioning and today's events have squashed my appetite. Still though, I can’t resist this amazing food, and when they bring out bread pudding for dessert, I can’t help but eat three servings. I finish my dinner way too full for my own good, and decide it’s time to go to bed. Which, I find out, that the Capitol has given us each a full train car to ourselves. As much as I hate what the Capitol does to us, I can’t help but wish I lived there. Away from the games.
I sit on the bed, fully taking in for the first time today where I am headed, and who is heading there with me. Polly is, and she confirmed this on our walk to the train, thirteen years old. And here I am, at sixteen, having to hold myself together so that I can be strong for this little girl. She already feels like a little sister, and I can’t help but to want to her live. But here I am, so ready to die but not wanting too. I take off my vest and scarf, preparing for a shower.

The shower is wonderful. It is a little overwhelming, as it has a dozen or so buttons that can change anything to the water pressure to soap scents. I end up getting soap in my eyes too, and even the wonderful scent of apples can’t erase the pain. I’m one of the few people in Eight to have been in a shower, as Merino has one in his fathers estate. But that shower was nothing compared to this. I did wish I knew that the water came out freezing cold, because I ended up squealing from shock. I did find the knob to heat the water up, so I ended up in a room full of steam. I can feel my skin burning, but it’s so relaxing that I just let it grow pink before I even start to consider leaving the shower. Once I finally decided to stop scorching my skin, I quickly dry off my body before leaving the shower. I do vaguely remember grabbing a set of pajamas, and I’m glad I did. I get dressed in my undergarments as well as the fleece pj’s, and settle into bed. The pj’s are just a little too warm for the quilt I've been provided with, so I change into an obnoxiously large sweater. Why they even have this, I’m not sure. I am happy about it though. It's incredibly comfortable. Honestly, it’s not any cooler.
The moment I settle under the covers, I immediately feel exhausted. Today has been such a long, anxiety filled day. It’s only been a few hours since I left Eight, but I already miss it. Miss my mother and grandma, miss going to work on those peacekeeper uniforms that look so similar to the one that Caius was wearing. Maybe even he’s wearing one I’ve made. Odds are that he isn’t, but the odds haven’t always been the most favorable in recent times. My eyes start to shut, the weight of the day finally collapsing on me. If anything, I shouldn’t even be dreaming because of how tired I am. But I do dream tonight. And it's not a good dream.

Notes:

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: Hesitant Tears Fell on Her Bright Face

Summary:

Evin Mauve catches a conversation between Polly and their mentor, Woof, about who should win the 25ht Annual Hunger Games between the two kids from Eight.

I wake up with a start. Watching Polly stab my family in various ways finally got to me, and I can no longer fall back asleep. The darkness of my car is suffocating me, which certainly isn’t helping my situation. If anything, Polly could be waiting with a knife, wanting to get rid of me before the competition even begins. It would certainly help her odds.

A small cry for help escapes my lips, barely loud enough for me to hear. I’m trying to get out of the thick quilt that blankets me, but it’s just wrapping around my body. Full panic is setting in, and I’m truely screaming now. It’s stupid, really, but being in such a dark place unnerves me more than anything. I hit my head on the headboard, and it stings. It stings so bad. I need help. I can hear some footsteps coming to my room. The door slams open, and the light flicks on. I stop thrashing, finally able to see how tangled I am.

“Evin, are you okay?”

Crap. Of course it had to be Caius.

“Yeah, I think so.”

I’m so embarrassed. He’s just standing there, looking at me. I feel as if his eyes are piercing through my soul. Those amazingly blue eyes. Why am I thinking about his eyes?

“Ok then," and I hear him say in a soft whisper, "Goodnight, Evin.” Then he's gone.. It grates me slightly that people keep on calling me Evin, when my name is Evin Mauve, but I decide to let it go for now. I’m too tired to truly care. I adjust the thick quilt back to a comfortable position, leaving the lights on, and slowly fall asleep.

 

It’s around 8am when I wake up, and that is only because I can hear soft knocking on my door. I put on my precious vest and pants, deciding that I’m not ready to part with them yet. Opening up the door, I find none other than Caius. Of course he’s up and waking us up at such an ungodly hour. He looks a little ridiculous in his peacekeeper uniform, especially in such a fancy place. I will admit that it does fit him perfectly and rather suits him, however the ornate walls of this train make him stand out like a sore thumb.

“Breakfast is on the table, we will be arriving in the Capitol in a few hours”, as he turns away, I see the bags under his eyes. I can’t help but think it's from my screaming last night. Nonetheless, I begin to walk to the dining car. I can hear a small amount of chatter coming from Woof and Polly as I near the door. The door unfortonatly opens up, and I catch the tail end of the conversation.

“Yes, well, he doesn’t seem like someone who anyone wants to come home. I mean, twenty thousand people wanted him gone. I’d rather you get back home” I hear Woof say. So he’s going to just, what, let me die? Well, I’m sure there was someone who wished he had died during his games. Granted, probably only one or two, not twenty-thousand, but someone must have. I just stare in the doorway, staring him down as he continues his speech. Of course I want Polly to survive, but his blatant disregard for my own life grates me.

“I’m sure the mayor will be very pleased if he doesn’t come home,” He slows down the end of the sentence as he realizes that I’ve heard. Polly’s eyes widen, and her cheeks reden. Woof glares at me. “Good morning, Mr. Baird. I heard you had a rough night”. He smirks. I hate him. Maybe he should have died all those years ago. “I did. So, heard ya’ll been talking about who should get out of that arena alive. Glad to know you’ve already made a decision”.

He just sits there, looking rightfully ashamed. I plop down into the seat, and start filling my plate. There is an awkward silence while we sit here and eat. This is so stupid. “Woof, how did you win?” I ask, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can truly consider the question. He looks up from his plate, staring daggers at me. “I killed the last boy. Plain and simple. Not much of a show back then”. The conversation ends there, and I galnce over at Polly. The poor girl is barely holding in her tears. Whether it is from shame or fear, I can’t tell. She should be crying for agreeing with Woof. Well, I'm great at making people feel guilty.

“So Woof, since you don’t wish for me to live, how should I make sure Polly comes home?” I say as polite as I can. If I’m destined to die in that arena, then I might as well try and get Polly home.

For once, I think he’s speechless. He must have been thinking I’d protest, maybe have some reservations before laying down my life so quickly. Maybe I should be protesting, but currently, I don't have the energy. “You want her to win, correct? Well I don’t think she’ll make it any longer than me if I just let her be. I wouldn’t even be surprised if she didn’t make it past our cornucopia.” Maybe I’m being too harsh, because Polly has fully started to cry. I’m not all that great with children. Toddlers I can handle, but teenagers are something of a mystery to me, even though I am one myself. “Polly, I’m not meaning to be pesimistic, but you must understand that no one has ever won these games under 15. Not once, in the past 10 years has someone under 14 gotten to the final 5. As much as I wish you could take care of yourself, I’m gonna have to help you. So, Woof, what do I need to do to make sure she comes home?” He swallows some water and clears his throught, louder than he needed too. “Well”, He starts “ You might want to start with the Bloodbath. That’s where we die most often.”

I nod. It makes sense, how almost no tribute from Eight makes it away from the Cornicopia. We aren’t the quickest kids. Or, occasionally, they get to the center and get stabbed by some tyrant kid from One or Two. They always win.

“So, I should find Polly and start running? I might not even make it to her,” I ask. I’m not even sure how I’m going to survive the Bloodbath myself, nevermind trying to get someone else out alive. Woof must understand how risky this whole plan is, as he says: “Well, It would help if we knew who your competition is. We still have a few hours ‘till we arrive at the Captiol. Should give us enough time to watch the other Reapings.”

Me and Polly sit on the couch as Woof finds the replay of this year's Reaping. We don’t talk, or even sit close to each other, just sit there and wait for the program to start. It feels like hours pass by before the anthem plays over the speaker, and soon we’re watching those poor kids from Twelve get chosen. Neither one looks like a threat, both of them are skin and bones and can barely walk up to the stage. They look very simular too. Even the amount of votes is the same. The Reaping goes by quickly, going from each district in a matter of minutes. After Twelve is Eight, we get to see our grief-stricken faces walking up to the Mayor. He looks even more ghostly on screen.

District Six and Three pass by without any notice, as their tributes look as much of a threat as always, Which isn’t much. The first real competitor I see is the Girl from Eleven. She’s massive. She has large, dark, burly muscles that show themselves through her sleeves. Her fellow tribute, however, is stick thin. District Ten is almost the reverse, with a strapping young man and a young girl being voted into the Arena together.

Not one other tribute makes an impression on me as large as the girl from Eleven and boy from Ten have. Sure, all four kids from One and Two are going to be tough to beat, but whoever wins the crown will probably be one of the other two. My mind can’t help but fantisize over which tribute will be the one to take me out. A shiver runs down my spine.

Woof silently stands up, and leaves the car. I don’t blame him. No doubt he’s thinking about how on earth he’s supposed to get one of us home now that he’s seen the competition. Maybe he won’t even try, using the excuse that our district didn’t want us no more. Doesn’t matter to me all that much, well maybe it does. Polly’s constant sobbing is starting to wear on me, and I'm starting to rethink if my sacrifice is the best idea. After my shower last night, I slipped out of my car and got a glass of water, and I heard her crying to one of the train attendants. At this point, I’m surprised that the train hasn’t flooded.

I decide I’m done with this act of friendship we’ve had going on. Sure, I don’t want her to die, but I want to die even less. Maybe it’s selfish of me, to put my life over hers, but nothing anyone does in the Hunger Games isn’t selfish. No one kills out of selflesness. I mean, the name of the game is to win by killing the others, right? Why should I have to die just because someone younger than me is also going in here with me? I guess you could say I’ve lived longer. “Hey Polly?” I say, trying to keep my voice level,“I’m gonna go get more rest before we arrive in the Capitol.” I truly just want to forget about her entirely and not worry about how terrible of a person that makes me. Maybe I deserve this.

As I enter my train car, I’m stopped by Caius. What now? “Excuse me, but we are 15 minutes away from reaching the station.”

“And this concerns me how?”

“O-oh well, um, once we get into the Capitol-,” his face has turned a bright shade of red, and I can’t possibly believe I’ve made him blush, “ -a stylist will escort you to a room to get you ready for the Tribute Parade”. Wait. Stylist? Tribute Parade? I feel like I’ve just been knocked off my feet. Sure, stylists aren’t a brand new ordeal, but this parade is. Never, in the past 24 years, has the Hunger Games had a parade. Must be one of the new additions to make more of a spectacle of us. “What time is this parade?” I ask. A whole new level of panic has begun to set in. Not only am I going to have to perform in the games themselves, but now I must perform before them as well. “Around 8p.m. I believe,” Caius says, finally regaining his composure. And with a curt nod of his head, he’s gone.

Chapter 4: The Parade of Tumbleweeds

Summary:

I watch as District One and Two disappear into the street, and our cart rolls foward. How they are going to keep the horses calm is a mystery to me, well a mystery until I peer over the front and spot a driver. Three and Four are gone now, and we move closer.

Five and Six have vanished behind the large doors, and Seven is moving towards them.

After Seven is Eight.

The rest of the train ride is just as uninteresting as it has been. The most exciting thing to happen is the screech of the train arriving in the Capitol Station. I quickly put on my boots, tying the laces as tight as possible without cutting off circulation. Polly is outside my door, waiting patiently for my guidance. After ten minutes of deliberation in my head, I’ve decided I should just ally with her. If it somehow comes down to us two, well then, that’s a decision for future me to make. But I’m no longer going to just let her take her chances and die by herself. That’d be cruel, and while I’m not the dullest thorn in the bush, I’m not cruel.

Our arms linked together, we meet with Woof and Cauis by the exit of the train. Through the door I can hear slight chanting. In the distance I hear another train leave and another train arrive, both of which must have been carrying tributes as the screaming gets louder. I feel sick. I don’t ever remember any victor talking about how happy the crowds at the station were to see them, but to be honest, I’ve only ever met one victor and he’s standing right next to me. Cauis looks at us, then very swiftly, slides the door open.

The train station is so bright I have to squint. I realize that there isn’t a step down, and that I’ll have to jump. Cauis is on the ground already, so I help him get Polly down. Woof jumps down swiftly, and it’s my turn now. The car sits about five feet away from the ground, but it seems like an impossibly far jump for me to make. I look at Cauis, pleading, and he holds out his arms. This is so embarrassing. I should not be scared of five feet. I jump, but almost completely miss his grasp. He catches my arm right as my left ankle rolls out from under me, and a sharp pain shoots through my leg. Crap. He helps me up, and tries to hide me from the crowd. “You ok?” He asks. Really, he’s doing way too much. I nod my head, fully thinking I’ll be able to walk. Polly and Woof are halway down the alley created by the cheering crowd, and have now turned back to watch as I almost fall after taking my first step. Thankfully Cauis still has a firm grip on my arm. “Maybe you should keep holdin' on.” I grit, trying to stifle the amount of pain I'm in. A small smirk appears on his face, and he takes my arm in his, just like me and Polly did at the station.

We walk, more like he drags me to the truck waiting outside, without any more incident. He very gently lifts me up into the back, deeming the ramp too difficult for me to walk up. Polly helps me onto the bench inside, and swiftly unties my boot. My ankle has turned a shade of purple, and a small amount of swelling tells me I did more than just sprain it. I hear Cauis in the front of the truck, talking to the other peacekeepers. Woof is inspecting my ankle when the truck starts making its way to the new Tribute Center.

“Yep, it’s at least fractured,'' he pouts. Well now I am for sure going to die now. There is no way I can win the Hunger Games on a broken ankle. Woof is putting my boot back on, deeming that they have enough support for me to walk in. The pain is excruciating, and I’m still sitting down. Maybe I can ask a doctor to fix me up before the games? I know the answer, so I don’t even bother asking.
A quick twenty minutes pass by, and the back of the truck is opening up. I realize just how much this seems like a cargo crate, and that disturbs me. Cauis is back again, and in an extremely graceful move, picks me up by the waist and twirls me down to the ground. I can tell he didn’t fully think it through, because the moment I hit the ground I let out a small yelp. A flash of concern passes through his face, yet again confusing me as to why he seems to care so much about me. “Sorry!” he says, and scrambles to help me up. Polly comes and helps him, and together they get me to the room my stylist is to dress me in for the parade. Cauis gives me a small pat on the back, and walks out of the room, leaving me alone. Odd.

The room is small and made of concrete, with a metal bench in the center. More of a bed than a bench. I’ve been sitting here for a good thirty minutes with no sign of life besides myself. Maybe they forgot about me? After spending the next ten minutes counting the tiled floor, the door opens up. A woman in her mid forties walks in, carrying a dress bag. She stands there and just looks at me for what feels like forever, before finally introducing herself; “Hello dear, my name is Faustina Friend. As you should be aware I am your stylist,” she pulls the bag onto the table, and unzips the zipper revealing what is inside.

”This, is your parade outfit.” She pulls it out by the hanger, and hangs it on a small metal rod on the wall.

I havent made a sound until I see it. A small gasp of horror escapes my lips. It’s truly hideous. I can’t even see the base outfit due to the hundreds of fabric strips sewn on it. It’s huge. Faustina looks at me, her face wearing a startling amount of makeup, gauging my reaction. “Is Polly wearin’ this too?” I ask. Her head nods slightly, still searching for how I feel about the garment. “Well, we only have a few hours to get you ready, so let us get to it,” Faustina suggests after the silence goes on for too long.

Next thing I know I’m dressed in what could be considered the flashiest thing ever worn in the history of Panem, and most definitely the ugliest. A thin layer of makeup cakes my face, hiding all my moles and freckles. I find I look rather odd without them, almost like I’m made up of the plastic fabric I often work with in the factories. It’s almost impossible to see, but the underclothes that the fabric is attached to is a dark red, and is made of something incredibly itchy. Hundreds if not thousands of strands of thread and fabric are attached to the top, falling down around me like water. Faustina is currently sewing a headpiece into my hair. It’s covered in buttons with a few strips of tulle flying off it. I have never looked more ridiculous.

Faustina has me stand in the center of the room, and just circles me. Every once in a while she will brush a stray strip of fabric back into its place. The shoes are flat, but have no support whatsoever. Simply standing here is awful, and I’m supposed to fight to the death in four days. Wonderful. Some peacekeeper knocks on the door, telling Faustina it’s showtime. She leads me out of the room and into the stables, well, more waits a good twenty feet for me to catch up, and I eventually get to my chariot. It’s a boring, simple thing, but I’m assuming it’s meant to be bland so we stand out more. I’m helped up, and almost fall off immediately. The horses used for this are new, and their trainers are trying to keep them calm. I hear some voice over an intercom followed by a giant roar. I don’t even realize Polly is next to me, dressed just as ridiculous, and equally scared. The roar has gotten louder, and I can faintly hear a countdown in the distance. Oh. It’s cheering.

I watch as District One and Two disappear onto the street, and our cart rolls foward. How they are going to keep the horses calm is a mystery to me, well, it was a mystery until I peered over the front and spot a driver. Three and Four are gone now, and we move closer.

Five and Six have vanished behind the large doors, and Seven is moving towards them.

After Seven is Eight.

The horses quickly stride out the door, out into the roaring crowds. They’re going fast enough that the thousands of colors sewn onto my body fly around me. So many lights are on, and I’m pretty sure we’re under some sort of spotlight. As the remaining four chariots enter the street, the cheers grow even louder. I’m about halfway through the parade when the thought hits me: I should be waving and smiling, not staring off into the beyond. A quick smile plasters intself on my face, and I give a shy wave towards the crowd. I catch a glimpse of myself on the large screen placed above the stands. The muted yet oddly vibrant colors bring out how red my hair is, and how blue my eyes are. I’m simply mezmorized by the sight of myself, and I began to think that I could make a decent Victor if I win. By Captiol standards, anyway.

Polly crosses my mind, and I peer over to her. She’s standing stock still, face white as snow. I nudge her with my elbow, and even that doesn’t draw a reaction. Trying to figure out what to do, I think of the odd games I’d play with my brother. He used to grab pieces of fabric and randomly hit me in the face, which never failed to make me laugh. If this incredibly dumb thing made my younger self happy, then maybe it will make her snap out of whatever trance she's in. Polly looks at me, bewildered, as a violet strand of fabric sides across her face, and she smiles. Next thing I know, we are doubled over laughing after a Polly hits me with a truly atrociously patterned square of fabric. Luckily, we are holding onto the sides hard enough that we don't fly away. After our laughing subsides, we stare up into the crowds, and following my lead, Polly begins to wave at our fans. Well, they scream out names as we go by, anyway.

Just as it started, the parade seems to end. My face is cold and numb when we enter the large roundabout, and our horses stop. Had it not been sewn into my hair, The button headpiece would have flown off. I hear a small crackle noise of a microphone, and watch as Presidant Snow peers down at us. He rambles on about the games and how important our sacrifices are. The speech is pretty boring, and I try not to yawn as his eyes pass over Polly and I.

He concludes his speech, but something feels wrong. It’s the way he’s staring at me, and how when I meet his eyes, they narrow. Our chariot has started to turn, and my eyes can’t help but break away. Was I imagining it? Or was the president truely staring daggers at me? The horses are leading us back down the street, back to where we shall stay, but I still feel the eyes of our beloved President Coriolanus Snow burning holes into the back of my head.

Chapter 5: The Large, Swollen Joint Painted in Violet

Notes:

Sorry guys, this is a very short chapter but I don't want to just make a large filler chapter, I want to give ya'll the juice!

Woof barely acknowledges us when we arrive at the Tribute Center. He simply leads us to the elevator, something that was purely magically to ride, and takes us to our quarters.

To put it simply, I don’t even think the factory I work in is as big as this place. The main area has a few couches and chairs, and is easily larger than my whole house. The back wall, which is where the dining room is, has giant windows that overlook the city. We are told by Woof to go change from these atrocious outfits before dinner, and I happily oblige. I realize that I no longer have my reaping clothes, and the loss of them hits me like a club in the neck. They’re pretty old, being my grandfather’s father who crafted them as a gift to his son. And naturally it got passed down to me after my older brother got reaped a few years back. We must be cursed because both my mother’s children have been reaped in this awful event.

It’s then that it hits me, of how not only have I lost my one connection to my dead brother, that I have also lost my token. That scarf that my grandma spent months making for me, is now gone. How I’m going to survive these next few days without it is beyond me.

My shower is short and cold, and I scrub my face near clean trying to get the make-up off. The shower thankfully had a built-in seat, so I wasn’t standing any more than I had to. Great. Another thing to worry about. My ankle has swollen up so much and is almost the same hue as my boots. Sitting under the cold water, I tried to move and stretch it. That was an awful idea because now it hurts enough to the point where I think I’m going to pass out. I’ve barely managed to slip on fresh undergarments and a pair of overalls when the pain forces me to sit on the bed. I’m so dead.

Chapter 6: The Good, Hearty, Soup of Woes

Summary:

ITS DINNER TIME oh and prep for the interview lol

Caius brings me out to the dining room just as the soup is served. It's a good, hearty soup with celery and meatballs. There is a wonderful drink made of a fruit called a lemon, which Caius tells me is called lemonade. I easily drink three glasses before Woof tells me to stop. Like drinking lemonade is going to be the reason I die. Polly is currently shoving mashed peas into her mouth at an alarming rate, and if anyone should be told to stop inhaling something it should be her. I don’t care though, Let her have at least one meal full of bliss.

Faustina and whoever Polly’s stylist had left to go prepare our interview costumes. The interviews are currently scheduled for tomorrow night, and during the first half of the day we are going to get some sort of training. Woof tells us it's new this year, and the gamemakers are going to give us a rating to base our odds off of. Those odds help us get sponsors and will get better as the games go on. Or that's what Woof tells us, anyway. Just another thing to worry about.

An Avox brings out a beautiful cake covered in wondrous colors. It’s a bit tacky, but in my day here in the Capitol, I’ve realized that most things here are tacky. Like the green and lime chairs we sit on that clash horribly with the dark brown walls. Whoever thought this was in good taste should be fired honestly.
Woof tells us to eat our slices quickly, because he wants to talk to us about our interviews. With the added training, there isn’t much time for him to couch us on what to say. He tells Caius to bring me to my room while he talks to Polly, wanting to keep our strategies private. That fact worries me slightly, because while everyone in District Eight knows why I’m here, The Capitol and the other Districts don’t. And considering the nature of these games and how many votes I got, if I don’t come up with something else I’m going to have to share it. And if the brief conversation with Polly over the matter a day ago was awkward, then telling Lucky Flickerman is going to be worse.

“Evin Mauve, you okay?”

Right. Caius is here.

“Yep, right as rain! Why?” I implore.

He stares at me for a second, clearly, or at least it is clear to me, weighing his next words very carefully. “You started staring at the wall. I know it’s pretty but most people don’t stare longer than a few seconds. Is it your ankle?”

“It’s feeling better now. Really, Caius, I’m fine.” I want this conversation to end. Seeing how Polly and Woof seem to be taking their sweet time and my messed up ankle, I can’t exactly leave the room. He still stares at me, barely blinking. “Something wrong? Do I have something on my face?” I tease. A small smile flashes on his face before he says “You know you look a lot like your brother.”

“Really? How so? I barely even remember him. I must have been 9 or 10 when he was reaped.” I say nonchalantly. It’s true, though. He was 17 and out of the house when he got reaped. I hadn’t known him well and if I did I blocked it out. I can remember his death, though. It had been mid-afternoon on the third day of the games, and a scrawny kid from Three snuck up on him and slit his throat. I can still remember the silence in my house after that cannon shot. My dad was still alive, too.

“You share the same eyes. Very blue. He had darker hair and had darker skin, but your faces aren’t too different.” He looks forloren, as if recalling his features pains him. “Those were the first games I paid attention to. I memorized every single kid's face that year.”

Odd thing to mention since I am also going to die there, but I don’t question it. We sit in silence for a moment, the air heavy with sadness. Making a joke out of it, I say, “ Well, looks like you better prepare to watch another Baird die!”

He doesn’t find that very funny.

“Evin Mauve why would you say-” Polly opens the door, interrupting Caius.
“Woof is ready for you now.” She squeaks, leaving the door open while she scampers to her room.

“I hate to be a bother but could you help me?” The pleading in my voice is very apparent, and if I was Caius, I’d laugh in my face. Maybe he’s a better person than me because he rises and holds my arm the whole way to the dining room. I give him a silent nod, and watch as he walks away. “So, Evin, I was wondering-”

“Evin Mauve. Don’t forget, old man.”

“Sorry. Evin Mauve, how should we present you. Scary? Brave? Fearful? There are a plethora of angles we could shoot for, so, you know, shoot.” Woof says. Easier said than done. I’m normally just myself, which would be fine if I didn’t need to play a sort of character. Woof has written down a list of questions he thinks Lucky Flickerman might ask, so we go through the list multiple times whilst trying to figure out my ‘angle’. We very quickly figured out that I can do pretty much any anlge. We’ve come to our last question, the big one, and Woof tells me to just be myself while I answer it.

“So, Evin Mauve, why on earth would the people of District Eight vote you into the Hunger Games?”

A few beats pass as I try and figure out what to say. I have to remember to pretend Woof is Lucky, and that Lucky doesn’t know what Woof knows.
“There was a boy, his name is Merino Weaver. He’s the mayor’s boy. He’s a violent little thing, and I was unlucky enough to fall for him. He, well he got too close for comfort one day, and I ended it. He was angry, angrier than I’ve ever seen someone. He told everyone he knew that I had forced him to do things he didn’t want to do, and well, the rest is history, ain’t it?”
Woof sits there, judging my performance. Which part of myself I should shove to the front for the interview tomorrow, and how I should say my answers. “Well, I say you’re ready. No use pretending to be someone you're not. Now get to bed. You have a long day tomorrow.”

Chapter 7: Shivers Ran Up the Poor Kid's Spine

Summary:

Its training time yayayayayayyayyayayayaayyayayay

The happy feeling from last night almost completely vanished when I woke up. Today is the last official day before the games themselves begin, and my ankle has only slightly healed. I sit on the bed for a few moments before getting up for my last day here in the Capitol. It’s going to be a long one, and I already woke up before the sun has shown its face.

 

While I’m attempting to untangle my hair in the bathroom, I hear a loud knock on my door, followed closely by it opening. Faustina walks in with yet another dress bag, and my mind can only play at what my interview outfit will look like.

“Evin Mauve, I need to make sure this fits before you're off to training. Be a dear and try it on?” She says as she hangs the bag on the shower. She quickly stumbles out, and shuts the bathroom door behind her. I unzip the zipper quickly. Training is in half an hour and I’ve not gotten my hair fixed up yet. The outfit is colorful, and thankfully not nearly as ugly as Polly and I’s parade costumes. A dark navy vest has been decorated with gold leaves and flowers, and each button is a slinder piece of wood. Buttons. Always seems to be buttons with me. I remember a shirt my mama made me. It was simular to Polly’s reaping dress, covered in buttons everywhere you looked.

The pants aren’t anything special, just dark navy to match the vest. The undershirt has big, puffy sleeves with cuffs lined in the same gold as the flowers on the vest. The collar has a few ruffles, and the fabric has small indented lines running down the shirt. As quickly as I can, I slip into the shirt and pants, which fit me quite well, and slip on the vest. It’s a bit too tight, but I find that Faustina has small laces on the inside keeping the garment closed. I losen the knots and tie the thing back together until it fits comfortably.

I let Faustina have a look at me in the outfit so she can fix what she needs too. She pokes and prodes every once in a while, pinning things where they need to be altered. Only a few things here and there need to be fixed, and I’m told to quickly change out of the garments.

Faustina doesn’t dwell or make any conversation that isn’t needed. It’s unerving, honestly, how quiet she is. I’m not used to that amount of silence. District Eight is a loud, well-oiled machine of a District with loud, noisy factories. I remember the day they took us on a school trip to visit the fabric makers. It had been a loud week to begin with, and the excitement from getting to see where we were all going to be employed caused us to go wild. The stress of the trip had started to get rid of my excitement, and my 10 year old self was terrified of those factories. One time a factory near my house caught fire, and the sirens that blared stuck in my young brain for years. The day of the trip almost made me hyperventilate from fear, and only the firm hand of my brother calmed me enough to follow my class into that building.

The trip was relatively uneventful and rather something I forget, but it further semented my distaste for loud sounds. Faustina’s silence is odd, yet oddly welcomed. I’m not being bombarded with her squeaky voice every second I’m around her, which, from what I’ve heard from Polly’s room, seems to be exactly what her stylist is doing. So really, I’m thankful for the silent way she exits the room. The door barely even makes a noise as it shuts.

Woof is soon knocking on my door telling me it’s time to go to training. Whatever that is. I pull on some clothes and rush out the door, well, hobble out the door, and nearly bumb into Polly. She turns and looks at me, pale yet again, and looks like she’s on the verge of crying. How much water does this girl have in her body? Whatever. I give her my arm and walk into the elevator where Woof is waiting. He is clearly not a morning person, because he has a large mug of coffee still in his hand as we descend the floors of the Tribute Center ‘till we reach the basement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a basement larger than five feet across, as those are what we’re supposed to shelter in if there's a twister. This basement, however, can easily fit all 25 years worth of tributes inside it.

Speaking of tributes, we aren’t the first to arrive. The tributes from One through Four are here, and so are the kids from Eleven. That monsterous girl is even larger in person.

Woof waves us goodbye and leaves us to wait for the rest of the tributes, most of which arrive a few moments after us. No one is talking, and a quiet awkwardness settles into the room. The older, stroger, and bigger tributes look the least scared, whereas kids like Polly look terrified. There aren’t any chairs to sit down in either, so my ankle starts to scream out in pain. I’m trying my darn best to keep it from showing on my face, but after a minute or two, my body starts shivering from the pain. Now for sure they’re all looking at me, either wondering what's wrong with me and feeling sympathy, or deciding if I’m an easy target. Eventually, I sit down on the ground, trying my best to ignore the questioning stares the other tributes are giving me.

Just Ignore them, Evin Mauve

After around five minutes a large man walks into the room, introduces himself as Herc Sickle, and gives a brief explanation as to what we’re doing during our training. He points out the various stations in which we are to be taught skills for the “sake of our survival”, which, judging by the stations, don't look super helpful. We’re released, and told that we have only three hours before individual assessments. Polly quickly latches onto me as I try to walk towards the knife station.

“Polly, please let go.” I say as calmly as I can, trying to hide my irritation. She only losens her grip on my arm. “It’ll be better if we split up. We’ll cover more ground and learn enough skills to keep us alive.” Her grip tightens. “Polly, I can’t baby you the whole time. We are going to be fighting for our lives tomorrow and however long after. I can’t keep you alive if you’re constantly crying and clinging to me.” Maybe that was too harsh.Thankfully, she lets go. “Go look at the edible plants. Could be useful.”

I watch Polly turn quickly and head over to go learn about edible plants, and I quickly turn to the knife throwing station. The line has grown by two or three people, and I’m reminded once again how much of a handful Polly Quail is. I could already been throwin’ the things into the red bullseyes on the targets! Waiting in line, I take time to survey what the other kids are doing. The boy from Ten is swinging some sort of pitchfork, with the tributes from Four waiting in line. There is a small set of what looks like a forest in the corner, and the tributes from Six and the girl from One are there. Honestly, that girl doesn’t look like much of a threat. She’s tall and lanky, but if I’ve learned anything from watching the grainy screen covering the Hunger Games, those from District One are not to be underestimated.

Soon, I have a knife in my hand and some Capitol man telling me how to throw it. The knife is a thin, slippery thing, and it takes me a few moments to get my hold just right. Twisting my arm back, I let it fly, and it hits the edge of the second ring. I pick up another one, and it hits the inner-most white ring. I try again and again, getting closer and closer to the center, until after about five knives, I hit that red circle dead on. I can feel a small smile crawl on my face as I limp to another station, something to do with hand to hand combat.

The smile leaves, as they so often do, and I’m once again facing my new reality. While dodging and blocking hits from a fake knife is easy, a real, sharp one meant to carve my heart out isn’t. One time I was choppin’ up a piece of bread, a loaf that had long gone stale, for bread pudding, and I nearly sliced my finger off with the dull blade. My mom had to stitch up the side of my finger so I didn’t get an infection, but I doubt the gamemakers are going to give me a spool of thread to stitch up my wounds. They won’t even fix my ankle before the games start.

I decide to finally sit down, as my ankle is once again screaming out in pain. I spot Polly at some knot-tieing station, learning how to make a noose. The guy from Ten is learning how to wield a sword, with the pair from Twelve right behind him. They’re too small to pick up one of those. I don’t think Twelve has even had a Victor. My grandma says they did, a girl in a colorful dress who once shoved a snake on a boy’s neck, but my grandma says lots of stuff that isn’t trustworthy. Must be her old age.

Soon, the few hours of training have passed, and we are escorted into a small waiting room. Polly sits next to me, and starts talking about all the things she managed to learn in our three hours of preparation. I’m really not paying attention, for the guy from Ten has begun to stare straight at me. For a split second, our eyes meet, and a wicked smirk spreads across his gorgeous face. Polly’s still talkin’ when the boy from One is called for his assessment.

Ten stares at me ‘till the girl from Five has been called. He was almost definitely trying to figure out the best way to end my life, and that stupid grin never left his face once.

Then the boy from Seven is called, and ten minutes later, so is the girl.

“Evin Mauve, I think that girl is starin’ at you too” Polly whispers into my ear.

What?

Which girl?

I turn my head, looking at the rest of the tributes yet to be called, and watch as the colossus that is the girl from Eleven narrows her eyes at me.

Not her.

Please not her.

“Evin Mauve Baird, report for individual assessment”

Chapter 8: That Murderous Girl on the Mentor's Television

Through a narrow hallway and past a few doors, I enter the room that the previous fourteen tributes had gone to. It’s a cold, gray room filled with wepons and targets that make it near impossible to see the group of Gamemakers sitting behind a glass wall.

“Evin Mauve, District Eight, please present yourself for our judgment.” a speaker says, ringing out in the room. The collection of men and women in front of me continue to stare at me while I decide what to do. I only really paid attention to the knives, so I don’t really have any other choice.

Walking over a table covered in knives, I grab one that looks similar to the small, angular one I practiced with. I grab a more serrated knife as well, simular to a bread knife I see the baker use, and turn to the wall of targets. I bring up my arm, knife in hand, and fling it towards the red circles. It lands on a white one. I can hear a small snicker from behind the glass wall, and I can feel my face heat up. Crap. I try to throw the serrated knife, but end up hitting the outermost ring. Crap. Even more laughter. I grab a few more of those thin knives, and take deep breaths to steady myself. Trying to remember the correct stance and position, I stare at the gamemakers a little too long. Eventually, when I see that the timer on the wall has gone down to three minutes, I throw my third knife, which hits the innermost white ring. Deep Breath, Evin Mauve, you got this. The second knife hits the center ring. The thrid knife, after much aiming, cuts right into the center of the target. Just then, the buzzer for my assessment goes off, and a crackly, robotic voice says: “Polly Quail, report for individual assessment”.

I pass Polly on my way out, and as per usual, she looks positively terrified. I don’t think she’ll manage to get more than a four.

I take the elevator back up to our floor, relishing in the quietness of the room. Not once since I had arrived have I had a moment of quiet. The only noise I can hear is the soft playing of past Hunger Games re-runs playing in Woof’s room. His door is open a crack, so I take a peak, intrigue getting the best of me. It must be one of the first games, because it’s in a larger arena with seats filled to the brim with Capital folk wanting to watch the action live. A brutal girl, around eighteen or so, is in a heated battle with the last remaining tribute. It only lasts a few more seconds once I start watching, as her axe swings through the boy’s neck, sending his head flying. The girl is covered in blood, and stands in the center of the field while her audience cheers her name out.

A sense of horror fills my heart as I realize that soon they might be screaming out the name of the kid who slaughtered me and possibly Polly. The screen quickly zooms in on the blood covered face of the girl, while telling us that Myst Finch of District 7 is the Victor of the 2nd annual Hunger Games. Her glare only tightens as the crimson blood drips off her brow and onto her cheek. The broadcast ends there.

Myst Finch, murderous girl. Not murderous, no, but a killer nevertheless. I can’t pretend to be better than her, though. After all, she had just been trying to survive, and that drive is something that seems to be present in me as well. But I cannot survive, for that would mean Polly dies, and I broke my promise. I feel a cold hand grab my arm, and I turn to see Faustina beckoning me towards my room.

Right.

The Interveiw.

Faustina drags me back to my room, and unceremoniously shoves me into the bathroom. Standing around the mirror, three more Captiolites are waiting for me, I presume. “Hello, are ya’ll here for- '' Now Faustina is pushing me into the chair, and that incessant chatter that I associate with those born in the Capitol begins to ring in my ears. Orders are being given by Faustina who, after this amount of talking, has pitched her voice up an octave. The guy starts messing with my oh so precious curls, yanking and pulling them into some hair rollers. He has this quality about him that seems so off. His skin is pale, hair slicked back and darker than any hair I’ve ever seen, but his eyes are touched with some slight red powder. The other guy, who has just started powdering my face, has close cropped hair that has been gelled back into a swoop. They’re both wearing nice looking suits with beautiful patterns on the fabric and semi-matching ties.

Once my hair has been moved from my face, the man with the swooped hair starts brushing off the remaining powder. And he’s practically beating my face. “Can you be a little more- Ow!” I pull my hand away from the third and final member of this “prep team”. She was fileing down my nails and accidentally rubbed some skin off. “Sorry, sorry! Your nails are just so misshapen!” she squeaks. Her voice sounds like mice being squished. Gingerly, I place my hand back into hers, and remain silent.

I’ve never heard Faustina talk so much, and through her responses I learn the names of these three individuals. The man with the swooped hair is Trillium, who has not stopped talking about how difficult it is to hide my freckles. He put on at least three layers of make-up before Faustina told him it was caking. He has been annoying Vibius (the man doing my hair) with the amount of times he has moved my head. They keep turning my head one way, then the other. At this rate, I’m going to have a broken neck along with my ankle. The woman, Deecee, has finally shut up about her home troubles, and how she found some woman in his bed one day. It’s not that I don’t care, more just that I have bigger issues. The interview is in less than two hours, and nerves have begun to set in. Faustina has explained to me that the interview is essential in the amount of sponsors I get. And with how timid Polly has been around those from the Capitol, I’m going to be doing enough work for two people.

Faustina has turned on a small screen, which seems to be covering more coverage of the upcoming games. Lucky Flickerman, the annual host for the Hunger Games, is sitting at a desk in a violet suit, holding up photos of this year's tributes. I’m trying to hear what he’s saying about the girl from Four, but Deecee and Vibius have gotten into a small argument over the color of my accessories. “Quiet you two! I believe he’s revealing their scores.” Faustina says. She has a commanding tone in her voice that shuts the other two up the moment she speaks. But she’s right, Lucky is revealing the scores of the other tributes. Most of the ones I’ve managed to hear haven’t gotten anything higher than an eight, but those are typically the losing Districts. I’m barely paying attention to the broadcast because Vibius has started pulling on my hair again.

“Now we move on to our colorfully clad tributes from District Eight!” Lucky giggles at the pictures of Polly and I during the parade. “Polly Quail has earned a four! Not high, but not terrible for someone of her age and stature! Next, our red-headed boy and most voted for tribute, Evin Mauve Baird, has earned himself a six. Rather unfortunate! Seems those odd’s aren’t in his favor!” Lucky quiets when he says my last name, almost like he’s worried of getting in trouble for saying it. He rushed through my section so quickly that I barely managed to hear that I got a six.

A six.

Chapter 9: Regrets, Regrets, and More Mauve Regrets

Summary:

THE INTERVIEWS pt. 1 YAYAYAYYA

A six? If I wasn’t dead because of how thin I am or this stupid ankle, I am now. Easy picking, we’ll be. Wouldn’t even be surprised if neither of us make it off those podiums.

With a few finishing touches, I’m almost ready for the interview. I’ve been getting ready since noon, and now the sun has begun to set. Faustina looks over my face while the others applaude Trillium’s craft. My face is almost a solid color, with only a few freckles and moles poking through. Some pink tint has been applied to my cheeks, and a small dusting of red covers my eyelids. I don’t look too bad, but we’ll see once my outfit is on.

Faustina has to help me with the vest, but after her alterations, the ensemble is sitting comfortably on my body. Shoes and a few accessories are adorned, and soon Faustina is whisking me out into the living room.

“Wow, might be the fanciest I’ve ever seen you,” I taunt, sending Woof’s face into a scowl. He does like rather dapper, though. “Seems you fit that Capitol outfit rather well, too. How would the people of Eight feel about their beloved Evin Mauve wearing Capitol Courture?” His tone is biting, cutting through whatever wall I’d been keeping my tears behind. No use in crying, Evin Mauve. “Seems they didn’t want me anyway. Oh, I do have a question for you, how’d you win your games again? By being a snarky little asshole?”

Polly walks out right then, hearing the end of my small outburst. She’s in a dress that ends at her knees and covered with lace. It’s a little frilly, and honestly really ugly, but I tell her she looks amazing anyway.

We began to walk out of the Tribute Center when Woof takes my arm. Whispering into my ear, he says,“Evin Mauve, they’re going to act strange with you up on that stage. Don’t let it bother you. If there is one thing that I’ve learned about your family, it’s that a Baird can always put on a good show”. What does he mean, act strange? And while I don’t remember most of my brother’s games, I don’t recall any sort of show. And didn’t he tell me not more than a day ago to act like myself? Woof must see the look of confusion and panic that crosses my face because he gives a reassuring squeeze on my arm, along with a sly grin that flashes across his face.

We’re almost to the stage, which according to Caius has been set up in a large auditorium somewhere near a street called the Corso. The bumpy road sends a few wayward curls into my face, causing Faustina to frantically try and pin them back. Woof almost says some snarky comment, but one glare from Faustina tells him to keep his mouth shut. I’m still puzzled by his warning. It might just be another way to get rid of me, but does Woof hate me so much that he would risk mine and Polly’s life? He can’t hate me that much. I know he was extremely quick to decide Polly should be his main focus, but she got almost ten thousand less votes than me. It makes logical sense to try and help the kid who had the lesser amount of calls for their death. A bump in the road causes Caius’ foot to hit my ankle, shoot pain through my foot. Well, if I were Woof, I’d also help the non-injured tribute.

We are lining up backstage, each tribute being almost swarmed by either just their stylist or their whole prep team. It’s amost comical how each tribute is dressed in garments nicer than their reaping clothes. Polly is nervously tapping the floor, which after the thirty minutes that have passed, is starting to chip away at my kindness to the girl.

A beckoning cry comes out from the audience, and the voice of Lucretius ‘Lucky’ Flickerman fills the room. Almost show time. Polly’s nerves seem to have agitated the boy from Seven as well, because he whips around and stomps on her foot. She lets out a yelp, and as expected, starts tearing up.

“Hey, we ain’t supposed to be fighting ‘till the Arena” She squeaks. “Why don’t you save it ‘till then.”

The boy starts to say something, but is almost as stunned as I am that Polly is sticking up for herself. She’s right, of course. A few years ago a tribute managed to kill his district partner and the pair from District Five before the games even began. It became one of the very few rules that the Hunger Games have, because as soon as they found out it was him, a bullet flew through his skull faster than he could see. The boy turns around, facing the front of the line as I stand in awe. While I can still tell there are tears in her eyes, They aren’t leaving. Polly is showing a larger amount of restraint than she has since I met her. Maybe she does have what it takes to win this thing.

“Now, to start off the night, let’s give a big round of applause for our girl from District One, Arielle Wells!” Lucky waves for her to walk on stage, and the interviews begin. They don’t take too long, not lasting any more than five minutes, but being from one of the latter Districts, I have a long wait.

So many of the kids just sit in the chair, barely talking. Of course, the kids from One and Two give the best conversations, with a few others answering a question here and there. It’s a painful hour before the girl from Seven is even called, and with no place to sit down, my ankle has started to shoot pain through my whole leg. Polly has even let me lean on her shoulder to relieve some of the pain.

The girl from Seven, whose name I didn’t catch, has a rather uninteresting interview. Only Lucky Flickerman’s constant giggling manages to keep my attention away from my burning ankle. Thank the heavens that I wasn’t born in the latter districts, for I don’t think I could have stood here for that long. Then again, I probably wouldn’t have been reaped. Soon the girl’s five minutes go by, and the boy is up. Since we’re now right off of the stage, I don’t need to look at the screen. The boy, who has to be around my age, is instantly charming. The audience is entranced in his mannerisms and floral speech, and I can tell right away that he is going to be a contender. And with the added sass that Polly managed to shoot his way earlier, she now has a massive target on her back. Well, a larger one than she had to begin with, being so young. The boy’s name I do catch, Rowan, has begun to finish up his interview, and soon has exited the stage. I begrudgingly stand up to allow Polly to straighten herself up, and I can visibly see her hands shaking.

“Hey, Polly?” I grunt, almost completely because of my ankle, and a little because I’m once again trying to calm her down,” Just take a deep breath. Remember how we left the
Justice Building back home?” She nods,” then just pretend that Mr. Flickerman is me. He’s a bit funnier than me though, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.” A small smile does flash on her face, but then Lucky’s voice rings out from the stage:
“Now, our first of those colorful kids from District Eight, Polly Quail!”

And she turns onto the stage.

“Hello! How do you do?” Lucky asks as she sits down.

Meek and quiet, her voice is barely audible when she answers, prompting Lucky to hold the microphone to her mouth. “Oh, I said I’ve been good” she says, a small tint of pink spreads onto her face. Come on, Polly. You can do this.

“Well that is delightful, isn’t it?” the crowd gives a small applause in reply. “Now, Polly, you got around 9,000-ish votes, am I correct?” She nods politly, even if she has slightly paled. “Of course I’m right. Do you have any idea as to why such a young girl like yourself would get so many votes?”

Honestly, I’m equally as curious as those in the audience. Sure, she gets on my nerves with the constant weeping, but other than that she seems like a nice person. Polly glances into the audience, looks back at Lucky, then begins to tell us why she got picked for this year’s death match. “I-I really don’t know. I was made fun of a bit in school for always being a crybaby, but I hadn’t done anythin’ wrong.”
Oh.

“There was this one time, though, when a boy a few years older, I think he was the Mayor’s boy,”

Oh. Oh no.

“He thought I had been smack talking him, calling him a liar for claims he had previously made, and put on this whole act in front of my grade. Made them all hate me, I-I guess.”

“If you’re comfortable enough to answer, what made you think he was a liar?” Lucky asks, shoving the microphone back in her face.

“Well, um, he, well I really don’t know. I could just feel something was wrong from the moment I saw the other guy walking to work, and how sad he looked. Nothing like the monster Merino said he was. But I don’t know, really.”

My heart hurts. Maybe, maybe I should die in the arena just for all those annoyed thoughts that I pointed her way. She doesn’t deserve it. Polly Quail, a girl I never knew existed, somehow believed me that I had never done anything to that boy.

“Well you must have some sort of talent! That might do you good in the arena, you know.” Lucky bursts, lightening the mood. “I have one final question for you. What would you do if you got to go back home?”

Polly brightens a small bit, finally getting to speak her hope out into the world. “I think I’d have some sort of dinner. Maybe with some decent bread. I’d bring some to Evin Mauve’s family, too.” She finishes. I have never regretted any thoughts I’ve felt more than I do now. Woof was right, he always was, even if he can be cruel. Out of the two of us, it should be Polly Quail, not Evin Mauve Baird, who gets to go back home to District Eight.

“Well, best of luck to you, Polly Quail!” Lucky takes her hand, gives it a small peck, and lifts it up triumphently into the air like she’s already won the crown. She hurries off the stage, gives a quick thumbs up at me, and is quickly ushered off to wherever her stylist has been waiting.
I very briefly get time to fix my vest from my leaning on Polly earlier, before I hear a name called out.

“Our most voted for tribute, one you all have most definitely been looking forward to, Evin Mauve Baird!”

Notes:

Sorry for the lack of updates!!! Writers block hit me HARD ngl, but I'm BACK!! going to try and be a bit more consistant now that it's summer break, and we're a few chapters away from the begining of the games, so YAYYYYY

Chapter 10: The Ballad of Evin Mauve Baird

Summary:

Evin Mauve's interview yay (its not yay its actually sad)

My ankle screams with each step I take, and the chair seems to be impossibly far from where I’ve been standing. The lights are blinding and hot, and soon the crowd disappears from my view. Their cheers and claps are loud, though, reminding me that they’re still there. It’s a little comforting, in a way.

I reach the chair a plop down, missing Lucky’s extended hand. Shit.

“Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to ignore you!” I say quickly, shaking his hand quickly. My hand is slightly damp. My interview is only a few seconds in, and I’m already making a big fool of myself.
“Well, well, well, Evin Mauve, how has your stay here in the Capitol been?” Lucky asks. Someone actually said my name right.

“Um, it’s been ok, I guess,” My voice is barely audible, and at this rate, Polly will have had a better interview than me. “The food is much better here than it is back home.”

“Oh! The food is quite delicious, I must agree!” The audience laughs with Lucky. “Do you happen to have a favorite?”

“There are these little pastries with some sort of fruit in it… I had at least three this morning.”

“Well, it sounds delicious. Now, as I’m sure you have noticed, you got the most amount of votes of any tribute! Quite the feat! Would you mind telling us why someone as dashing and kind as you would get almost twenty thousand votes?”

Woof warned me he’d ask me, and as much as I haven’t really been paying attention, I could hear that he’d asked every tribute why they were voted, but I’m still somewhat shocked when the words exit his mouth.

“You sure you want to know? It’s an awfully long story.” I plead, trying to make my desperation clear enough for him to hear. Lucky looks out into the audience with a pretend shocked face, like he is utterly baffled that I just asked him that.

“Of course we want to hear! Come on, don’t be shy.”

“O-okay, so, um, a few years ago, had to have just turned eleven or so, I met a guy at school. Well, okay, I didn't really meet him, just had my first actual conversation with him. He was sweet and kind, well I thought so, at least. Nothing much happened, until his fourteenth birthday. I had decided to give him a gift, and as is a very popular gift in Eight, I gave him a scarf. Not just any scarf, one my grandma had knitted for me. She’d saved up enough money to make it, and I gave it to Merino.”

I feel a tightness in my chest as I recall these memories. I want to stop, but I can tell by the look on Lucky’s face that this is entertainment gold.

“I feel bad about it, but that isn’t the point of the story. When I had just turned fifteen, Merino, also fifteen at the time, Merino brought me into his house. The Mayor’s house. He showed me all around, and at one point, he had started to kiss me. I don’t remember it much, I just remember being excited. Whatever type of relationship had formed only stayed ‘till this past Febuary, when I turned sixteen. For my birthday, he took me up to his house again, but, um, instead of kissing, he made it more. I tried to stop him, worried that something would happen, but he didn’t. I tried to fight him, but that only resulted in him hitting me hard on the head. Next thing I knew, I woke up on his floor while he was asleep in his bed.”

I’m trying to hold in tears now. Why couldn’t these people just send me into the arena to die? Why must I share the most painful part of my life with them? “Then I ran home. Next day everyone was looking at me with pure disgust and hatred. Turns out, to stop me from saying anything, he told everyone that I’d fallen in love with him. People don’t like that in Eight. Then, well, his father read my name on that stage.”

Just as I finish my story, the buzzer indicating that my time is up goes off. Lucky, a little misty eyed, grabs my hand and makes me stand up. Maybe I should have told him about my ankle, too.
“Thank you, Evin Mauve. And best of luck tomorrow. Evin Mauve Baird, everyone!” A round of applause echoes through the room, and I quickly hurry off the stage. Some Peacekeepers usher me into another room as the girl from District Nine is called up.

The moment I enter the doorway, Polly gives me a hug. For the first time, I’m actually thankful for her clinginess. Woof pats my shoulder, and along with a sorrowful look from Caius, helps me to a chair. We listen and watch the remaining interviews in silence, allowing my small headache to fade away. The pair from Nine are relatively ok, neither of them really having any information to share. The girl, though, tells us about how she accidentaly set fire to a field of wheat, gaining her a spot in the Hunger Games. Once the boy from Ten is on stage, a shiver is sent constantly through my spine. He could kill me so quickly. His arm’s are big, well, bigger than mine at least. He has a gorgous smile, and I can hear how loud the audience loves him. Orion, his name is. He says he was voted ‘cause they knew he would win. Can’t say I’d be shocked if that were true.

When the girl from Eleven goes up, any fear of Orion completely vanishes. She’s very tall, and has a beautiful dress that sparkles as she moves. If I thought Orion’s arms were large, her’s are larger. Lucky introduces her as Prudence, and I didn’t catch her last name. She has a soft voice, and sits stoically in the chair. Everything about her screams grace in dignity, but everything comin’ out of her mouth tells me she’s brutal. She’s talkin’ about how she’d used to throw smaller kids up into the tree’s during harvest, and how she could use that strength to kill any of us in the arena. If I could bet on who would make it to the end, I’d say she’d be one of them.

Once she leaves, The sickly boy from District Eleven follows. He’s almost a stick, far thinner than me and paler than I am as well. He mumbles his way through the interview, as do the pair from Twelve. I’m still reeling from my interview, and I’m barely aware that Caius has almost picked me up and brought me to the car. We sit in continued silence all the way back to the Tribute Center, and Caius leaves us to go do whatever Peacekeeping duties he has. Polly and Woof help me to the elevator, and then Woof helps me to my roof.

“ ‘M sorry, Evin Muave. Sorry for being so harsh. You remind me, and almost certainly anyone else who remembers, so much of a girl who won a ten or so years ago. And if you don’t die in the arena, you’ll die out of it. Best to just try and get Polly out.” He whispers. I’m too tired to try and figure out what he means, so I just nod my head slightly. He leaves me on my bed, and closes the door.
A long, hot shower later, I’m back in bed. Tomorrow is the day. I’m probably going to die tomorrow, and I’ve accepted it. But I have to get Polly out, so I turn over and close my eyes, trying to get rest before the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games begin tomorrow.

Notes:

guess what guys, THATS PART ONE DONE WITH!!!!! the games start next chapter, so prepare yourself!

Chapter 11: The Fleeting Moments Where The Mockingjay's Sing

Summary:

BOOM!

Thick, red blood splatters the ground around where the boy just fell. One of his arms flies up into the air, and hits the cornucopia spreading red onto its golden ridges. There was a brief scream from one of the tributes around him, and I see now that those closest to him are drenched in his blood. They’re lucky none of his other body parts hit their explosives.

First thing I hear is a simple bird whistle. Then one follows, almost exactly the same. Mockingjays. The birds don’t have much of a home in District Eight, with the district’s concret structure and lack of major vegetation making it difficult for the birds to nest. I was just lucky enough to live closer to the edge of the district. Oftentimes, the mockingjays would sing me awake, reminding me of the grueling day of work ahead. Now though, I’m not in District Eight, begrudgingly getting out of bed to go spin fabric, but in the Capitol. And in a few hours, I’ll be put into whatever hellish arena this year sports with tweanty-three other children to fight to the death. And even here, in a much larger, brighter, and taller city, the mockingjays are still singing me awake.

A gentle knock raps on my door. It could be Faustina, Caius, Woof, or even Polly, which brings a strong sense of panic at the thought of the girl. I am going to die for her. The knocking returns, and doesn’t stop until I mutter a soft “come in”. Woof comes in, mug in hand, and crosses the gap to my bed in a surprising display of swiftness. I sit up, wincing when my ankle twitches at an odd angle. “Here you go” Woof growls, giving me the cup filled to the brim with coffee. A quick nod from my head later, I drink the warm stuff. “You did good. Last night, I mean.” He says, fixing the collar on his shirt.

“Why’d you bring me coffee?” I say, voice scratchy from sleep. The question was more of a distraction, trying to forget the day ahead of me. Woof sits there, giving me a knowing look. Coffee to keep me awake enough to keep Polly alive. “Thank you, though. It’s better than any of the grimy stuff from back home”. He lets out a soft chuckle. He gets up, his knees giving a slight creak, and makes his way to the door. “You can do this kid. Even if something goes wrong today, make sure one of you gets home.” with a short intake of air, he finishes by saying “You have until nine. I suggest that you start getting ready.”

Alone in my room now, I finish my coffee, feeling the caffeine rush through my veins. My heart seems to quicken a bit, causing some discomfort as I shower for the last time, but whether it’s from nerves or the coffee, I can’t tell. I slip on my vest and pants, wanting to be in them for however long I can be, and wrap my scarf around my neck. A bitter feeling creeps up my spine at having something that once belonged to Merino as my token, but it’s beautiful really, and my grandma spent months on it. The clock on the wall ticks away, filling the room with silent tick, tock, tick, tocks.

It’s eight-thrity, and nine o’clock cna’t come any slower. I hear a slight sniffle come from outside my room, most likely Polly’s.

I’d close my eyes for a second, but some tapping on my door wakes me up. The clock reads the dreaded time: nine o’clock. Caius is waiting for me, sombered eyes watching my every limp out of the room. A silent goodbye to the room passes my mind, and Caius waits for me to put my arm around his shoulder, using him as a temporary crutch. I haven’t heard Polly since the sniffle. “Where’s Polly? Shouldn’t she still be here?” I ask through a grunt. This ankle is going to be the reason a knife slides across my neck. “She left earlier. Most of the Tributes are taken at different times from their district counterparts. We have to wait a few more minutes, but I am taking you now since your ankle is messed up.”

Soon, I’m watching a hovercraft fly down to the launch pad. Caius gives me a sad smile and light pat on the back, then helps me to the opening of the vehicle, but only until he spots Faustina, and I’m leaving Caius behind while the older woman helps me into a seat. A nurse comes over to me and instructs me to lift my sleeve, and injects some sort of chip into my arm. It hurts, adding onto the list of injuries I’ve managed to gain before the games even begin. Then a quick shake of the hovercraft lets me know we are on our way to the arena.

A shiver has quickly taken hold of my body, and my heart is racing faster than normal. I shouldn’t have drinken that coffee. Faustina has started rubbing circles on my back in an attempt to comfort me, but her silence is making it worse, and I can’t handle it.

“What was your childhood like?”

The question escapes my lips in a sort of whimper, and I mourn the loss of whatever childhood I could’ve had, and getting the joy of knowing I was safe from the Reaping once I reached eighteen. But I won’t get to see that, and my ma won’t have a single one of her kids make it to adulthood.

She meets me with silence. She must be old enough to have lived through the Dark Days. “Good. I took care of my brother, mostly.” is all she says. The hovercraft lands, and my panic seems to fully set in. I don’t want to get up and I can feel my cheeks have become wet from tears, and Faustina practically has to yank me up to get me to our room. After going through an elevator and down a ramp, I’m brought into the Stockyard. My room has the tribute uniform hanging on a rack. The sight of the big, puffy jacket with a thick hood hanging there, waiting for me, breaks whatever resolve I had. I almost collapse, but Faustina catches me. I wish she had just let me fall down. She helps me to a bench that is sitting in the middle of the room, and helps take my shoes off. She gently lifts and stretches my left ankle, making my sobs grow louder. I’m so unbelievably scared. I had no right to be acting any better than Polly. It’s a miracle I’ve managed to keep my fear in this long. She brings me to the small bathroom, and leaves me to change.

The uniform is confusing to me. Normally, the tribute uniforms that I’ve seen tend to give away exactly what the arena is, but this is utterly confusing. The thick puffy jacket has a soft, warm fabric on the inside, which would be great for trapping in heat. But the main shirt garment is a simple black tank top that is almost as thin as paper. The pants are simple, black cargo pants, but with drawstrings on each pant leg to alter them into shorts. The tears have stopped enough for me to puzzle over the uniform, but it doesn’t take much time before Faustina is tying the leather boots onto my feet and wrapping my scarf around my neck.

The thought of my vest and pants being discarded brings even more tears, so in between my shallow breaths, I ask Faustina to find some way to get them back to my mom. The thought of her and my grandma huddled together on the couch as they watch Lucky Flickerman cover each and every tribute before we begin, manages to empty out whatever tears I still had.
We sit there, waiting for ten-thirty to come. I’ve exhausted myself enough to where I feel no more fear.

Then I hear the first announcement. The announcement to go into the tube. This is it, Evin Mauve. You just have to get Polly home. It won’t be that hard. I stand, looking towards the glass tube that is going to push me up into the arena. Faustina brings me into an embrace, and I feel a single tear fall off my face. “Good luck, Evin Mauve.” she whispers, and then with another pat on the back, I hobble over to the tube.

“Thrity seconds until launch” a robotic voice booms. My face feels numb, my heart and body even more numb. Me and Faustina stare at each other. Her hands are clasped tightly together, and she motions for me to wipe the tears off my face. I do, listening to my stylist's final advice, and the glass tube closes around me. Somehow, the anxiety comes back.

I take deep breaths, and more deep breaths, preparing myself for the bloodbath that I’m about to experience. Ok, Evin Mauve. I know you’ve tried your hardest to stay kind, but this isn’t the time for kindness. You’re going to become a murderer. You’re going to kill some poor kid trying to survive and you have to be ok with that. Get Polly home, ok? At least they get food if she does.
The floor begins to push me up. Faustina has almost completely left my view when the hatch above me opens, letting in a bright white light.

That's when the first snowflake falls into the tube.

Then another, and another.

Thank you Merino for giving me my scarf back. This could be the sole reason one of us survives.

I expect a harsh winter landscape when I reach the top, but once my eyes readjust to the snow falling around me as well as that on the ground, I see that this arena isn’t a snowy wasteland. Only six tributes are in this corner,each of us pulling our hoods on to keep warm from the biting cold. Across from us, on the other side of the golden cornucopia that holds hundreds of weapons, seems to be a swealtering beach. The few kids I can see have taken off their jackets and wrapped it around their waists. In the corner on my left, a vibrant, grassy field with hundreds of wildflowers goes off into sprawling hills. One boy, I think the one from District Two, who’s name I think is Sabyn, has tried to fix his pants into shorts. I watch as he stumbles, and tilts almost completely off of his podium, before he seemingly regains balance. I breath a quick breathe of relief, for even if he needs to die, he won’t have died in such a-

BOOM!

Thick, red blood splatters the ground around where the boy just fell. One of his arms flies up into the air, and hits the cornucopia spreading red onto its golden ridges. There was a brief scream from one of the tributes around him, and I see now that those closest to him are drenched in his blood. They’re lucky none of his other body parts hit their explosives.

I’m so fixtated on the blood dripping from Sabyn’s podium that I almost miss the fifteenth boom that rattles through the arena. I snap my attention back to the cornucopia, searching for the nearest weapon. I can find Polly later, but if I don’t have any way to protect myself, it would be useless. The countdown begins to get louder with each boom, and the sixty seconds allotted for us to take in our surroundings are almost up. I really should find Polly first and just run away.

“Ten” I hear Lucky’s voice say out into the arena. Calm yourself, Evin Mauve.

“Nine”

“Eight”

“Seven”

“Six”

“Five” adrenaline courses through my body, hiding whatever pain my ankle could have been in before,

“Four” In four minutes I could be dead.

“Three” I spot a knife a few yards away from the cornucopia, hidden by the snow.

“Two” I just have to get there first and find Polly and-

“One”

Run.

Notes:

And just like that, the first Quarter Quell has begun.

Chapter 12: You're Headed for Heaven

Summary:

The Bloodbath (not a yay)

GO EVIN MAUVE

Before I really comprehend what is happening, my feet take me flying off my podium and running straight for the cornucopia. The gunshot that signals the start of the games is still ringing out around the arena as I sprint in the snow. I’m surprised at how well adrenaline is hiding the pain in my ankle.

I trip on something, possibly some sort of weapon, and face plant into the snow. It tastes a bit salty.

I get back up, stumbling a bit. That's when Rowan, the boy from Seven, axe in hand, swings at me. Trying to dodge, I step on whatever made me trip, and fall back to the ground. Rowan raises the axe over his head and brings it down right as I roll out from under him.

GET UP EVIN MAUVE!

My body doesn’t seem to listen, instead it kicks Rowan’s hand from his axe as he tries to bring it out of the ground. He stumbles over, giving me time to grab the spear that lays right by my foot. I spring up, trying to spear the guy in the chest, but he turns just slightly enough for me to miss. He is trying to reach for the axe, fear taking hold of his face. A yell escapes my mouth as I rear back, this time not missing my mark. He looks at me with fear and regret as hot, red blood spurts onto my face. It went deep into his lower chest, not high enough for a quick death, but death nonetheless. He looks so scared as his blood pools around into the snow. I take the spear out, and watch as he winces from the pain.

A knife is flying towards me, so I practically fall onto Rowan making him screem. I still need to find Polly. “I’m sorry” I whimper as I push myself off of him. Tears well up in my eyes at seeing the boy’s life leave his eyes. Another knife flys by my left, and I sprint farther around the cornucopia. I spot a small, serated knife laying in the snow right beside the golden horn, and I grab it before quickly climbing the ridges. I can spot Polly from up here, if I wasn’t so distracted by the dead kids surrounding me. So many kids are dead.

Yet another knife flys up towards me, this time nicking my arm. Shit, I didn’t think this through. Whoever keeps on throwing the knives at me doesn’t seem to stop, and I can see someone is trying to climb the cornucopia, no doubt trying to kill me. Once the boy’s sword swings at my leg, I jump off the opposite side, landing in hot sand.

“POLLY!” I yell, happy to finally see her. Her eyes widen as she sees the dark red that stains my clothes.

I hear a grunt from above me, and take off running. But I’m not fast enough, and the boy from One catches my arm. I’m dodging and weaving through his strikes with his sword, getting a few cuts and grazes, but I can tell this might be it.

But then Polly is there, flinging herself onto his back, bringing him to the ground. I stumble back, catching myself as his weight is ripped from me. He’s trying to get her off, swinging his knife every which way. Polly manages to kick him off of her, Tears streaming down her face as she screams. He falls onto his face, and before he can get back up, I plunge my spear into his neck. An awful gurgling noise escapes his throat as he screams, and I can feel food threatening to come back up. I yank the spear out of his neck, and grab Polly’s hand.

“We need to go to one of the other sectors. It’s too hot here.” I yell, trying to be loud enough for Polly to hear me over the screams of the others. My coat is making the heat unbearable, and Polly has her coat tied around her waist. Without another word, I make a split second decision. It’s not the smartest, as we’d have to run through all those kids to get back to the snowy side, but with how cold it is, most will stay away from it.

We run, hearing and seeing other Tributes running away and being brutally killed. My hand only tightens on Polly’s as we run close enough to get sprayed with blood as the boy from Twelve gets his guts ripped out.

Then, when we have finally reached the salty snow again, a knife flys through the air, sticking in the ground. “FASTER POLLY, WE NEED TO GO FASTER!” I yell, fear taking over any other thought in my head. I should get Polly in front of me, but then we’d both be dead. I almost breathe a sigh of relief when we reach the edge of the snowy woods. I’ve been so anxious about getting us both out of the Bloodbath I’m not quite sure I’ve taken a breath. But then a knife cuts my ear. And one gets caught in a tree.

And then Polly is pulling me down to the ground. I fall, hitting my face on a small rock. I hear the whistle of a knife and look up enough to see it fly right where I had been running. I almost thank Polly, but now is not the time. We need to go, because whoever seems to be throwing the knives at us will run out at some point, and then they’d need to get up close. I look behind me very briefly, only long enough to see that the girl from District Two is our assailant. We really have to go, then.

I begin to stand, hand still intertwined with Polly’s, before I’m pulled back down when I start to run. Our hands let go, and I turn around to grab hers again. “Polly! We have to-” I stop.
Polly is laying there face down, arm limp, with a small, bloodied knife sticking from her head.

I almost throw up when I reach for the knife, knowing I should take it. The blood has stained her blonde hair a vibrant red, and it sprays into my eyes. The girl from Two has gotten too close for comfort, but as I suspected, has run out of knives. I could kill her.

 

I think I will.

 

I quickly get to my feet, letting my spear fall to the ground, and quickly let the knife fly towards the girl. It was a terrible shot, but she is close enough for it to graze her neck. A small sense of joy runs through me. I hope it hurts.

I take my spear back from the ground, and take off running. A quick look back proves that the girl has stopped following me, and I steal a quick glance at the crumpled corpse of Polly Quail laying in the snow.

Chapter 13: Evin Mauve in the Gray

I keep running for what feels like an enterity. But it hasn’t been, for the sun has barely shifted when I look up. After I finally feel far enough away from that awful golden horn, I decide to take a break. My face is numb, either from the cold or tears that have been streaming down my face. I was supposed to get Polly out of here. But now she’s dead. I end up sitting up against a tree, snow surounding me in every direction. It’s a pretty sparse forest, so if another tribute tried to sneak up on me, I would see them. Not that I’d be able to do anything. My body hurts. It hurts more than that morning after I woke up in Merino’s house undressed. My ankle is in so much pain I can barely move it. Leaving it in the snow would help numb it, so I don’t move it anymore.

My jacket is still keeping me warm, even as more snow is falling around me. It’s pretty. It sparkles a light blue in the sunlight. I lift my head up, looking up to the sky. I remember the snow back home in Eight. It was never this white, mostly a light gray that turned to slush a few hours later. It never got cold enough to stay, the ground covered in concrete always was too warm. The Peacekeepers would often bring snow plows through the streets the minute the snow stopped falling.

BOOM

The sound of the first cannon makes me jump, and brings me back to my surroundings. I don’t have time to enojoy the snow. The Bloodbath has ended, and now the games have truely began.

BOOM

I sit there, spear in my lap and knife in my left hand, waiting for the cannons to stop. I count ten. Fourteen tributes left.

Suddenly I don’t envy Polly.

A small panic has arisen in my chest. If I’m this injured and not even halfway through the games, I’ll be dead sooner than I could sing the Valley Song. I take a few deep breaths, yet again trying to calm my racing heart. I look back up towards the sky, and let a few snowflakes fall on my tongue. An even stronger sense of panic surges through me when I taste how salty the snow is. I figured I had tasted something else when I noticed how salty it was at the cornucopia, but it’s overwhelmingly salty. My eyes snap open, looking at my hands. The “snow” isn’t melting at all. It is cold, but artificially so.
Stop being stupid, Evin Mauve. Of course it isn’t real. How else would a sweltering beach be a few yards from a frozen forest?

An even worse taste spread across my tongue. Blood is all over my face. Rowan’s blood. I feel like vomiting at the thought of the boy. I killed him. I gag a bit when I catch a glimpse of my coat. It’s soaked in so much red I can’t see the original blue that it was. But that isn’t as bad as when I see my scarf. It’s almost completely red and matted from blood. This time I feel food coming up, but I force it down. I’m not sure how much food is here in this section of the arena, if any at all.

After a few more minutes of hyperventilating, I decide to take stock of what I have. No use panicking when I don’t know what I have. A spear and a knife is all I had grabbed. There had been backpacks and other packages of things that could have had food, but I didn’t grab any in my search for Polly. I can barely feel my legs now, they’re too cold. Then another worry hits me: A tribute doesn’t have to be the one to kill me for me to die, the sheer cold of this place could take me out just as quickly. Maybe I didn’t think this through.

I quickly stand up, maybe a bit too quickly because I have to lean on the tree as the blood rushes to my head. I should try and get to the spring section, but if I’m remembering correctly it was rather barren of trees. The grass was tall, yes, but not high enough to cover me standing. I just need to get out of the snow and find food and water. There has got to be some sort of lake in the warmer sections. Spring corner it is. I take a few cautious steps through the trees, making sure I won’t pass out. My ankle hurts a bit, but it’s bearable for the first time in a week.

It’s just past what I think to be two o’clock when I reach the edge of the woods. Shivers have made the last hour of the walk hell, but I made it. I fall right into a patch of light gray flowers, sighing with relief as the sun warms my face.

Chapter 14: A Possible Game as Twisted as Orion's Belt

Summary:

I grab a few sticks that I’ve found on the ground, and head back into the snowy forest. It’d be easier to put the fire out here. After trying to rub the sticks fast enough together to get a small fire going, I realise it’s pointless. If only I had managed to grab a backpack during the Bloodbath, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. I rushed to find Polly and for what? She’s still lying in the snow dead as can be. I can feel my face heating up from frustration. This isn’t fair. Why did Merino have to be such an asshole and get me sent in here for something I didn’t even-

“Need some help there gorgous?”

A blade of grass brushes against my face. It’s soft and green, and the several flowers taht seem to surround me fill the air with a sweet aroma. Flowers don’t grow much in Eight, but the fields in between the few towns the district has are filled to the brim with plants. I’ve never left the main city, for travel is almost impossible unless you are headed for the Reaping. My grandma used to live in one of the other towns, but the Reaping of the Tenth Hunger Games went on longer than most, and she didn’t make it back home in time, so she stayed with us. I miss her ramblings. The stories she would tell us of those first few Hunger Games and the years before the war. My mother would just laugh along and occasionally join in, never failing to make my brother and I laugh. The warmness of the sun in this section brings a tingly feeling to my legs. Perhaps they are beginning to thaw from the hour or so spent in the snow.

The sky is impossibly blue, bluer than the sky ever got at home. Of course I’m aware it’s not real, as I can see the outlines of the screens and slight changes of color from not being perfectly in sync. It's still pretty, though. A small growl escapes my stomach, reminding me of my hunger. I wish I knew how to properly hunt and how to gut and skin animals, but there wasn’t much wildlife in Eight, and hunting is a crime. If you were caught, you were either whipped or sent off to the gallows.

I sit up, trying my best to ignore the soreness that has somehow spread through my body, and look around at the colorful field I now sit in. It’s rather large, with a small bundle of trees towards the edge. No doubt a few tributes are hiding there. It’s plenty big for hiding, yet small enough to escape. I would be smart to avoid it. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small rabbit dashing through a patch of red flowers. It stops, only a few feet away from me, and I decide to try and hit it with my knife. The rabbit sits there and waits for its death, it seems, for I manage to hit it without any complications. Maybe that hour of knife throwing really was a good idea.

With rabiit in hand, I sit crosslegged up against a tree, the snow from behind me chilling my back. I start attacking the rabbit, cutting chunks of skin off whenever I see fit. After a little under an hour, I have what looks to be edible meat. Well, it needs to be cooked. I peer across the arena into the beach, and I can see the heat waves bouncing off the sand. It looks hot, but definitely not hot enough to cook meat all the way through. I guess I’d better try to start a fire, then.

I grab a few sticks that I’ve found on the ground, and head back into the snowy forest. It’d be easier to put the fire out in there. After trying to rub the sticks fast enough together to get a small fire going, I realise it’s pointless. If only I had managed to grab a backpack during the Bloodbath, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. I rushed to find Polly and for what? She’s still lying in the snow dead as can be. I can feel my face heating up from frustration. This isn’t fair. Why did Merino have to be such an asshole and get me sent in here for something I didn’t even-

“Need some help there gorgous?”

I whip around so fast I can feel something in my back pop. He’s staring at me, that gorgeous smile on his face. Orion is leaning against a tree, arms crossed across his chest, with no weapon in sight. “Here, you need to move the stick quickly into the rocks. Otherwise a spark won’t form” He moves towards the makeshift fire pit I’ve made, and does exactly what he says to do. I step back, gripping my spear as I watch a small flame ignite. He looks up at me and grins his cocky grin, sending a wayward lock of hair onto his face. The grin disappears quickly once he sees the weapon resting in my hand. He stands back up quickly, raising his hands up as to show that he isn’t a threat. “Hey, I’m just here to help,” he laughs nervously. No one is here to help anyone else but themselves, but I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “How long do you cook rabbit?”

“Well, I could cook it for you.”

“Not needed. Just tell me and you can be on your merry way.”

I’m so nervous that he is about to lunge at me, that I jump slightly when he throws a backpack to my feet. “A peace offering. Or a bribe. Doesn’t matter how you see it, I want to be allies.” Orion says.
I stare at him blankly. Allies? With me? Hell, I would have picked Polly to be my ally before I chose me. I have a messed up ankle and can barely run. But what else do I have to lose? I need to eat, and I’m going to die anyway. Why not just quicken the inevitable? I stumble over my words when I say, “Well you already saved me from starvation, so might as well.”

He sits down in the snow, and I grab the bag and sit opposite of him. It feels wrong to be this close to him and not be getting murdered. This has to be some sort of trap, perhaps he’s working with the kids from One and Two, and they’re about to spring out and kill me. I hand him the slab of rabbit meat, and he looks at me. “I’m guessing you’ve never done this before, have you?” He asks. I shake my head, feeling a tint of red reach my face. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen, but I would say it wasn’t a very good job” he jokes.

I nod.

“Why don’t you go catch another one? This isn’t enough for both of us anyway.” He says, putting the meat onto the fire. I get up, wary to leave him with my food, but I need him to trust him. Afterall, he probably could have tackled me and taken my knife. I walk away without saying a word, escaping back into the bright field to catch another rabbit. It’s only slightly past one before I catch another rabbit, and I set off quickly back towards Orion. The gray clouds that cover the forest seem to have darkened, and the snow is falling a bit heavier. They do seem to be spreading out over the field as well, and right before I cross into the forest, I feel a raindrop.

A cannon goes off right as I find Orion, and a part of me thinks he’s about to drop dead, but he doesn’t. I realize now that it was the first cannon to have gone off since the bloodbath. Sure, we’re only a few hours into the games themselves, but it feels like it’s been an eternity since I last heard the boom. Doesn’t matter, though. Only thirteen tributes left.

I hand the rabbit to him, and sit back down next to the fire. He stares at the rabbit in his hands for a second, before asking for a knife. “I can’t exactly rip it open with my hands.” He says. “Here,” I hand him the knife, trying to ignore the spike of fear that shoots through my heart. He makes quick work of the rabbit, and it’s soon roasting on the fire. Orion hands me the original piece of rabbit, and I quickly eat it. It’s good and juicy, and quite possibly the best piece of meat I’ve ever had.

“You cook rabbits often, then?” I ask, trying to fill up the silence. He nods.

“It’s often the only dinner we can get. Most of the other meats are too expensive,” he says, flipping the rabbit over. The fire is nice and warm, but it doesn’t do much to protect us from the cold fake snow falling quickly around us. We sit and talk about random things, always dancing around the games and never talking about what we said in the interviews. Mine was more personal, but I didn’t have much choice. His eyes watch over me the whole time, almost never looking down at the rabbit until he knows it's done.

“Did you have a job in District Eight? I heard they start employing kids pretty early. Well, earlier than jobs allow kids to work in Ten, that is.” He asks inbetween bites. Grease spills down his chin, only being stopped by his hand a few moments later.

“Yea, since I was twelve or so. Had too. Couldn’t afford dinner with only one person working a job after my brother died.”

“A brother, eh?” He asks curiously.

“Name was Reaper Rust. He was a tribute for the nineteenth games I think? Maybe the eighteenth. I don’t know, I was pretty young. Hadn’t lived life much at that point. Just sung lullabies and played with fabric.” I joke. I don’t remember much of Reaper Rust, but he was kind to me. Stuck up to anyone who made fun of me at school.

“Interesting names, you two have. Or had, I suppose.” Orion chuckles.

“My mom says it’s some old family tradition. We each get a name from a ballad or poem, and then a color,” I explain. I’m not sure why I’m telling him this, but it’s comforting in a way. He smiles a bit, almost a bittersweet smile. “Yours is Orion, like the constellation, right?”

He nods. “My father thought it fit.”

An awkward silence fills the space between us as he finishes his rabbit, only being broken by the occasional crackle of the fire. I’ve decided to take a look in the bag, and find a few bottles of water and some crackers. “Mind if I take one of these?” I ask, holding up a bottle of water after the silence has gone on for far too long. “Go ahead. Don’t want those lips of yours to get chapped,” he smirks. He almost jokes around just as much as Merino does.

Don’t think about it too hard, Evin Mauve. He’ll kill you all the same.

I take several long gulps of water, not realizing how thristy I had been. I bring the water down, revealing Orion has stood up. He’s looking at the surrounding forest with worry, a worry that doesn’t look quite right on his face. “Orion, what's wrong?” I whisper. Did he hear something? The sky has darkened considerably, and the dim fire has almost been covered completely by the snow. I realize I’m shivering, and that a freezing breeze flys through the air. “We need to leave.” He says, walking over to me. His hand outstretched, I take it quickly. I grab the spear that has been lying next to me, but as soon as I pick it up, I let out a yelp. Orion looks at me, fear spread across his face. “Evin Mauve, it's too cold.” He’s right, but I can’t help but turn back to grab the spear. The metal is freezing, so freezing that it almost burns. I pull my jacket sleeve down over my hand when I go back down to grab it, and the minute its in my grasp, Orion has my other hand and is dragging me along. I can’t feel my legs, so I’m stumbling as we run through the snow. Never once does he let go of my hand, and for that, I’m grateful. Even if his kindness confuses me.

We stumble out into the field of flowers, and get immediately drenched in water. It’s storming so violently I almost get knocked off my feet. Orion catches me though, and we share a quick look of panic.

We take off running again, and in a matter of minutes we reach the beach. I stumble again, cursing my ankle as I fall into the sand.

It’s burning hot.

We hear yet another cannon go off, but barely notice it due to the swealtering heat. I already feel like passing out, and I’ve been here for only a minute.

“We- We need to- back. We need to go back” I’m panting so hard I can barely get teh sentence out. Orion, also on the ground, stands up on wobbly legs before helping me back up. We aren’t too far into the beach, but the walk back into the rainstorm feels like we’re miles away. The rain instantly cools me down, but the sweet bliss of rain quickly disappears when I start shivering from the cold again. We race towards the woods this time, and manage to break into the treeline when I hear it. The tree’s are swaying so violently and the rain falling so hard I can barely see, but I notice the tell tale whistle of a twister before I spot it. And it’s coming straight towards us.

Chapter 15: No Belt Could Stop The Bleeding, Only The Breathing

Summary:

The cave goes further back. Maybe there is another exit somewhere else? If anything, I could use a few moments by myself to think.

“I need to piss” I blurt, standing up quick enough to send blood rushing to my head. I must have hidden the urgency in my voice, because Orion doesn’t even flinch.

“Are you going to be ok there? I can give you some help?” He grins, never not having that cocky smile. I just shake my head no. I feel like vomiting.

“Well don’t get lost in there. Wouldn’t want to lose your pretty face.”

Ew.

Orion spots a cave right ahead of us, and begins dragging me along. How on earth has a tornado even gotten into the arena? The wind is whipping around so violently that my scarf almost leaves my neck. If I hadn’t grabbed it, it would be gone. The mouth of the cave is just a few feet away when I feel Orion’s hand let go of my arm. Why would he do that with just a few feet to go? The twister is too close to me. I can barely walk forward with the wind and my ankle, but still I persist. The harsh winds are soon replaced by the quietness of the cave, and I realize I’m safe. Well, I need to get further inside, but safe enough.

I almost fall against the wall as exhaustion takes hold of my body. It’s been a long start to the games. My breathing is heavy, and I briefly feel a few tears on my face.

“Here,” Orion says, handing a bottle of water to me. I take it gratefully, choosing to forget about how he left me out there. Or I try too, at least. I’m not very sure how much I can trust him. There’s something that's been bothering me ever since he showed up to help. If just yesterday, right before the private assessments, he was showing me such a violent smile, how should I trust that he hasn’t managed to lure me into some sort of trap? A sense of urgency fills my chest, and an urge to get up and run embraces my body. But there isn’t anywhere to run. The storm is still raging outside, although I can’t see the twister anymore. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. He could easily catch up to me with the state of my ankle, which seems to be in a constant wave of stabbing pain.

The cave goes further back. Maybe there is another exit somewhere else? If anything, I could use a few moments by myself to think.

“I need to piss” I blurt, standing up quick enough to send blood rushing to my head. I must have hidden the urgency in my voice, because Orion doesn’t even flinch.

“Are you going to be ok there? I can give you some help?” He grins, never not having that cocky smile. I just shake my head no. I feel like vomiting.

“Well don’t get lost in there. Wouldn’t want to lose your pretty face.”

Ew.

I let out a quick chuckle and promptly head off into the cave. I turn left, trying to avoid the pointed rocks that seem to cover every surface around me. A small hint of mildew fills the air. Whether it’s from the ongoing rainstorm or the cave itself, I don’t know. I can barely see my surroundings, my only light being some sort of glowing fungus. I’m about thirty steps into the cave when I hear the faint sound of the anthem. They’re showing their faces now. The ones who are dead. Two are dead because of me.

Don’t think about them, Evin Mauve.

I have to stop for a few seconds, my ankle getting the better of me. I can’t seem to find any exit. I’ve been gone for too long. He’s probably getting suspicious. I turn around, beginning to head back, when I hear a small whimper.

I freeze.

Maybe it was just the wind?

A short intake of breath, followed by a long exhale comes from right behind me. I take my knife out of my pocket, having lost my spear in the twister, and head to investigate. Lying in a pool of blood, pitchfork sticking in her throat, is the girl from District 10.

Orion’s fellow tribute.

I don’t know how she’s still alive, because the wound looks old. Maybe the pitchfork stopped most of the bleeding? But then how is she breathing? It doesn’t matter, really, because as soon as I find her, her eyes shut and a cannon goes off outside. I slump, turning around and going back to Orion.

But there’s something wrong. Wrong with how she’s in the back of this cave, with a pitchfork, something I could have sworn I saw Orion pick up at the cornucopia, and how Orion knew that this cave was here. It’s not like we were just running, he was leading me towards the cave before the twister touched the ground. I stop in my tracks. It makes too much sense. His automatic kindness, his lack of a weapon, and how he waited until I needed help before approaching me.

“Evin Mauve?”

Orion rounds the corner and stares at me. “Are you ok? You’ve been gone awhile.”

“Oh-um, yes, I’m fine. I just didn’t wanna see them again, you know?” It’s a lame excuse, I know, but he can’t know. All I have to do is wait ‘till he decides to sleep, and leave. He takes my arm, and helps me sit back down. He sits next to me, and begins to take off my left boot. I shoot out my hand, landing it on top of his. “What are you doing?” I ask. The panic in my voice must be evident, because he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Which does the complete opposite of what it’s supposed to do.

“I’m checking to see how you're doing. Breathe.” He chuckles. I let go of his hand, and he continues to take off my boot.

It hurts, and I’m trying not to scream, but I can tell by the slight satisfaction that I swear crosses Orion’s face that he isn’t just “checking how my ankle’s doing”.

“Does this hurt?” he askes, twisting my ankle a bit to the right. I let out a yelp. Tears threaten to spill out of my eyes. Why is he doing this?

“Yes it hurts! Now can you stop so I don’t punch you in the face?” I grunt out. He immediately lets go of my ankle, and looks at me.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” He’s so full of shit, “Why don’t you go to sleep. I’ll look after you until I need rest too.” His hand is resting on my shoulder. He’s being too touchy, and it’s taking everything in me to not flinch.

“I’m good. You should sleep first, though. The pain in my ankle is too loud anyways. I don’t think I could fall asleep.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying up with you.” His voice is shaky. Clearly he’s never needed to lie his way out of a situation before.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” The conversation ends there, an awkward silence filling the cave, only being broken by the sound of the rain.

Eventually, Orion falls asleep. It’s a good thing too, because I’m not too far from it either. But now that he’s asleep, I can leave. Run out into the ongoing rainstorm and find some other shelter. I’m about to get up, when a thought brings itself to the front of my mind: Even if I manage to get away from him now, who’s to say he won’t find me later? After all, wasn’t my first thought upon seeing District Ten’s reaping was that he could kill me so easily? He’s vulnerable in his current state, and I have the knife still tucked away in my right pocket. It would be quick, much quicker than whatever he did to his district partner. This could be my one and only chance to kill him, because if he were awake, there’s no doubt in my mind that he would overpower me. Orion shifts slightly, causing my heart to quicken.

Kill him Evin Mauve, or he’ll kill you. Why else was he so adamant for you to go to sleep?

I reach into my pocket slowly, trying my best not to make a sound. It almost feels like he’s still awake, staring at me and waiting for me to strike. I find the knife in my pocket, being careful to avoid the blade. I don’t need any more injuries and I’ve only made it to the first night. Orion turns slightly towards me, almost as if he’s inviting me to kill him.

Come on, you can’t wait any longer, Evin Mauve!

And with not a moment more of hesitation, the knife enters his throat.

Chapter 16: The Loose Ends To Tie Up

Summary:

After ten minutes of pain in my stomache, I manage to get up from the ground. My ankle immediately hurts, which isn’t anything new, and I stumble out of the cave.

I really should take that pitchfork.

His death is just as awful as I thought it would be. His eyes snapped open and he began clawing at me, only stopping to take a breath. Or to try and take a breath. At some point he started to pull the knife out, to do what I’m not sure, but he wouldn’t stop until I put a hand over his. Hate crossed his face, and he managed enough strength to spit blood in my face. His last action was crying out when I ripped the knife out of his throat.

Now he lies next to me, blood spilled all over the cave walls, having dried hours ago. The rain has stopped, letting the first rays of sunlight through the mouth of the cave. I managed to get some sleep, but definitely not enough. My whole body hurts from hours of not moving. I need to get back up, but after such an exhausting day I doubt I will. Or I doubt I will until hunger makes me go get food. I wish I wasn’t so damn hungry.

After ten minutes of pain in my stomache, I manage to get up from the ground. My ankle immediately hurts, which isn’t anything new, and I stumble out of the cave.

I really should take that pitchfork.

After grabbing the weapon, I set out back into the arena. Which, after the storm, is almsot unrecognizable. Trees and flowers are strewn everywhere, and I can see some dead animals lying around. They’ve been dead too long to eat. I know that even if I’ve never eaten much meat in my life. Always was too expensive back home in Eight. How I miss home. I wish I could go back to my life before I met Merino. If I never met him I doubt I’d even be in this torn up arena. I can’t see how the tornado was even created, but once it was, there was no way to control it. I can see the parts of the ground it touched, and the dirt and grass has been ripped up, exposing the concrete below it. A few trees still stand, but most of their branches are gone. The main meadow remains relatively untouched though, leading me to find a rabbit quickly.

A cannon goes off while the rabbit is cooking. I jump so much I nearly fall onto Orion’s body. I wish they had some way to get the bodies out of the arena. It’s unnerveing to see the dead kids still surrounding the cornucopia. Somewhere on the edge of the snowy woods, Polly lays. After so much time worrying about getting through yesterday, the weight of her death finally hits me. I miss her. I miss her constant crying. I miss her and I miss the worry on her face that would show itself when she thought she made a mistake. I miss how she understood exactly how I worked and never did more than shy away when I got angry. She never yelled, never ran away. Sure, she would cry if she knew she did something wrong, but she never left. Maybe I’m misremembering. It’s been such an exhausting day. Guilt almost swallows me. I was supposed to get her out. To send her back home, back to District Eight, back to her family and friends. Rowan’s dead because of me, too. He had someone waiting for him in Seven. Same for the guy from District One, whose name I don’t even know.

I’m so sucked into my grief that I almost burn the rabbit. I cooked it well, if I do say so myself. I bet Polly would have loved it. Or maybe she'd be given something by a sponser. I wonder what Woof’s doing. Maybe he’s not even watching, having decided after the knife hit Polly that it was pointless. I can’t believe I took it from her head. I should have left it there with her. Why didn’t I just push her along in front of me?

Another cannon goes off.

Maybe Prudence finally got to killing. Maybe she’s on her way to rip me to shreds as I sit here wallowing in my sadness. Polly wouldn’t want me to give up, I know that for sure. Still, I don’t move.
Only the sound of a sponsor gift brings me out of my grief. It lands right outside the cave leaving no doubt in my mind that it’s for me. Stepping outside for the first time in hours, I’m greeted with a good amount of warmth. If it weren’t the only thing fully keeping me together, I’d take off my scarf. It’s still too precious, even covered with blood, to lose. The drone dropped off a bottle, of what I’m not sure. It’s solid metal, too. Could be used as a great weapon if I have the mind too. When I open it, I find it’s lemonade. Thank you Woof. The bottle is empty in just a few swigs, reminding me that I haven’t had any water since last night. My mood has improved drastically.

Using the pitchfork as a sort of crutch, I go back into the meadow to get another rabbit. It feels nice to give my ankle a break. It most certainly has gotten worse, but there’s almost no way of not putting pressure on it. I’ll probably never be able to fully walk on it again. Well, that is if I ever make it out of here. A snap of a twing reminds me of that.

It was just another rabbit.

I ate two rabbits for dinner tonight. It was a slow day. I’m not sure anything else happened, because I fell asleep after my dinner. I did move Orion farther back into the cave, though. I couldn’t stand the smell.

I don’t do much but sit and wait for the anthem once I wake up. I missed yesterday’s fallen tributes, so I really don’t know who all are dead. I have an inkling, though, that I’m going to be up against the kids from One, Two, and maybe Four. Prudence is probably alive as well. Getting rid of Orion was definitely helpful.

The anthem booms through the arena, and the screens that make up the sky light up with faces. They flicker, none truly in sync with the others. Four different sections of the sky show the fallen, one in each corner. Or season, I suppose. Today, only four people have died: The girl from Three, boy from five, and of course Orion.

His face is soon replaced with his constillation, snarling down at me as I get more sleep.

Chapter 17: Well, I Doubt I'll Be Here in the Mornin'

Summary:

TW: HOMOPHOBIC SLURS, AND CALLING SOMEONE A WH*RE

I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until a cannon startled me awake. I hadn’t even moved back into the cavern like I’d planned too, just contiuned to lay where I’d been sitting for the anthem. It’s a good thing I’m covered in blood, I suppose. Anyone who walked by me would have assumned I was dead. Really, I’m surprised I’m not.

But after realizing I’m almost out of water, I begrudgingly force myself up and to the meadow, hoping to find a source of water on the way. You’d think I’d have found one already, but I’ve been taking the same route everytime I go hunt, so I take a different path this time.

After the anthem finishes, I turn towards that back of the cave. I’m still tired. And hungry. I don’t want to risk going back into the field with it being so out in the open, yet my stomach continues to growl. The undershirt is rather skintight, and while I’ve always been very thin, I can tell I’ve not been eating enough since the games started. It feels like a lifetime ago, although it’s only been around three days, since that first cannon went off. But it has only been three days, and yet I’ve barely managed to survive them. Who knows how long the games are going to last?

Well, I could try and go hunting. Try to kill people while they’re asleep. It would be a great plan if I could walk properly. No use though, pondering all this. I know I should wait until the sun is back up.

I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until a cannon startled me awake. I hadn’t even moved back into the cavern like I’d planned too, just contiuned to lay where I’d been sitting for the anthem. It’s a good thing I’m covered in blood, I suppose. Anyone who walked by me would have assumned I was dead. Really, I’m surprised I’m not.

But after realizing I’m almost out of water, I begrudgingly force myself up and to the meadow, hoping to find a source of water on the way. You’d think I’d have found one already, but I’ve been taking the same route everytime I go hunt, so I take a different path this time.

It’s slightly less destroyed than my usual path, having not been hit by the tornado. I guess it hand’t been very big. I’ve seen some where it takes months to fix the damage done to Eight, and they’d have to ship in more peacekeepers to help with reconstruction of factories. It happens more often in the Western part of the district, but we still get enough that our sirens are turned on once a month to test. One time they went off for real while I was at work, and the Peacekeepers told us to keep working. Fashion changes too quickly in the Capitol.

BOOM!

Another cannon. That mean’s we’re down to, what, eight?

I stop in my tracks. I’ve made it to the top eight! That's longer than I ever could have hoped for! Of course, I still have to kill another seven people, most of which are careers or just larger than me in general, but I have a brain. Maybe I can use some sort of trap… some sort of way to kill them all without getting any more physical blood on my hands. Tie them all up in the winter section of the arena, and leave them to freeze, maybe? Or I could do the opposite. Trap them on the beach and wait for them to die of dehydration. Well I might die from dehydration if I don’t find any water soon, and I haven’t yet spotted any. And I’m getting close enough to the middle to see the cornucopia.

With a pep in my step, I continue to limp around until I find a small pond. It looks clear and clean enough, but I’ll still boil it. I remember that from a past year. Some girl died from drinking pond water, and Lucky Flickerman told us the best way to avoid it would be to bring the water to a boil. Thanks, Lucky. Hopefully I can tell you how you saved me from going thirsty when I get out of here.

Which, being honest with myself, will probably not happen.

After filling three bottles of water, I begin to go back to the cave to boil it. The sun has only reached its peak in the sky when I hear yet another cannon. Three people have died today alone. Chances are, they were unfortunate enough to run into the others. A soft breeze rustles up the fallen leaves on the ground, sending a small chill down my spine. It’s nice over here, and I can only imagine how wonderful it feels over in the fall section. That's probably where everyone else is. I mean, I’ve not seen anyone in a day or two and this section can’t be that large. I did see quite a few people run here during the bloodbath, too. Maybe I’ve just been good at avoiding- was that a branch that just snapped? I look around scanning the line of broken trees. It was probably another rabbit.

A rustle of a bush makes my head snap around. That was too loud to be a rabbit. My hand drops to my pocket, looking for my knife. I left the pitchfork in the cave, and… crap I left the knife there too. Oh no. I hear another rustle from behind me now. It’s the Careers, isn’t it? Shit. This is it. Oh fuck. I only have these metal bottles. Well, they’re going to have to work. I turn just enough to be able to see what was behind me, and start taking a few steps back. I need to leave. Run, maybe. Running seems smart. But my ankle… shit. I’m so fucked.

I barely have time to dodge the knife that flies by my face when the tributes from District Two decide to attack. It slices my cheek, and I fall to the floor instantly. Another knife hits the ground next to me. I grab it and roll just as the boy tries to stab me, getting up to my feet quickly. A loud yell rips through the girl's throat as she charges me.

Move to the right.

 

LEFT. GO LEFT.

Swipe after narrow swipe, I manage to dodge her attacks when the boy has gotten his sword out from the ground. He charges too, missing by just a few inches and only missing my knife barely. I duck under the girl and sprint a few yards to where my bottles of water lay. Grabbing one, and rolling to miss her knife again, I run towards the boy, who’s not aware as his swoard got stuck in a tree, and hit him as hard as I can in the head. He goes out like a light. Now just one. The knife flies, and slices my arm. That hurt. We, me and the girl from Two, lock eyes. It's fear that I see there instead of anger. She’s run out of knives.

Good. Because I haven’t.

She realizes my plan quickly, turning to run away. She’s not getting away. No, not this time. This knife is ending her life here and now, just like how she killed Polly. The anger that surges in me at the thought of her sends me running quick enough to catch her, and to grab her by the hair. We both tumble down, and soon she is staring into the blade of the knife.

“LET GO!” She screeches, trying to bite my hand away. She knees me hard in the gut, and uses her opportunity to switch our positions. She’s got the knife touching the tip of my cheek.

“Another stupid brat gone from Eight, eh? Bet that boy from home will be ecstatic that his whore is gone” She pants. I hate her. I want her dead. She hasn’t realized that I’m only holding the knife away with one hand, a rather risky move, and my left hand grabs at the water bottle I’d been holding, and brings it into her temple. She falls off of me, not knocked out like her partner, and holds the side of her head.

“Whore, huh? That all you got?” I snarl, getting up.

“Oh, I’m going to cut those eyes right out of their freckled sockets, you faggot! “ She screams, turning and trying to take the knife from me. She tries, but utterly fails, to kick it from my hand. I lunge towards her, making sure the knife is sticking right in front of me, and feel as hot, red blood covers my hand. Her eyes widen, as does the wound. I twist it slightly, feeling bitter joy that the girl who killed Polly is now dying by my hands, before I take it back out. She crumples into the grass, Convulsing from the pain.

I take the remaining water bottle in my hands, and start to leave. I haven’t heard a cannon for the boy yet, and I don’t want to be near him when he hear’s her’s. So I limp back to the cave, not noticing how much blood is pouring from my face.

I don’t even notice the trail of blood that follows me.

Notes:

Please comment if you have any notes!!!

Chapter 18: An Old Bed of Rocks and A Sweet Sounding Lullaby

Summary:

Maybe Woof will send something else other than a small cup of lemonade. He’s probably watching me like a hawk, waiting for my canon to eventually go off. Can’t really say I blame him, though. He’s been mentoring for the past thirteen years and never once has gotten a tribute farther than the top five. It really will be nothing short of a miracle if I can manage to live through this. Like the person in that old song my mom would hum to me before I fell asleep. How did it go again?

Your headed for heaven,

The sweet old hereafter.

And I’ve got one foot out the door.

Her cannon goes off right as I crumple into the cave. Lightheaded and in pain, I all but burn myself to boil the water. A list of injuries that seems to never stop. I guess that’s how the Hunger Games work.

The pain in my arm reaches me first. The cut isn’t deep, but not shallow either. I take the knife from the cave floor, the one that would have been very helpful a dozen minutes ago, and cut off part of my pant leg. I don’t know how to really stop the bleeding other than just wrapping it in cloth, so I tie a simple knot around my arm. It doesn’t look like it’s been bleeding enough to make me as lightheaded as I am, and honestly, I can feel myself fighting against sleep. I’m shaking, too. I was so, so sure that was going to be it. That Merino would get his way. That is the only reason I’m still alive. My stubbornness to not give that man the satisfaction of watching me die. I feel a tear roll down my cheek, and instinctively go to wipe it. It’s not a tear though, its blood.

A lot of blood.

Oh.

The cut on my cheek.

As soon as I realize it’s there, it is almost like someone turns on a switch and the pain is unbearable. This cut is deep. I cringe as I bring the end of my coat sleeve to apply pressure, almost screaming from the pain. My finger brushes the top of my nose. It goes up on my nose too.

I sit there, trying to stop the bleeding. I don’t know how long I don’t move, all I know is I only washed off the blood on my face once the water is done. The cut is almost to the bone. The one on my face is, anyway. I can’t really move my right arm, the cut is too close to my shoulder and it’s now dried with blood. Bruises dot my body, my ankle so swollen I have to force it back into my boot. I’ve never been this battered and broken before. The soreness is almost comfortable in a way, or, it would be if I could sleep it off. I haven’t eaten in a while, and honestly I don’t want to move. I’ll get something in the morning, I suppose. It is late enough that the sky isn’t vibrant blue anymore and has started to turn pink from the sunset. The clouds practically glow orange, the sun rays shooting through them like arrows. Outside of the cave entrance, I hear the birds quiet down and the insects take their places. It’s a beautiful melody of clicks and chatters with the occasional chirp or coo of a bird. For a small moment, I feel calm. Even a little safe. It reminds me of home. Even with the lack of trees and the scarcity of foliage, the cicadas still found a way to infest the town in summer. I used to be repulsed, still am, I guess, but their chittering reminds me of late summer nights.

The noises of nature are soon replaced by the anthem, silencing the arena. The girl from 2 shows up first, and I turn away at the thought of her gurgling blood. I manage to catch the boy from Six, and then the anthem finishes with a crescendo. I wonder if those watching live stand when those first notes ring out of their speakers. I doubt those in the Districts are, especially back home in Eight, but those in the Capitol are probably toasting to the final seven kids still alive. Placing their bets on who will win, like horses in a race. That's all we are to them, though. Another way to waste money while we all starve at home. Buy away, though. Maybe Woof will send something else other than a small cup of lemonade. He’s probably watching me like a hawk, waiting for my canon to eventually go off. Can’t really say I blame him, though. He’s been mentoring for the past thirteen years and never once has he gotten a tribute farther than the top five. It really will be nothing short of a miracle if I can manage to live through this. Like the person in that old song my mom would hum to me before I fell asleep. How did it go again?

Your headed for heaven,

The sweet old hereafter.

And I’ve got one foot out the door.

The words fly around my head as she sings to me, memories of my old, rickety bed with its rotting mattress and lumpy pillows. I know she isn’t actually here, but if I can just close my eyes, I can hear her singing. It's beautiful and clear, fresh as a summer's day. How I wish she was here, wrapping her arms around me. It almost feels like it, in a way.

But before I can fly up,

I’ve loose ends to tie up.

Right here,

In the old therebefore.

The song lulls me to sleep, wishing I was home in bed.

A grunt outside the cave wakes me up in the dead of night. I’m far enough in that they can’t see me, and it’s much too dark for either of us to see anything anyway. The moonlight only shines so much light into the cavern. I try to quiet my breathing, not bothering to do more than turn my head to look at the intruder. More grunting comes from my assailant’s mouth as he pushes something over. It’s heavy, and whoever it is is injured enough that it takes a good five minutes to succeed in their task. Whoever it is flops down, equally as exhausted as I am, and almost instantly falls asleep. I almost choose to go back to bed, deciding that whoever it is might be just as injured if not more injured than I am, but something keeps me up. In the relative darkness, I can catch the short, brown hair plastered to the person's forehead, drenched in blood. So they are injured, then. I risk turning my body a bit to get a better look, fighting my best to conceal the pain of my body, wincing every other second. I can’t see anything more than the right side of his face, which is covered in a thick layer of blood. But his eyes are similar to someone’s I’ve seen recently.

Oh.

It’s the boy from Two.

Notes:

So sorry for it taking so long to update!! School has been kicking my ass and I haven't had time to write. I'll try to be more consistant and update every week or so!

Chapter 19: Spikes of a Blood Drenched Cave

Summary:

Please,

Stop it.

I freeze. His breaths are shallow. He looks near death.

I barely breathe for hours, eyes locked on him, waiting for his cannon to go off. If I could, I’d move over there and kill him, but I can’t. My body hurts too much. Did I really hit him that hard? I don’t remember any blood on any of the bottles, only the stuff that sprayed out of the girl’s neck. The thought makes me gag.

The sun rises slower than ever, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the gamemakers are drawing this out as long as possible, letting the Capitol citizens place their bets on which one of the two injured kids will make it out of the cave. Honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if I’ve gotten more bets in this race than he does. That head wound looks nasty.

My body hurts even more from my lack of motion, my lungs in pain from the quick breathes I’ve been taking all night. Just as the last of the sun’s rays cross up into the sky, he stirs, letting out a small grunt. I drop down to the ground, scraping my face on the rock I’ve been leaning against. For a second, there's nothing, and I’m worried that he’s heard me. I still myself out of fear, hands trembling as I wait for his attack to come. He sounds like he’s trying to get up, but in his state I’m not sure that's a smart idea. Well, the smart idea for me would have been to leave the cave after he fell asleep, and since I’m still here, I can’t really claim to be any smarter than he is.

I can’t see what he’s doing, which only freaks me out more. I should have left this cave a day ago. I wouldn’t be in this situation if I had. Although, I would probably be dead. I hear him take a step, his boot colliding with the stony floor of the cave. I can’t tell which way he is trying to go, towards or away from me, until he takes another few steps and seemingly trips on Orion’s body. Which means he’s going further into the cave. If I’m lucky he’ll stumble back towards the girl from Ten and I’ll have time to get a weapon or make a run for it. Orion lays not more than five feet away from where I am hiding, and it sounds like the boy’s slow, sluggish steps are walking right next to me. My heart rate quickens when I hear his hand meet the stone to my side, and without thinking much I reach into the pocket of my scarf and pull out the knife. He keeps walking ever closer, steps getting quicker and more erratic before I hear him stumble again. The sun continues to illuminate the cave, casting shadows as the light goes around the pointed rocks that cover the cave. His shadow rises over me, terror gripping my heart, and my grip on the knife tightens.

He groans again, his arm moving to hold his head. If I could be quick enough he wouldn’t be able to catch me, but I’m worried he’ll still have his sword. If he does it won’t take much more than a swipe to get me on the ground and be easy to kill, no matter how disoriented he is. He doesn’t stop moving, inching ever closer no matter how much his head wound seems to be affecting him. That is, he doesn’t stop moving until he reaches the other side of the rock where I lay. He’s right there. A few inches of rock are all that separate us. I’m praying the rock is tall enough that he cannot peer over and spot me. As quickly and quietly as possible, I shift myself up into a sitting position, so I can run the moment he finds me. I can tell by the way I’m ducking my head the rock is not tall enough. The small hairs on my neck stick up, my whole body alert. He groans again, leaning up against the rock and sending some dust flying onto me. I need to move. He’s too close. His right hand leaves his temple and goes to steady his position on the rock.

Except the rock isn’t wide enough.

I’m about to make a run for it when I feel his blood soaked hand meet my red curls, blood dripping onto my scalp.

We both scream, his hand leaving my head as quickly as it was there.We stare at each other for a second before I force my limbs to take off limping. I hear him start coming after me, both of us moving quicker than our bodies would like. I’ve just rounded the corner when I trip and fall to the floor, my ankle seering in pain.

I've Tripped over Orion.

I feel bile rise in my throat as I try to crawl off of him.

The boy from Two reaches me too quickly for me to get back up, and his hand reaches around my ankle, pulling me back into the cave.
I’m screaming.

I can’t do anything but scream. My ankle feels like it's on fire, and his bloodied hand feels molten.

I can’t do anything.

I can’t do- I-I can’t.

I don’t know how to save myself. I can’t die. I’m not ready to die. I’ve made it too far. Woof is waiting for me, my family is wishing I would return but I can’t. I can’t do anything and Merino is laughing in my face about how weak and pathetic I am and how he should have just let me get beat in that hallway and-

Merino can not get his way.

MOVE IT, EVIN MAUVE.

Tears pour down my face as I bend up to meet his face, stabbing the boy in the hand. He lets go, crying out curses that echo through the cavern around us. He falls back onto a rock, hitting the back of his head. He coughs up blood, spraying my face as he hobbles back over to where I am trying to stand up. He grabs me by my collar, and pulls me up against the cave walls. He grins, showing bloodied teeth.
“This is for Alula” he snarls. I stomp on his foot, yelping, trying to get out of his grip. “Oh shutit” his words slur together as he wraps his hands around my neck.

No.

No.

No, not again.

Please,

Stop it.

I struggle and writhe as he chokes me, his face morphing into Merino’s.

“Ple-ase” I croak out. He knees me in the gut. Through blurred vision I can see he’s struggling just as much.

My hands go limp at my sides, my left one still hanging onto the knife, as I start to black out.

But the knife is still in my hand, and with all my remaining strength, I force it into his upper chest. His hands release me and I slide down the wall, gasping for air. He falls back, knife tilted up into his heart, and takes a few breaths before stumbling back into the girl from Ten’s corpse.

Notes:

Hey guys! I'm going start posting drawings of scenes to my twitter, so make sure you follow me @evinnn_luvs_lgb on twitter (no one calls it X bffr)

Chapter 20: Blooded Ice Rocks That Fell From The Sky

Summary:

BOOM!

That means we’re down to… oh shit.

I've made it to the top four.

He’s dead. That I know for sure. He hasn’t gotten up since he fell over onto her body, and his chest stopped rising and falling a little bit ago. I haven’t heard his cannon though, and that sets me on edge. I’ve been sitting here, wounded and breathless for the past half hour, not darin' to move my eyes from him. But part of me can’t stand it anymore. It's been far too long, although not as long as I think it’s been, but I’ve been in this cave far too long, my only company being the dead. With Orion and his district partner decomposing, and the boy from Two not too far behind them, the stench of the cave has begun to smell of decay. But my eyes never leave his body. Not until I hear that cannon at around four in the afternoon. The sun is setting, at least.

But my throat is dry, and my stomach is ravenous. As much as I want to fall asleep and wake up so far into the games that the last tribute has been searching for me for days, I can’t afford to. So begrudgingly, I force myself into a standing position, feeling the blood rush to my legs and my head. Moving hurts more than it ever has. It seems like every part of my body is screaming out for me to stop moving. I once again move to the pitchfork, which has been laying on the ground across from me, and use it as a crutch. I’ve made up my mind to not come back to the cave as well, so I grab one of the empty water bottles and shove it into my coat pocket.

Hobbling out of the cave, I feel a fresh, cool wind blow through the arena. It feels good with the warmth of the sun, however in the screen of the arena border, I can see some sort of storm. Why they feel the need to give us the allusion of a storm that's goin' to appear so suddenly, I don’t know. But it’s there, right over the winter section. I think that is where the wind is coming from, too.

I left the knife still embedded in the boy from Two’s chest, so I don’t have much of an option but to go looking around the cornucopia for any remaining food. The careers are all relatively dead, with only the girl from One still alive. She could be there, but I have a hunch she’s seen how quickly her fellow careers have died and is either hidin' or huntin' the smaller ones. Which means I only really need to worry about Prudence. But she seems smart, so I don’t think she’d really be hidin' by the cornucopia waitin' for someone to kill. I bet she’s waitin' somewhere in the fall section ready to pounce on anyone who moves.

When I make it to the cornucopia, a loud roll of thunder shakes the arena. That storm is movin' quickly. I hobble inside the giant golden horn, peering behind every corner looking for any type of food. But I can’t find any. My stomach growls every now and then, mixing with the sound of the now howling wind. It sends a chill down my spine, not just because it’s gotten startlingly cold, but because of how quickly the weather has worsened in the few minutes I’ve been here. My focus can’t be on the storm though. I need food.

Food, that's all I need.

My mind can’t think of anything else. I don’t even know what I’m doin' when I exit the mouth of the cornucopia and almost immediately get blown over by the freezing wind. Maybe I should just go back to the cave and see if the boy from Two had anythin' on him. But the wind is too strong and my body too weak to stand back up. So I lay there for a few seconds before trying again. I struggle to even sit up. The pitchfork has been blown away into a tree, which means I’m working with one leg to try and stand up with. I have to double knot my scarf to secure it around my neck and zip up my coat so that nothin' flies away. It’s blowing so violently I struggle to remain sittin' upright before it stops almost completely. I take such deep breaths that I nearly double over. I decide to use this break, however long it may be, to get back inside the cornucopia. I know I can’t make it back to the cave before it starts all over again, and being honest, I didn’t really look all that close to see if there was any food.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

It’s a good thing, too, that I decided to return to the cornucopia, because the moment I cross into the mouth of the horn the wind is whippin' and wailin' again. I was more worried that someone would sneak up on me while I was in here, but I have a feeling no one else will be leaving their hiding spots in this weather.

BOOM!

That means we’re down to… oh shit.

My stomach drops once I realize how close I am to getting home. How close the other three people are at getting home.

I need food.

I start prying open the few crates that sit in the cornucopia and shufflin' through the straw that lays inside them. I almost scream with glee when I find the first package of beef jerky at the bottom of a crate, and I almost begin to cry when I find the second and third. I eat one and half quickly, filling my empty stomach with a meager amount of protein, but it’s somethin'. I sit towards the back and munch on the rest of the second package when the hail starts. The first one to hit the cornucopia was so loud I nearly jumped. But now it is comin' down so fast and with so many hailstones that the sound is constant.

It hurts my ears, so I end up shrinking back into a corner. Like that did anythin'.

In the chaos of the hail, I think I hear another cannon go off. I can’t be positive, though. Not until nightfall. The hail is falling in such a way that visibility outside of the cornucopia is low. I couldn’t spot a tribute even if I tried. I think I hear another cannon. Final two? Already? It can’t have been another cannon, because through the loudness I hear yet another large bang. That would mean I won by hiding in the cornucopia. For a minute my heart starts racing with excitement. But with the lack of trumpets blaring in the arena, and the continuation of the hail means I haven’t. I think they must have been some particularly large hailstones that managed to bang the far part of the cornucopia.

There is a soft relaxation that is brought upon me after a while. I’m freezing, still flinchin' every once and a while at the larger and louder hail, but I’ve settled into a relatively cozy part of the cornucopia. For a short while, I feel safe even. The only thing keeping me from falling asleep is how crusted my clothing has become from blood. It reminds me of the people who I feel are watching me forever now. Orion, though his body is decently far away, feels like he is breathing down my back, a large hole gushing from his throat. He curses me out, claws at me, but he can’t hurt me anymore. Because he is dead. Because I killed him. I try to tell myself that he would have killed me, something so possible that had I fallen asleep first I wouldn’t even have made it back to the cornucopia . Maybe Orion would be in the top four instead of me. But he isn’t, and I’m not sure I’m all that happy about the people I’ve killed, now permanently stained into my scarf and coat. Maybe I’ll give it right back to Merino. I grin inward at the thought of his disgusted face.

Then, instantly, as if a simple switch was flipped, the current hail falls and then not a single more hailston descends from the sky. It’s dusk outside. I didn’t think I’d been in here that long. The calm of the cornucopia is quickly replaced by claustrophobia and sudden panic. I have three more tributes to get through and then I can go home. But they are most likely in better shape, have had more food from sponsors, and have maybe killed just as many if not more than I have. I want to leave the cornucopia, but then the idea of stepping out into the field surrounding it makes me heave. The hail hasn’t melted entirely yet either, so I’d risk the chances of slipping or rolling either of my ankles. If that happened, I’d be dead no matter how hard I tried to run.

So I decided not to move. I sit and wait for sleep to take over me right after the anthem finishes with its loud crescendo, confirming that I did hear at least one cannon last night. I normally would begin to stress out at the idea of being in the top four, but oddly I’m lulled quickly by the loud chirping of crickets. The idea that I’ll be free from this awful place, away from their bodies, the heat and the cold, the bruises and cuts, the constant growl of hunger in my gut that only seems to get louder and louder, my thirst getting worse the less I drink, and the constant exhaustion I’ve been unable to escape ever since I got launched into the arena, the idea that in a matter of hours I may be free from it all is just too sweet. Alive or dead, I won’t be in the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games much longer. As I close my eyes, I only have one thought: I just want it all to end.

Notes:

So sorry for the long wait! I got burnout and swamped with schoolwork, but I'll try my hardest to update regularly now!

Chapter 21: Tears of a Victor

My ears ring with the screams of a tribute, not too far from the cornucopia, and so guttural as to be an animal. The kid, whose scream is so high pitched that it can only be produced by a girl or, more unlikely, one of the younger ones managed to last this long, must be choking on their own blood, for nothing makes such gurgling sounds without the help of an outside liquid. Or an internal one making its way to the surface. It’s close. Too close. I can hear the thud of her body hitting the ground. A small jolt of glee spreads through my body, making me almost vomit at my joy for another person’s death. But it's the final three. I’ve made it to the final three.

The feeling in my gut tells me I won’t get any farther than that. Nor do I deserve to.

Through the cornucopia, I hear the sound of footsteps in the dried grass, having lost its moisture with the excessive heat that followed the hail, walking towards my hiding spot before stopping in their tracks. I barely breathe, my lungs burning, but fear keeps me from doing anything but take shallow breaths. Doesn’t matter that I’m hidden by a wall of metal, they can't hear me unless I cough, but I don’t trust that a deep inhale won’t be heard from the mouth of the cornucopia. Paranoia is starting to get the better of me.

 

BOOM!

 

Even after hearin’ the person’s death, I jump. I’m starting to think my heart will fail before another tribute can kill me.

After the tribute’s cannon goes off, loud, blaring trumpets and other various horns flourish through the arena. It’s almost as loud as the hail. I cover my ears, the noise being just too loud for me to handle, when I realize that Lucky’s voice is about to boom throughout the arena, announcing what can only be the finale of the games. Oftentimes the Gamemakers will have some big event to round up the games, but with the heat wave, tornado, and that hailstorm, I can’t imagine what they can do that will wow those in the Capitol enough to deem these games a success. As if on cue, the voice of Lucky Flickerman scratches out from his microphone. His cheerful voice brings a small grin to my face. I’ve almost missed his pesterin’ at the interviews.

“Attention! Hello, final three tributes! That's right, if you’ve lost count, you’ve made it to the top three! Congratulations! Now, as we come to the conclusion of our very first and extremely special Quarter Quell, our lovely audiences at home are expecting something tremendously brutal and exhilarating! As a reminder that your own brothers and sisters at home in your districts voted you into this arena, and that it was those that are in charge, your District Mayors, are the ones that formally joined the rebellion all those years ago, your Mayors have been given a device strictly for the purpose of this event: a button. Our Gamemakers have outfitted each button with a direct connection to your trackers. Once pressed, your tracker will make a loud pinging noise, alerting you and the other two tributes of your location. Now, they will still have to find you, but the button can be pressed as many times as your district deems necessary! Now, good luck tributes! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

My heart drops. No. Not Mayor Weaver. Merino is probably sitting on that plush couch, button in hand, watching me on his television screen, waiting to alert that tribute just inches away that I’m right here. But what if he doesn’t. Afterall, he did kiss me goodbye. Maybe he still feels bad about what he did. He isn’t though. If he was he wouldn’t have forced that goodbye kiss on me. Maybe it won’t be very loud. I’m lying to myself and I know it. They wouldn’t make them so quiet that no one but the tribute could hear it. That's the whole point, for everyone else to hear it too. And Merino has done so much to me that I doubt there is any concept of humanity left in his heart. He’ll press that button soon enough.

The arena goes silent after Lucky’s now infamous quote. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of the field. It isn’t just a small lull in birdsong or a cease in the wind, but it seems like I’ve nearly lost my hearin’ all together. The only sound I can vaguely make out is the thumping of my heart in my ears. If I don’t move now then whoever it is will for sure know where I am. But the chances of the other tribute not seeing me leave the cornucopia are slim, and the moment I make a move Merino or Mayor Weaver will press that button.

Too much is happening at once for me to think properly. It feels like my world is ending, which it probably is.

The silence stretches on. The other tribute doesn’t seem to move either, and if they did I’m not sure I would be able to hear it regardless. I’ve gone dizzy with anticipation, and my vision is blurring. I wish I wasn’t alone. That Polly or Caius, sweet, sweet Caius, hell, maybe even Woof were here right now. I just need someone. Anyone. Anyone to get me through what that wretched Mayor is about to do to me.

But the first obnoxiously loud ping to go off isn’t mine. It’s the other tribute not next to the cornucopia. They’re in the autumn section. I think the noise comes from the East, anyway. But it’s loud, so painfully loud that the pings may even be connected to hidden speakers. Immediately after I hear it, whatever tribute is next to me sprints off in its direction. They’re big, too. I heard each step as they left.

Maybe I will take this opportunity to leave, run back to the cave that I’ve made my home these past few days. But again, Mayor Weaver may just be waiting for me to make a move. I don’t know why he doesn’t just press the damn thing. I’ve been sitting inside here for far too long, so whatever joints may be useful in running are either too stiff or so wounded as to be unusable.

I almost just want him to press it already. I just want it to be over.

So I stand up. It takes a while, most of my right leg has fallen asleep, and the left leg is barely functional with the growing intensity of my broken ankle. I practically claw the left side of the cornucopia to keep my balance. I take wobbly steps, wincing with every bit of weight I put onto my left ankle, tears pouring down my face because the pain is unbearable. It hurts so bad. Everything hurts so bad. The effort of crying is painful, only causing more tears to fall. The overwhelming heat gets worse the closer I get to the mouth of the horn, and every part of my clothing sticks to my skin. I’ve ditched the jacket and hiked up my pants, but even the thin undershirt traps the heat in too well. My misery only grows when my mind wanders to my blood drenched scarf. It was so special to me. My grandma took so much time to make it, and I gave it to that monster. And now, it's drenched in the blood of those I’ve killed. I’m really no better than Merino.

Can he just press that damn button already?

Right as I reach the mouth of the cornucopia and enter the melted winter corner that spills out to the horn, a cannon goes off. Followed ever so quickly by my tracker going off.
Top two.

It’s almost over, Evin Mauve. You just have to wait a little longer.

Just a little longer.

I sit down in the muddy dirt where the snow once lay. I can faintly see Polly’s feet hanging out from the forest's edge, no longer covered in snow and ice. The other bodies are clear now, too. I can’t wait to join them.

I see her then. Prudence. I knew she would be the one to do it. To kill me. I don’t hold it against her, though. She just wants to go home. Wants to go home to those traitorous people who sent her to die. It doesn’t matter, really, that she was guaranteed to win. They chose her regardless if she died in the Bloodbath or if she killed the last kid to claim victory.

Yet a part of me wants to live. I want to stay alive and continue dealing with this pain, and to deal with those in Eight looking at me with such distaste even though I won. I don’t want to die. But I also don’t want to live in the same place that Merino does. So I just sit there, watching Prudence get closer and closer. I didn’t realize just how wide the arena was.

She’s slowing down now. Walking towards me in a manner that would suggest that she is a dear friend of mine, not someone here to take me away to my grave.

She stops. Why did she stop?

“Not even goin’ to fight?” She bites, putting a blood drenched hand on her hip. I’m staring straight up at her from this angle, too. Even with a few feet between us.

“Not particularly fond of my folks back home. They didn't seem all too worried about my survival anyway. Might as well give ‘em what they want.”

She looks at me a bit, glaring into my soul. My heart is beating so fast that I feel my hands shaking from the blood flow. Why won’t she just do it already?

Her face becomes shadowed in pity rather quickly.

“Is that really why? Nothin’ that you want to go home too? You know what you get when you win, right? Money and a house in the Victor’s Village. Wouldn’t be too bad.” Her gaze never leaves my face.

“Yeah, I guess that's true. But I can’t deal with the people who sent me here to die.” I look down for a second, hoping maybe she’ll choose to kill me off after what I said. But when I look up, she’s more confused than anything. She knows, of course, that I can’t overpower her. She must be toying with me.

“Whatever do you mean?” She asks.

“You haven’t thought about it? How whatever love the people of Eleven will hold for you when you return will dissipate? Once you decide you’ve had enough of this little chit chat you’ll go home, maybe be met with niceties and applause at the train station, but once you get settled back in, they’ll start bein’ annoyed you made it back. They won’t care if you're alive, they’ll only care that you didn’t die here. They’d start givin’ you shady looks, maybe even start talkn’ smack. They’ll be grateful for the meager supply of food you won for them, but once that runs out and you embark on the Victory Tour, you’ll only start to hate yourself more and more. Because you made it back when no one wanted you to. Because you killed all these children because their families and friends wanted them gone. You played into their game just as much as the rest of us have. Who even was the kid who made it to the top three? The one you just killed off? It doesn't really matter.” I pause. It’s all too much. All too much. “I’m not sure why you’re lettin’ me talk. I’d rather you just kill me and get it over with so you can try your hardest to go back to normal. Or whatever normal is when you win the Hunger Games. Sorry. I’m just tired of it all.”

She’s quiet. Her hands have gone to her side, her mouth closed into a straight line, tears brimming her waterline. I didn’t say anything that was really moving. Maybe she’d just been blind to it all. How utterly hopeless her life will be once she leaves. I can’t blame her. I participated just as much as she did. I’ve got more than four lives that belong to me now, four lives that I’ve taken in order to try and go home. I’m selfish. She’s selfish. But we couldn’t really do much about it, could we? We’re just kids.

Her eyes harden.Whatever she was thinking doesn’t matter. After all, words are just words, aren’t they?

“Just make it quick. I’ve been waitin’ for a week to die.” I croak out. I hadn’t realized I’m crying.

“No. Why should I get to go home? Why not make you go home?” She sniffles.

What. No. I want to die! Just kill me already and stop this madness!

“Huh- Wait, no just wait a moment, I can’t go home. They’ll kill me there. They wanted me gone more than anyone else” I’m practically pleading for my death. I feel bile rise in my throat.

Prudence wipes her nose with the arm. “But it’s fair for me to go home and k**l myself, huh? Is that what you think? That I should go home and suffer for what I’ve done? From what I can tell Evin Mauve, is that you’ve got more blood on that scarf than I’ve gotten on my hands this whole week! If anything, it should be you who has to live out their sorry life in misery, with people hating you everywhere you go!”

At that, Prudence grabs the knife that she dropped on the grass. It’s long and rusted. Or maybe that's just blood. She grips it tightly, her knuckles darkening.

Finally.

I can almost feel the relief wash over me when I see her inch forward towards me. I deserve this. But the tears keep coming, from both of us. I lower my head down, not really wanting to watch as she raises her arm up to give the final blow.

In my head, I hear a simple tune:

You’re headed for heaven,
The sweet ol’ hereafter,
And I’ve got one foot in the door.

My ma is singing me to sleep. Not sleep. To my death.

But before I can fly up,
I’ve lose ends to tie up,
Right here, in the Old Therebefore.

Prudence seems to be taking her time. My body is shaking with sobs, both for myself and Polly. And everyone else whose lives have been taken. For those whose lives I’ve taken.

I’ll be along, when I finish my song.
When I’ve shut down the band,
When I’ve played out my hand,
When I’ve payed all my debts,
When I have no regrets,
Right here, in the Old Therebefore.

I have so many regrets. I don’t care anymore, though. I want my ma. And my dad. I miss them so badly it hurts. My poor mother, too. I’ll be joining Reaper Rust soon. She’s lost both her kids to the Hunger Games now.

I’ll catch you up, when I’ve emptied my cup
When I’ve worn out my friends,
When I’ve burned out both ends,
When I’ve cried all my tears,
When I’ve conquered my fears
Right here, in the Old Therebefore.

The heat of the arena seems to be getting worse. If seconds have passed, I can’t tell. All I’m waiting for is for Prudence to end it all. Maybe I’ll get to hear the horns announce her victory before I really go.

I’ll bring the news, when I’ve danced off my shoes.
When my body’s closed down,
When my boats run aground,
When I’ve tallied the score,
And I’m flat on the floor,
Right here, in the Old Therebefore.

I decide to look up then. I need to know she feels at least somewhat bad about killing me. Everyone in Panem must be glued to their screens, watching us stare at each other. Those in the Capitol will grow bored soon, though, if she doesn’t hurry it up.

Her skin glows with the setting sun. At least the last thing I’ll get to see is something beautiful. If only I were in the flower fields just yards away.

I look back down as she raises her hand again. I’ve stopped crying, and now just rough breaths come from my chest.

My ma would want to know I’m thinking of her. She’d want to know that I’m thinking of her in my last moments.

So I sing the last stanza.

“When I’m pure like a dove, When I’ve learned how to love, Right here, in the Old Therebefore.” It’s more of a whisper, something only I can really hear. “When Nothing is left anymore.”

 

BOOM.

 

Then It’s silent. The weight of the empty arena, not really empty, fills my body with peace. In some mccabe way, I’m happy. The feeling of knowing you’re alone, in such a vast area of land, feels nothing but amazing. The sun sets in the West, right over the flower fields I caught my first rabbit in. It’s silent. And calm. She lies in front of me, Prudence. A shiny red smile curves across her neck. She looks just as peaceful as I feel. I think we would have been good friends, had we never had to fight in here. Not that we really fought. I let out an exasperated sigh.

It’s over.

I can go home.

Over the speakers of the arena, loud cheering and clapping are being broadcasted from wherever the live Capitol parties are being held.

“The winner of the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, and First Quarter Quell, is Evin Matthews!”

My heart drops at hearing my father’s last name, Which isn’t shared by me.

I've won now, but for some reason, the Capitol is already trying to erase Evin Mauve Baird from existance.

Notes:

HES FREE FROM THE GAMES FINALLY!!!! Lowkey though we have so much left to go, with the Tour and his first year as a mentor!!! Thank you for reading! Hopefully more updates soon but who knows!

Chapter 22: Goodbye, Weaver Boy

Summary:

Evin Mauve startles. “You’re pullin’ the names this time?” He asks.

“Yes, that is what I was told to do. By President Snow himself!” The grin returns to his face, and his voice gets higher like he’s praising the man when he says Snow’s name.

That disgusts Evin Mauve as well.

Notes:

OK 1. there is some abuse that is alluded to throughout the chapter, you have been warned, and 2. I've changed the rest of the story to be in third person, so hopefully it isn't super jarring.

A searing pain wakes Evin Mauve up. It's seven in the morning according to the clock that rests next to his bed. His ankle is burning, prickling from pain, and it's still not fully healed even almost a full year later. His hair is tangled, matted with days of tears from the little he’s been able to move these past few days. Merino showed up on Monday, and now every part of Evin Mauve hurts. 

Today is swealting. Evin Mauve grunts, turning slightly to see the hot air outside his ornate window. He still hasn’t gotten used to it. Being one of the two victors that District Eight boasts so proudly. Even if they had wanted him to die. When he’d gotten home from the Capitol, after that awful interview with Lucretius Flickerman that had been made an extra hour and a half longer than usual by the extravagance of the Quarter Quell, the crowd had cheered so loudly when he hobbled onto the train platform. So loudly, like his mother and grandmother weren’t being hanged at the Gallows later that day because Evin Mauve sung the forsaken songs of his grandmother’s Covey, so loudly like they didn’t try and kill him like they had done to Polly. Her blood still stains his skin, it seems. Her parents weren’t there. He hasn’t been able to look at them in the face since he got home. He's been drowning in his own sadness, unable to swim to the surface to even try and consol others. But Merino was there, with a large, sick grin plastered on his face as he relished in the arrival of his victim. And Evin Mauve couldn’t try and stop him when he came up and kissed him. His ankle burned with the heat of his house. What else would someone expect from July Fourth? 

With great difficulty, Evin Mauve sits himself up in his bed. He can vaguely see himself in the mirror, his tear-stained cheeks flushed red from effort. But he can’t worry about that too much at the moment. Today is Reaping Day, of course, and being last year's winner, he is obligated to be there. Faustina had sent him an outfit woven from violet yarn that’s been sitting in its box downstairs since it arrived. It was pretty, it just reminded him too much of his mom. 

Reaching for his cane, he manages to slide off the bed. He’s wearing nothing but his undershorts, his other clothes strewn about the room. He limps to the bathroom. He hasn’t bathed in a while, and if he shows up to the Reaping in such a state he might as well kiss his life goodbye. And as sad and miserable as he is, Evin Mauve can’t let himself die. He’s tried too hard to live to give up now. 

Midway through his steaming hot bath, he hears the door slam open. The Evin Mauve of a few months ago would have jumped out of his tub, but he’s gotten so used to Woof barging into his house. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Evin Mauve is eternally grateful that Woof cares enough about him to perform daily check-ups. Always at seven-thirty, Woof will come into his house and make breakfast while Evin Mauve bathes, something Woof often has to drag him to do, and waits with a mug of coffee by the stairs in case Evin Mauve falls down. He did a few days after getting home, and he’d just laid there for hours until Woof showed up the next morning to his bruised face. “You really should start taking care of yourself better”, Woof will say. Evin Mauve always promises Woof he will, but he can’t ever keep it up for longer than a week. Or he can until Merino shows up again. 

“Mauve, are you up?” Woof bellows. He won’t address him by Evin Mauve or even Evin anymore. It’s his own little way to fight against the Capitol ever since Evin Mauve Baird became publicly known as Evin Matthews. He’d never thought he’d end up hating his father’s last name.

“Y-yeah I’m up.” Evin Mauve calls down, voice scratchy. It hurts. 

After a few more minutes, the water has turned lukewarm and he’s grown tired of becoming wrinkly. Getting out of the bathtub is always the hardest. He can’t put much weight on his left ankle, the fracture at the Capitol train station turning into a full break that wasn’t treated for days. He’s lucky to even have his foot still. 

Dressed in clean underclothes, he hobbles his way towards the stairs. There admittedly aren’t many, but it feels just as high up as the train had at the train station. Step by step, he makes his way down to the kitchen, where Woof is waiting in a neatly ironed brown suit, cup of coffee in hand. A bowl of eggs sits on the counter, and a sausage patty rests on the stove. He hasn't gotten used to it yet, the richness. Most of District Eight is starving, only helped slightly by the grain they get for his victory, but it's never enough. His stomach still growls. 

With a plate full of eggs and sausage, he limps over to the kitchen table.

“Sleep well?” Woof asks, sipping from his coffee. He looks equally as tired, dark purple bags circling the bottom of his eyes. 

Evin Mauve hums an answer. He can’t really recall when he fell asleep, only that it had been mere hours ago. The Reaping is at three-thirty, like it always is, and this year Evin Mauve will be leaving on that train along with Woof. After all, he’s a mentor now. He can’t decide if that's a curse or a blessing. A month and a half away from Eight, which means a month and half away from Merino. He hates how much he takes up his mind.

Woof stares at Evin Mauve while he eats, eyes never breaking away from the plate. It’s laughable, how much he seems to care for him after being so ready to let him die. But perhaps seeing the broken child that arrived home at the Victor’s Village just a short hour after his last remaining loved ones were executed broke whatever disdain he’d had for the boy. Evin Mauve notices how worried he seems to be about him. He’s got a good reason, too. 

“Go get dressed.” Woof grunts, pushing his cup away from the table once the last bit of egg is off Evin Mauve’s plate.

“Why? Reapin’s not for ‘nother six hours.” rasps Evin Mauve. 

“We’re going to the bakery, that's why. Then we’re dropping by the Quail’s house,” he snaps, “so go get dressed. Call me if you need help.” He grabs Evin Mauve’s plate and storms off into the kitchen to clean up. He doesn’t help Evin Mauve’s mood ever. His constant demand that they see Polly’s parents every week only deepens the guilt forever present in his stomach. But he goes anyway, seeing no point in upsetting Woof as well. 

He puts on the vest, which upon further inspection, is not made of violet yarn, but an array of reds, blues, and whites that from a distance give the impression of a deep purple. Gold buttons clasp it over his chest, almost covering the cream-colored tunic he wears underneath completely. He brushes his hair a little, watching as his red curls fall down around his ears and onto his forehead. He really should have cut it yesterday like he’d planned. He ties a handkerchief around his neck in hopes to cover the bruises. 

They begin their trek to the bakery just at noonish. Woof moves much quicker than Evin Mauve does, often having to stop or even backtrack just so he doesn’t fully leave him behind. Evin Mauve’s cane isn’t a great help on the broken concrete streets of District Eight, and many times he’ll stumble on a particularly large crack in the ground. Nevertheless, they make it to the bakery by twelve-forty, quickly buying a bag of cookies before hobbling over to the Quails house. 

The Quails live just outside the district’s main square, with a street passing straight by their house into the large space designated for the Reaping. The ropes have already been set up, too. Woof knocks on the door, and with a startling swiftness, Penny Quail, a thin, tall woman who has her blonde hair pulled up onto her head answers as she always does. 

“Oh, Woof. I- We weren’t expecting you today.” Her voice is low, but has such a strong resemblance to Polly’s squeak that you wouldn’t doubt Polly was her daughter. Her gaze turns sharply to Evin Mauve, glaring at him. “You’re here too, I see. Figured you’d have gone off to the Mayor’s already.” 

Evin Mauve’s breath hitches. She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know.  

“Yes, we just figured we’d make a quick stop before the Reaping.” Woof hands her the cookies. A few awkward seconds pass, her eyes never quite leaving Evin Mauve’s face, before she curtly thanks Woof and closes the door. She still has a child to help get ready. They’ve not seen him, nor do they know his name, but Polly’s younger brother is for the first time eligible for the reaping this year. 

“I don’t know why you insist on me comin’ along with you. They hate me.” Evin Mauve whispers, head down as they make the short trip to the Mayor’s. Woof sighs, having had this argument at least a dozen times before. 

“It’s the least you can do, Mauve.” His hand pats Evin Mauve’s back, lingering as he freezes by the door to the Justice Building. “You can do this.” He gives a reassuring smile, one that Evin Mauve wishes wasn’t so creased with worry. Woof doesn’t know. Evin Mauve hasn’t told him about all the times Merino shows up at his back door and how many times he just can’t get him to leave. Woof just thinks that Evin Mauve hates Merino for sending him into the arena, not for all the things he’s done after he got back. And Evin Mauve never plans to tell him. 

So he smiles back, again playing the game that is always in play during the Hunger Games. Woof knocks his knuckles on the door, bringing a peacekeeper to escort them into the living room. The Justice Building, unlike its name suggests, is more of a house than a courtroom. There aren’t ever any trials in Eight that aren’t dealt with at a peacekeeper base. 

It reminds Evin Mauve that Caius will be there. A leap of hope rises in his chest as he leans on his cane. Perhaps he’ll get to spend more time with him, even though he’ll be busy with peacekeeping and being the escort for this year's tributes. But the moment he enters the living room, all hope of getting to spend time with Caius goes out the door. Caius stands there, not in a peacekeeper’s uniform, but in something one of the escorts from One or Two typically wear on Reaping Day. His hair’s been dyed a hideous blond, almost orange in the light of the decrepit chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.

Woof walks over to him, greeting him like he’s an old friend, which, Evin Mauve supposes they are, since they have to spend a month together every year. Evin Mauve can’t bring himself to move though. In his memories Caius was something of a novelty. He wasn’t the typical Capitol citizen that he grew to hate while he was there. The colors, all too bright, and the constant chattering that never seemed to cease, have been brought here to District Eight. He begins to feel ill.

Evin Mauve quickly finds a quieter spot in the Justice Building, away from everyone else. He sighs. It’s been a year since he’s been in this place, and yet it's exactly how he remembers it. The smell of mildew is only blanketed by a few lit candles, something that can only have been brought here by the Capitol attendants, maybe even by Caius himself. 

“Hey there, hotstuff.” 

And all of a sudden Evin Mauve’s back in the arena, waiting for Orion to fall asleep so he can kill him. But even that cave would have been safer than this room, as long as he was away from him .

Merino’s hand finds its way to his shoulder, tightening its grip as Evin Mauve tenses up. Hot breath breathes down his neck as Merino’s face sets itself on his opposite shoulder. 

“How are you doin’?” He whispers. 

Evin Mauve wants to run. And he’s tried, so many times, to get away from him, but his ankle always prohibits him. But he is in Merino’s house, and even an attempted getaway would result in Merino being next to him. So Evin Mauve plays the game he’s been playing for a year: smile and nod and they’ll leave you alone. The problem is, Merino never plays along.

“Been better.” He mumbles, flinching as Merino’s hand travels down his back. His thoughts wander on to the gruesome idea of Merino having an untimely demise at his very own hands, a thought that only seems more joyous the lower Merino’s hand gets. 

“Can I fix that?” Merino taunts, tugging at the bottom of Evin Mauve’s shirt. 

“Yeah, by leaving me alone.” Panic has set into his chest. Not today. Not hours away from the Reaping.  

“Oh, com’ on Evin. You know you enjoy my company.” a shiver runs up Evin Mauve’s spine. Merino’s hand has traveled under his vest, massaging his upper back. He hates how the tension seems to dissipate as Merino puts pressure into his circles. 

“Ah, there you are!” Merino’s hand falls quickly to his side, a redness to his cheeks at being caught. Woof stands at the door, face wearing a fake smile that only just hides the venom lacing his voice. “Mauve, Twelve’s Reaping is about to start.” 

Evin Mauve smiles almost too brightly at the obvious out. Merino, dejected, huffs a sigh of disappointment before bumping into Woof as he leaves. Woof’s face falters a bit, disappointment flashing across his face. Evin Mauve hobbles over to him before falling into Woof’s chest in an awkward hug. 

“Thank you.” Evin Mauve whispers. Wood stands there, not reciprocating the hug, until Evin Mauve peels himself away. Evin Mauve’s face has fallen, eyes a brighter blue than usual from his tears. “It’s almost started, huh? Didn’t think I’d been gone that long.” 

Woof nods, eyeing Evin Mauve suspiciously before leading them back into the living room. Caius stands in the middle of the room, back towards the television, chatting with Mayor Weaver. The Mayor droops even more than he did at the last Reaping ceremony, his skin even grayer than Evin Mauve remembered. There didn’t even seem to be a blush in his dark cheeks. Peacekeepers stood at the doors, with the curtains drawn shut. The only light in the room was from the dusty chandelier. Caius catches Evin Mauve’s eyes right as he enters the room. 

“Oh! Evin Mau- Evin Matthews , what a pleasure to be back in your presence. The Mayor here was telling me how you’ve been-” Caius droned on and on, and Evin Mauve was losing focus. He could only fixate his thoughts on one thing: how disgustingly Capitol Caius had become. Evin Mauve could remember how district he had felt when he’d met him, and had puzzled over the strangeness of his accent every time they’d talked. But now all that's left is the usual squeak of the Capitolites. And it repulses him. “- Anyway, I’m here to do the Reaping this year, isn’t that right, Weaver?” Mayor Weaver gave a quiet grumble before sitting down on the velvet couch. “New this year. All the districts get official escorts, none of that peacekeeping stuff.” Caius waves his hand like he wasn’t a peacekeeper a mere six months ago. He had joined Evin Mauve on his Victory Tour that past winter, and whatever person had stayed with Evin Mauve as the nightmares ruined his sleep is gone, replaced by a disfigured version of himself. Evin Mauve’s face doesn’t hide his disgust very well, and Caius notices it. “What’s wrong?” He asks, face falling from its tight smile. 

Evin Mauve startles. “You’re pullin’ the names this time?” He asks.

“Yes, that is what I was told to do. By President Snow himself!” The grin returns to his face, and his voice gets higher like he’s praising the man when he says Snow’s name. That disgusts Evin Mauve as well. 

“Cool.” Evin Mauve just shrugs, face falling into its natural state. He hobbles over to the large, plush chair situated to the right of the couch. 

“Oh how rude of me, how is your ankle?” inquires Caius. He’d been on the train to see how even after six months Evin Mauve couldn’t manage to walk. He’s walking now, but without his cane he may as well lay and crawl on the ground. 

“ ‘ts fine.” He mumbles, relaxing into the chair. It’s the only part of the Justice Building he actually likes. Woof sits on the couch next to the mayor, conversation beginning over what unlucky soul it will be this year. No doubt about it, Woof would have known before the Reaping even began that Evin Mauve and Polly were District Eight’s tributes for the Twenty-fifth Hunger Games. Him and the Mayor were good friends, it seems. 

The anthem rings out of the dusty box that is the television, signalling the start of District Twelve’s Reaping. They all hush, chatter stopping completely as they watch the bright orange escort prance around the stage. After ten minutes of Capitol praising speeches, she reaches into the bowl for the female tribute, and selects a young girl by the name of Lily Burnamp, a fifteen year old who looks just about twelve from malnutrition. All the kids in Twelve are thin, freakishly thin even, but this girl looks like she could fall apart from even the slightest of breezes. Evin Mauve’s eyes don’t leave the screen as the flouncy woman introduces the weeping child to Panem, even if the vibrance of the Capitolite compared to the coal dust-covered district is replusing. How was he meant to train a tribute to kill such a helpless person? As much as the people of Eight starved, even they were better off than the people of District Twelve. It was hard not to pity them. They haven’t even managed to get a victor yet.

The boy is chosen, a small twelve year old who’s lip quivers when he gets on the stage. He’s decently tall for a kid his age, though. Perhaps he’ll have a chance. They watch as the Mayor of District Twelve finishes his closing speech, before the screen cuts to an equally brightly colored man as District Three’s reaping commences. They don’t have much time, however, to sit and watch, because they’re up next. 

Evin Mauve struggles to get up off the couch, hitting away Caius’ hand when he offers to help. Caius’ hand is so perfectly manicured that Evin Mauve shivers at just the slightest touch of its impossibly smooth surface. Peacekeepers line the halls, leading up towards the makeshift stage which undoubtedly holds the names of every child in the district in two large glass bowls. Woof stands behind him, an arm slightly outstretched incase Evin Mauve’s ankle gives out when walking up the few short steps to the door. They’re instructed to stand in a line, the order that they will all be introduced in as they take the stage in a few short minutes. It reminds Evin Mauve of his interviews with Lucky Flickerman. The panic of knowing he’ll be being broadcast to everyone in Panem in his fragile state on a stage that just a year ago he’d walked up to thinking he was going to die sends shivers down his spine. But Woof does this every year, and has been doing it since the Twelfth games, so Evin Mauve can probably do it too. And he isn’t alone.

They stand there for what feels to Evin Mauve like an eternity, his ankle throbbing from being stood on for too long, as Woof and Caius make painful small talk. It’s interesting how Woof seems to get along with Caius so well, even after whatever Capitolization happened to him. Evin Mauve can’t even look him in the eye. And perhaps he’s being too judgemental, a problem he’s had almost his whole life, but everything that once felt so real about Caius seems fake. His smile is too wide and forced, his eyes lack any of the true fondness that used to be in his stare. For goodness sakes, Caius even corrected himself once he called him Evin Mauve! The Caius he knew wouldn’t have done that. Perhaps, though, Evin Mauve didn’t ever really know Caius. He’d only been in his vicinity for a few short weeks, which is hardly enough time to really know someone. And it isn’t like Evin Mauve’s a saint either, he’s killed people. If anything, Caius’ gaze shouldn’t ever land on such a beast of a person. Evin Mauve can feel himself shrink at the thought. He really shouldn’t be judging Caius for anything when he’s done much, much worse.

His thoughts are interrupted by Mayor Weaver exiting the Justice Building, followed closely by Caius, as District Eight’s twenty-sixth reaping begins. A lump seems to have formed in his throat, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow.

“Breathe, Mauve.” Woof sighs, no doubt tired of all the panic that never leaves Evin Mauve’s mind. He nods, trying to take deeper breaths as Woof pushes past him to get to the stage. Outside, Evin Mauve can hear Caius’ voice echoing through the square as he drones on about the greatness of the Capitol. Never in a million years did he think he’d be about to walk on this stage, yet here he is, about to do it for the second time. He’s a terrified seventeen year old, traumatized by the brutality of the Hunger Games, and yet he still must perform. Forever, he has to perform. He’ll walk on that stage every year after today.

“Now to introduce District Eight’s victors, in order of course,” Caius gleefully says. The door only slightly muffled his voice, and Evin Mauve wondered whether or not the microphone had been replaced with a newer one. Last year, it had scarcely worked. “The Victor of the Twelfth annual Hunger Games, Woof Hewitt!” The hot summer air rushes through the door as Woof exits the room, leaving Evin Mauve alone. A quiet applause accompanies Woof’s exit, but it quickly dies down. No one in Eight really celebrates their victors, except for the days they win. Why would they? They’re just regular people who went through something terrible. “And our second victor, the winner of last year’s Hunger Games and the First Quarter Quell, Evin Matthews!” 

The air is hotter than he remembers as he hobbles out on stage, and mixed with the fear of the audience, he feels grossly dizzy. And that name, not his even if he’s earned it, doesn’t help either. Woof has to extend a hand to Evin Mauve to guide him towards his seat on the stage. He’s grateful they don’t need to stand. His ankle can only take so much. 

Once his vision sharpens itself, he looks out into the crowd of hungry and scared children. Could he really have just been one of them last year? He stuck out well enough, not many kids in Eight, let alone adults in Eight, had as red of hair as he does. Caius continues his speech, eventually bringing up the thing they’ve all been forced to gather for: the twenty-sixth reaping. “We will select one male and female to be sent to the Capitol in luxury for our annual pageant, the Hunger games!” Caius’ voice is grating, overtly more Capitol than it had been while watching Twelve’s reaping. It’s like he’s a dying mouse , Evin Mauve thinks. “Now, as is tradition, we will select our female tribute first.” Caius walks over towards the large glass bowl on the left of the stage, crossing in front of Woof and Evin Mauve. The bowl is filled almost to the brim, thousands of little paper slips folded inside. Evin Mauve can’t help but remember the terror he felt last year, waiting for what he inevitably knew would happen, as the equally-terrified Polly walked up onto the stage. But Polly is dead now. The absolute worst thing that could happen is her brother getting picked. He tries not to think too much about that. Caius’ hand dips into the bowl in surprising elegance, dancing around before plunging deep into the pile of paper. When he pulls it back up a second later, held neatly between his fingers is the name of a girl whose fate is all but sealed. He returns to the microphone, and Evin Mauve holds his breath.

“District Eight’s female tribute for the Twenty-sixth Hunger Games is…” Caius takes his time unfolding the slip of paper, a freakish smile on his face. Evin Mauve is glad he’s facing away. He wasn’t sure he could stomach it. 

“Alma Gauge!” Caius announces into the boiling air. Evin Mauve searches the crowd, looking for the girl. A crowd of girls part around the victim, revealing a short, plump girl Evin Mauve recognizes as the baker’s daughter. She trembles, and ends up having to be escorted all the way up to the stage by peacekeepers after she refuses to move. “Hello dear! Tell us your name again for those who didn’t catch it!” Caius leans the microphone towards her, and Evin Mauve gets the sudden urge to slap the man across the face. 

“Alma Gauge. My name is Alma Gauge.” She says into the microphone, surprisingly steady for her circumstances. Her fingers jolt every now and then, eventually ending up bunched into her cream colored dress. 

“Well, it is very nice to meet you, Miss Gauge. Now, if you could stand right there-” Caius moves her over a little bit to the left, “and we will move onto our male tribute!” He walks away from Alma, and all Evin Mauve can think of as Caius reaches into the bowl is that it isn’t Polly’s brother, that another Quail wouldn’t lose their life because of the Hunger Games. Caius picks the first slip of paper he touches, fishing it out of the bowl. He saunters back towards the microphone, holding the paper out in front of him.

“The boy tribute for District Eight is,” As he opens the paper, Evin Mauve watches as Caius’ smile falters ever so slightly, and all he can think about is that it’s the Quail boy. And the hesitant pause that Caius holds only proves what he’s already figured out. Caius looks back ever so quickly, concern laced on his face. Evin Mauve’s heart all but stops. At least he;ll learn the kid’s name. “Sorry, the boy tribute for District Eight is Merino Weaver.”

And Evin Mauve is so scared he almost laughs. 

Chapter 23: The Silent Promise to one Merino Weaver

Summary:

“Don’t kick me.” He says, voice prickly and muffled from the half-eaten roll.

“Why not? That ain’t your hurt leg.” Merino chuckles, picking back up his fork.

Notes:

Last update before Sunrise on the Reaping is out!!!!! I cannot wait this last week but we gotta pull through! Heres to hoping Suzanne won't have a cannon Victor for the 25th Hunger Games so Evin Mauve can live on in (reletive) peace. If she does then welllll I'll figure it out dw pooks. Anyway, enjoy!

The train station is just as loud and crowded as it had been just six months prior, except for the inch thick slab of ice that nearly took out Evin Mauve’s other ankle. Instead, the blazing sun has baked the concret into a hellish stove, heat escaping into Evin Mauve’s shoes. He almost started to worry that they’d begin to melt. But he had more things to worry about.

Merino stands right behind him, neither quivering nor showing an ounce of fear in the slightest. Evin Mauve hardly spares him any attention, much to Merino’s disappointment. He’d stared at him as he waltzed up to the stage, never breaking eye contact, as Mayor Weaver yelled out protests, insisting that it had been rigged. Peacekeepers eventually took him back into the Justice Building, but not before all of Panem heard. Doesn’t matter, his son will die all the same. But something worries Evin Mauve. Merino has been freakishly calm, barely even showing emotion when Caius called out his name. Is he that confident that he could win? And worse, what would happen if   he won. Evin Mauve tried not to think about it as the train finally pulls into the station. It’d been delayed by some avalanche, but they know better. There was no doubt it had been some rebels who would probably die before the sun sets. 

The whistle of the train echoes across the square as Alma and Merino are brought up into the dining car. Both of them, even though they’ve had very fortunate childhoods, are taken aback from the grandeur that calmly shines inside the car, just as Evin Mauve and Polly had a year prior. Woof stays behind, helping Evin Mauve up into the train. As soon as they all had made it inside the train, it slowly rocked forward, leaving District Eight behind. 

“Sit down. We need to talk.” Woof says sternly. It reminds Evin Mauve of his mother when Reaper Rust would cause some sort of trouble at school all those years ago. Everything Woof does reminds him of his family, and he hates it. Everyone but Caius sits down at the large table situated in the middle of the train car, and an awkward silence fills the air as Merino sits 

down right next to Evin Mauve. He can’t even look at him. 

“We’re goin’ to die, aren’t we?” Alma whispers. A few stray tears have made their way down her face, making her eyes glassy. Evin Mauve’s head hurts. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the swelling of pain. Too much has happened in the short twenty minutes since the reaping, and the stress of it all has started to overwhelm him. The silence stretches on, only being interrupted by a Capitol attendant bringing out little cakes and mugs of tea and the occasional whistle of the train. 

After a few minutes, Woof’s voice breaks the car’s silence by clearing his throat. “Most likely, yes.” Woof sighs, putting a hand on his forehead, a sign Evin Mauve has learned means he’s getting a migraine. “But you could still make it home. Odds are in your favor.” He shrugs.

“Only one makes it out, Woof.” Evin Mauve tries to counter, voice scratchy.The agitation of his throat causes him to cough slightly, and Merino’s hand reaches up to his back. He flinches away, staring at Merino’s stupid grin. Evin Mauve doesn’t understand why Woof is lying through the skin of his teeth. These people are the same age as him, and Woof certainly hadn’t given him the luxury of hope last year. And Merino doesn’t deserve any help in that damned arena at all. 

 “Just stay away from the cornucopia. If you make it past the Bloodbath then Mauve and I can send you gifts.” Alma has her head in her hands, and Merino hasn’t detached his hand from Evin Mauve’s shoulder. 

“Don’t give ‘em false hope, Woof.” 

Woof takes a sip from his cup of coffee, his second of the day. “Merino, get your hand off him. He ain’t gonna go anywhere.” Merino hesitates a second before pulling away, and Evin Mauve feels relief flood his chest. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d become. But the tension stays a little, as the fact that he’s now trapped on a train with Merino for the next few days unable to leave hits him. 

“Well sometimes hope can go a long way.” Woof continues. “It isn’t as if they’re as old as Polly had been. Hell, as old as you had been, and look at you, you won. Alma’s smart, no?” She looks up at the sound of her name, and nods silently. And she is smart. Evin Mauve can remember the spelling bee they’d held in their class two springs ago. It had all been types of textiles, and she’d easily beaten all of the kids in their grade, even as the baker’s daughter. “Wits can get you rather far. The guy who won four, five years ago managed to trap a boy in a pit of mud. The Hunger Games ain’t just about being strong. That type of stuff can get you home.” 

“Yet he died from an infection days later.” Evin Mauve retorts.

“Mauve.” Woof warns, voice rising a little over a shout.

“What? I’m just being honest. I only won because Prudence thought I deserved to go back and deal with a district that hated me. My own fault, too, ‘cause I talked that nonsense into her head!” Evin Mauve stands, shifting his weight onto the table to avoid agitating his ankle. “Don’t give them hope, Woof. They won’t make it.” At this, Evin Mauve grabs his cane and walks to try and find his personal car. The train has so many cars he gets lost, and eventually finds himself in the bar car. Its lamps are dim, the light of midday being covered up by long, silk curtains the color of Eight’s uniform; a muddy yellow that is meant to hide those in the arena. A Capitol attendant, who Evin Mauve recognizes from his Victory Tour, stands behind a counter polishing glasses. It brings him back to six months ago, when he and Woof had just left Eight and were headed for Twelve. It was snowing, a rare occurrence for District Eight in December, and they’d had several delays as the railroads were too iced over. Evin Mauve huffs a laugh at the thought of Woof slipping on the ice at the station. 

“Excuse me, do you know where my room is?” He asks the bartender. The man startles. He had zoned out cleaning the crystal cups. 

“Yes. Two more cars down, and that should be Mr. Hewitt and your rooms.”

“Thank you.”

Evin Mauve hobbles through the next car, which seems to be where Alma and Merino will be staying, and eventually finds a room marked with Evin Matthews on it. He sighs. It had been horrible enough hearing it for the first time after Prudence died, and it seemed his horror hadn’t subsided. That night, when Evin Mauve was first truly introduced to Panem as Evin Matthews, he’d been so anxious they would kill him right on stage. Lucky acted all fine though, even after announcing Evin Matthews would be his last Victor to host, as the following year a fellow news reporter would be taking on the mantle as the Hunger Games’ host. He tried to act sorry for him, and said very graciously that he was sad to see Lucky go, but they continued on with the programing all the same. He watched himself kill five people, no, children, and watched Polly, Prudence, and the other seventeen kids die that night. It was terrible. 

But here Evin Mauve is, standing in the doorway of a lavish bedroom, once again headed to the Capitol, this time to mentor two people to death. He wants Alma to come home, although he wouldn’t be lying when he thinks that he wouldn’t care much if she did die, but if he made it back, Evin Mauve might just leave Eight all together. Run out into the forest that surrounds the districts and wait for a wild animal to come and kill him. Or he’d just finish what Prudence should have started. He can’t have them feel hope, because he knows Woof is right: hope does go a long way. Merino can’t have hope. He’ll make it back if he does.

He gently locks the door to his room before limping over to the bed. Dusty pink sheets, no, Mauve sheets, cover the bed. Always rubbin’ it in my face, ain’t you Snow? he thinks. That man makes Evin Mauve so angry. The night he’d placed his victory crown on his neatly gelled red hair, he’d been so scared he’d kill him right then and there that he scarcely heard a word Snow said. He heard his question, though, and he really wished he hadn’t. “Baird. Such an interesting name, is it not?” . He felt whatever strength he had left dissipate at the man’s venom-laced words that he had simply nodded and gave a slight grin. He wished he could throw him into the arena right next to Merino and shove them off their platforms before the gun goes off. 

The bed is soft. A little firm, but Evin Mauve would rather have a bed too hard than the one in his old house. It felt like sleeping in straight cotton. He gently unlaces his shoes before sliding his legs up onto the bed. He really should be helping Woof with those two, but he just can’t stand it. At his Victory party in the Capitol, many past Victors had been so drunk or intoxicated that they could barely walk. He wondered why they were like that, but he already wishes he’d ask the bartender for a drink. Merino just can’t seem to get it through his head that Evin Mauve doesn’t want him. But deep down, Evin Mauve knows he does, yet doesn’t care. It makes his insides twist. He can’t drink around him. He’s such a lightweight that Merino would be able to scoop him up in his arms and have his way with him, then dumb Evin Mauve on the floor like he wasn’t even human. Evin Mauve can’t wait to see Merino Weaver’s photo projected into the sky. 

Soon, he finds himself falling asleep. The train rocks back and forth, and its gentle hum causes all the tension in his shoulders to dissipate, and soon he’s sunken into the pillows with his eyes closed. He dreams of life back in Eight, several years ago when he could spend the summer with Reaper Rust. They’d take the hike to the fields that line the outskirts of the markets, leaving behind the concrete buildings that make up their day to day lives. They’d chase each other, and would always end up picking wildflowers to bring home to their Ma, who would put them in a small vase filled with water. Sometimes it was the only color present in their house. But Reaper Rust wasn’t around for long. That day five years ago marked the end of Evin Mauve’s childhood, when he could count on his older brother to help him out with school work and teach him to play their grandfather’s old guitar. He’d never not been in his life and then suddenly, he was gone, taking Evin Mauve’s childhood with him. He only ever sees Reaper Rust when he dreams, and they always end with his brutal death on that scalding summer day. 

A gentle knock jolts Evin Mauve awake. Groaning, he slides off the bed and limps to the door. He thinks about grabbing something to hit whoever it was with, but the only thing is a small candlestick that sits across the car. He should’ve just grabbed the cane. He unlocks the door and comes face to face with a very agitated Woof. 

“Dinner time.” He huffs. “Grab your cane.”

Evin Mauve listens, turning and carefully making his way to the wall his cane rests against. The walk to the dining car is silent as usual, their usual routine settling back into place. The dining car is four cars from their rooms, and the warmth of the car can be felt from the direct opposite cars, and a delicious smell of honey roasted ham fills the train. When they enter the room, Caius, Merino, and Alma all sit at the table, dishing out the rich dinner. Cheesy potatoes, a beautiful roasted turkey and the accompaniment of the honey glazed ham already fill their plates, and buttered peas, carrots, and whole stalks of corn wait in their dishes. Evin Mauve feels like he’s floating. Sure, he could afford to eat like this regularly, but these ingredients were hard to come by, even for a victor. Last time he’d eaten such grand food was his last night on his Victory Tour. 

Him and Woof sit down next to Caius, and Evin Mauve hardly looks the tributes in the face as he plies his plate sky high with cranberry jam, rolls, and the ham. And oh the ham is so heavenly Evin Mauve nearly melts into his seat. Caius has to stifle a laugh at how slowly Evin Mauve takes bites of the bread, because the bread is so much better than even the most expensive stuff bought at the bakery Alma’s family owns. She even seems to agree, because half her plate is filled with the small buttered rolls. Evin Mauve almost just takes her plate. But his mood is soured, as it always his when Merino is around, when he feels a playful kick from under the table. He glances up mid chew, glaring at Merino whose face is hiding a grin. 

“Don’t kick me.” He says, voice prickly and muffled from the half-eaten roll. 

“Why not? That ain’t your hurt leg.” Merino chuckles, picking back up his fork. Really, him and Alma are eating so much more politely than Evin Mauve is, something that would be embarrassing if he wasn’t so in love with whatever Capitol chef that cooked their meal. 

“Don’t matter, don’t touch me.” He says, chew his roll. He can’t help but feel a little ridiculous about having an argument at the dinner table, it feels childish in a way. 

“Aww c'mon Evin, you know you love me.” Evin Mauve half expects himself to throw the knife his hand has wrapped itself around into one of Merino’s emerald green eyes, but he doesn’t. His chest is beating so heavily. You know you love me . Suddenly whatever punishment the Capitol will have for him if he were to kill Merino right here and now doesn’t seem too bad. 

“Keep your mouth shut,” Evin Mauve can’t take his hand off the knife, “Or I’ll make you an Avox.” 

Woof puts a hand on his arm, tightly squeezing to get his hand to release the knife. If only tightens his grip. 

“Then how would we-”

“Merino-” Evin Mauve starts.

“Oh Evin don’t pretend you won’t miss our-”

“MERINO.”

Woof’s voice rises above them all, and silence suffocates the entire room. Evin Mauve realizes that he’s losing circulation in his hand, and finally lets go of the knife.

“You leave him alone, ok?” His hand rests on Evin Mauve’s shoulder now, and it's then that he realizes that he’s been shaking. 

“M’kay.” Merino shrugs, going back to eating his food. 

“Mauve, if you’re done go on ahead to bed.” Evin Mauve nods, and, taking a roll, makes his way back to his room. From behind the door, he can hear some sort of shouting match between Woof and Merino, and for the umpteenth time he’s thankful for Woof’s presence. 

When he makes it back, he locks the door and quickly limps over to the bathroom. He should’ve just stabbed him then and there. He wouldn’t have to spend the next few days in his close proximity, hell, he’d be executed and never have to deal with another person again if he had. He should’ve just done it. 

His shower is blazing hot, dissipating the pain in his ankle drastically. He hadn’t realized just how much it started to hurt, and a small bruise has formed on the leg Merino kicked. Maybe Woof did it for him. He won’t have to wait that long, though. The games start in a little over a week, and the chances that Merino even lives through the Bloodbath are next to none. But there's that small chance that he makes it, and Evin Mauve doesn’t think he’d be able to even help Alma if she made it too. He needs Merino Weaver to die, no matter what. He’s all but come to the conclusion that if needed, Evin Mauve will withhold any sponsor gifts if Merino is in desperate need of them. He isn’t sure if that's allowed, and he’s rather sure he can lie his way out of any trouble, but its a risk he’s willing to take. Invigorated, Evin Mauve quickly gets out of the shower, which had long since gone cold, and shivered his way into the soft pink sheets of his bed. As he lays there, he can hear Woof enter the room across from him, grumbling to himself. Maybe he’s come to the same conclusion he has. Maybe he’ll go along with it, and hopefully won’t chastise him. As he drifts off, warmer than he’d like to be yet so incredibly comfortable that he doesn’t dare move, he has one thought that burns itself into his head: Merino Weaver cannot be allowed to win the Twenty-sixth annual Hunger Games, no matter the cost.

Chapter 24: The Parade of Pain

Notes:

MY BOY SURVIVED SOTR!!!!!
Can't believe it actually but that book destroyed me SO badly.
Lucy Gray come home I know that grave ain't real
Anyway comments are appreaciated!! Hope you enjoy <3

The next morning is just as hot, and Evin Mauve nearly gags at the amount of sweat on his bed. He has to peel his sleeping clothes off his body before taking what is possibly the coldest shower anyone’s ever taken. He gets out shivering and a little purple. Woof, like clockwork, knocks on his door right at seven in the morning, telling him to come to the dining car for breakfast. Evin Mauve barely stifles his groan. He doesn’t want more shouting at such an early time of day. 

Him and Woof are thankfully the only people in the dining car by the time the food comes out. There's sausage, eggs, various pastries that flake off at even the slightest touch. But Evin Mauve finds the doughnuts, and he can hardly keep himself from getting sick off the wonderfully glazed dough. His joy from the meal is once again interrupted, this time, though, by Woof. 

“What’s wrong, Mauve?” He’s stopped eating all together, and only bores his eyes right into Evin Mauve’s soul. 

“Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Right as rain.” Evin Mauve continues to eat his breakfast, ignoring the eye roll Woof gives at his response. He survived the Hunger Games, that's what's wrong. He should know that.

  “You think I’m dense, don’t you.” he chortles, scooping up a forkful of cheesy eggs.

“You said it, not me,” Evin Mauve breathes, “Seriously, though, I’m fine. Merino will be gone in a week. If anything, I’m more than fine.”

Woof nearly chokes from Evin Mauve’s brazenness. The ease to which he admitted to be waiting gleefully for Merino's death is so revealing of the horror he’s been through that the face Woof makes in response makes Evin Mauve wonder if he’s finally lost it. It was only a matter of time, really. He’d woken up right after midnight, too, and stayed up to watch the other district’s reapings, placing mental bets on who’d be the one to take Merino out. Perhaps it was just exhaustion.

“Wonder how far they’ll make it, the two of ‘em.” Evin Mauve ponders between bites of a cinnamon roll, trying to fill the silence. “The two from Four look mighty large. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was one of them who takes the crown. Mags’ll be proud.”

Evin Mauve can hardly remember meeting Mags. It was the Victory Tour, the air cold and salty as his celebration party progressed late into the night. District Four was one of the most welcoming districts, and it helped that he hadn’t killed either of their tributes. The party was long, and he’d well since passed his drinking limit, when even Woof started to blend into the crowd of District Four elites. He’d been in a stiff suit with an even stiffer boned vest underneath, very drunk and hardly able to breathe at all, people touching him every which way for hugs and photos, eventually causing Woof to try and keep him from cursing every Capitol attendant present out. Everyone seemed to be adorned in shades of teal green to navy blue, and in the sea of people, Mags had been no different. She’d spotted Woof from across the room, who was trying to keep a nearly blacked out Evin Mauve from falling over, and helped Woof take him up into one of the guest bedrooms to get him away from the party. There, all Evin Mauve remembers was him falling asleep on her lap as she stroked his curly hair.

“Mauve, whatever you hold against him needs to be let go.” Woof says, sipping a cream filled cup with coffee. It grosses Evin Mauve how much milk he puts in it, but not as much as his words do.

“Whatever I hold against him?” Evin Mauve cries, voice rising every so slightly as he slams his fork down onto the table. “Honestly, be more shocked I haven’t done the job for the tributes already!”

He knows he shouldn’t get upset by Woof, he hasn’t told him about Merino’s visits, but it's just so hard. Seemingly attracted by the mini argument, Caius peeks his head into the dining car, face painted a ridiculous white. He looks like a clown , Evin Mauve thinks.

“Oh, there you two are! We’re a few hours away from the Capitol, so if you would not mind, please go collect Mr. Weaver and Ms. Gauge and prepare them for arrival.” He vanishes, and Evin Mauve gently shifts his gaze over to Woof’s worn out face.

“Once we get them to their stylists, tell me what's wrong, ‘k?” He asks somberly, looking many years younger than he was. He reminds Evin Mauve of his own father, when Reaper Rust had gotten into some trouble at school and wouldn’t tell him why. Woof’s eyes are filled with the same love his father’s had, and Evin Mauve truly starts loathing himself at the moment for getting upset with a man who's only been trying to look out for him. For the past year, at least.

“Okay.” Evin Mauve gets up, leaving his dirty dishes on the table. “I’ll go get them. I’d better try and do my job now that we’re here.” Woof only grunts in response. When he reaches the tribute’s room cars, which are not nearly as extravagant as the rest of the train, only a simple, small white cot with a tiny bathroom in the corner, it takes him a painstakingly long time to gather the courage to knock on Merino’s door. 

So he turns to Alma’s door instead.

“Hey, Alma?” He asks, hoping she isn’t still passed out on her bed. A little rustling comes through the door before he sees her dark face in the doorway.

“We’re almost there, so get ready.” He’s so awkward and robotic that he feels his face heat up as he turns back to Merino’s door. He wasn’t meant for this. He thinks, certainly not for the last time, that he wishes Prudence killed him in the arena. 

“Merino.” He says, the word burning through his throat. His heart quickens, body becoming tenser than he’s been since the cave, as Merino opens the door in nothing but his underwear. He wishes he was dead for the second time that morning.

“Hey. Need something?” Merino asks, failing to hide the sly smile that peaks through the corner of his mouth. 

“Yes, Get some clothes on. We’re almost there.” It takes all Evin Mauve’s strength not to turn and run down the train cars until he’s in someone else’s sight. 

“Oh, ‘kay. Don’t think they’ll enjoy me like this?” Merino nods down to his bare chest. 

“No.”

“Shame that you’re the last one to see me like this.” He pouts, leaning in closer to Evin Mauve. When Evin Mauve takes a wobbly step away, he sneers, and turns back into his room. He leaves the door open, though.

Evin Mauve stares for a moment, frozen in fear that Merino will grab him by the arm and lock the door. It can’t happen again. The whistle of the train brings him back, and he almost slams the door hard enough to break it into splinters. He’ll be gone soon. You won’t have to worry anymore.  

The train has entered a cave, evident by the lack of sunlight coming through the windows of the lounge car when Evin Mauve enters. Small plush chairs line the car’s sides, and it seems Caius just cannot stop messing with his hair; he stares into a small hand-held mirror and moves his hair around with his finger every few seconds. It drives Evin Mauve crazy enough to sit as far away from him as possible, not really feeling like conversing with anyone. The Capitol is probably just through this mountain, and it’ll be louder than ever once they arrive. He’s a first-time mentor now, after all. He won’t have much time to adjust, because the mentors have to get readied for the parade as well as the tributes. They just don’t have to lose all their body hair.

He must’ve fallen asleep, exhaustion finally catching up to him, because the next thing he’s aware of is the heat of someone sitting next to him. Woof and Alma sit across from him, staring down the other tribute who seems to never cease in letting Evin Mauve breathe. Merino is dressed in what is possibly the ugliest thing Evin Mauve has ever seen: a snot green button up with neon orange buttons. It distracts him enough to ignore how much Merino is pressing into his side. The car is lit up in a bright flash of white, and through the window the shining Capitol of Panem boasts its candy-colored buildings. They’d managed to rebuild so much of it since Evin Mauve had last been there, as plenty of scars had still lined the opalescent streets. But it seems, with President Snow’s ascent to power, that the Capitol has finally cleaned itself of its wounds. The districts will never see it scarred again, and Evin Mauve’s sure of it. But oh, how he wishes it would crumble in front of him. 

Ten minutes later, they’re met with cheering crowds as the other trains arrive at the station. The peacekeepers seem to be having trouble clearing a path out of the train, which sends Caius into a silent rant about how quickly Eight’s peacekeeping team went down the drain after he left, and they watch silently as the tributes from Twelve, Three, Six, and Ten all make their way to their stylists. Woof is all but keeping Caius from screaming when they finally open the train doors, revealing the dramatic drop still present from the train to the station’s platform. Evin Mauve pales a bit, pain stinging through his ankle, and he shifts uncomfortably onto his cane as Merino and Alma are taken off after Caius. As soon as Woof lands on the ground, he turns around, hand outstretched. 

“Come on, Mauve.” He beckons. Evin Mauve’s dizzy with fear as he slides down, hand gripping Woof’s like a vise. It’s only when his hurt ankle is planted safely next to his other one when he stops feeling like vomiting. Only Woof’s hand on his shoulder helps him smile through the thick, screaming crowd. It doesn’t help that they’re screaming the wrong name. 

Merino and Alma have already been taken away by their stylists in a separate car, and Evin Mauve wonders if Faustina and Linian Juni, Eight’s stylist for the female tribute, have returned for another year. Once they arrive at the Tribute Center, Woof leads him to a set of rooms on the bottom floor, each one lined up next to each other with a simple copper plaque that designates a district. Once inside, they’re greeted with two suit bags; one with a piece of paper titled Evin Matthews and the other with Woof Hewitt . They both stand there awkwardly, staring at the bags. Evin Mauve dreads what could be awaiting him, the image of that horrendous parade outfit he and Polly wore last year burned into his brain. Woof moves to his first, intrigue winning out, and unzips the bag. Inside, a bright blue suit with small floral stitching decorating the jacket and pants waits to be put on. 

“Fabric’s cheap.” He says, running a finger over the sleeve. Evin Mauve nods, seeing the way it shines unnaturally from the bright white lights hanging from the ceiling. Anyone who grew up in Eight, with the exception of Merino, could tell. It’s drilled into them from the moment they start school. It’s that or learning about how indebted to the Capitol they are. 

“Only spare the good stuff for the tributes, I suppose.” Evin Mauve shrugs, unzipping his. It’s yet another woven vest, this time with golden buttons that decorate the green yarn, which is fraying. “Can’t even get good yarn. Or real gold buttons.”

They change, fixing the cuffs and collars on their undershirts, styling their own hair, until they’ve finished getting ready. It was bound to be a long night, and Evin Mauve realized that by the look of the clock, it was one mid afternoon. They’d still have several hours until they even began getting seated. So they do what they do best: sit in silence. 

It isn’t long until Woof breaks it.

“Tell me.” He asks, voice just above a whisper. Evin Mauve stares at him, hoping this isn’t the conversation he thinks it is.

“Tell you what?” he says, feigning ignorance.

“What Merino’s done to you. Besides, get you reaped.” Woof’s gaze never leaves the floor, and Evin Mauve wishes he’d look him in the face. It’s a long while until Evin Mauve responds.

“Used me.” Evin Mauve whispers, wishing that this conversation wouldn’t be happening. It was bound to happen eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

“How?”

The silence returns as hot tears flood Evin Mauve’s eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. It's already taking all his energy to deal with being in his close proximity at all times. Woof stares at him, waiting patiently for Evin Mauve to muster the courage to tell him how, hell, why Merino can’t keep his hands off of Evin Mauve.

“You know how.”

Evin Mauve’s heart shatters into a million tiny pieces when Woof doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what he really expected, maybe a hug or a pat on the back, but the air in the bright white changing room seems oppressive and he hardly can take a breath. They sit there for what he figures must be eternity, shifting back and forth as Woof taps his shoe on the ground. It's driving him just as crazy as the silence. It isn’t much longer than an hour later before a loud knock clicks the plastic door open. Caius walks in, oblivious to the solemn and grim faces that stare back at his bright, cheery smile. 

“It's time to get seated!” he grins, clapping his hands as Evin Mauve reluctantly follows Woof as they exit the white changing room. His cane has been replaced with a more ornate one; dark violet wood covered in bits of gold leaf meet at the top as an elegant handle that resembles that of a bird resting under his hand. It takes a few steps to get used to the cane’s weight, but he figures it out well enough. “Oh, don’t worry Evin. The victors have a special area designated just for them away from the crowd.” Caius walks tightly away, ignoring the questioning glances thrown at his back by both of Eight’s victors. Evin Mauve can handle crowds well enough, and Caius’ assumption that he can’t makes him loathe the escort more than ever.

The city circle isn’t nearly as elaborate as it had been the year prior; less banners, less stringed lights, and yet somehow there seems to be even more crazed Capitol fans drinking obnoxious amounts of a light purple liquid. Evin Mauve nearly vomits as he watches a plump young man lose his dinner in the stands before wolfing down a whole roast chicken. The stairs to the mentor’s box are steep, rising at least a hundred feet into the air. When they reach the large box, filled with Capitol News reporters, peacekeepers and mentors alike, Caius gives a big “Tadaa” as the frantic air reaches Evin Mauve’s lungs. In the corner of the room, right by the large windows that overlook the circle, sits the twenty other mentors.

Woof drags Evin Mauve towards them as Caius flounces over to the other brightly colored escorts. He’s terrified; the last he’d seen the other twenty or so victors had been during the Victory Tour, and he’d met them each individually. Except those from One and Two, who boasted so many victors he’d not been able to meet them all. He all but expects them to ignore him when he sits down, perhaps only make slight conversation, when Mags brings him into an embrace after hugging Woof. 

“Hello dear, how’ve you been?” She whispers, voiced laced with honey that makes every victor and tribute alike trust her completely. Evin Mauve wonders if that's how she won: Made them trust her before stabbing them in the back. 

“Good” He says back. He really does remind him of his mother, with her curly red hair that borders on being brown.

“Are you excited?” She asks when she pulls away, patting him on the arm. “It’s your first parade as a mentor, after all.”

He shrugs, not able to decide if he should be excited to see Merino in what is hopefully an uglier outfit than he’d had the year prior or if he shouldn’t be. For all he knew, Faustina and Linian could have stepped up their game and they’d be wearing some of the most expensive clothing anyone in Eight would ever wear. Evin Mauve gets comfortable on the large pale green couch that corners the room, and watches out the window into the city’s center. Mags has gone on to talking to the others, engaged in a deep conversation about the type of arena this year’s tributes will be thrown into, and without Woof there next to him, Evin Mauve’s eyes begin to revel in the beauty of the Capitol. Its buildings are tall, and in the distance he can see the frames of what he assumes would become mega skyscrapers. Their angular shapes with the even more angular windows shine brightly in the dimming sunset, creating a sharp skyline that is only exceeded by the mountains that surround the candy-colored buildings. Evin Mauve feels a twinge of admiration, because for all the horrible the Capitol has done, it makes him feel like he’s inside a gem. 

Just as he’s made a move towards the windows to admire the city a bit closer, the lights of the building and those that surround the circle flicker out. Evin Mauve’s breath hitches, and he stumbles back from the window. He only calms when he realizes that those around him have hushed, and now watch the street below in anticipation. He walks over to where Woof is sitting, giving him a quizzical look.

“Why’re the lights out?” his voice is barely a whisper, fear creeping up his spine.

“It’s about to start. The parade, I mean.” Woof pats the cushion to his left, and Evin Mauve promptly sits down, feeling the relief of no weight on his ankle that he hadn’t even realized was throbbing. In the distance, he hears the anthem blaring from several speakers and the cheers and hollers of those attending the parade. He’s become giddy, and he hates to admit how quickly the tension left his body. It’s so different from what it felt like to be on the chariots, and a sick, twisted part of him understands how those in the Capitol can stomach the Games. He’s excited to see the tributes all dressed up for the first time. He can’t even gag at the thought because before he knows it, the cheers are so loud he feels like he’s in the crowd.

Nearing ever closer, the tributes from District One have started to come into view. Above the large windows, a small screen descends down from the ceiling and lights up with the seal of the Capitol. Evin Mauve looks around, confused, as several more come down equidistant from each other around the room, until the seal of District One replaces that of the Capitol’s. Luxury, kids named after the most flamboyant of things, buddies with the Capitol. District One is laughable as their cart comes closer to the circle, dressed in hot-red feathers that circle their bodies. One’s victors start clapping and cheering, and Evin Mauve can all but hide his amusement. They don’t realize just how crazy they look. Then the tribute’s names, first name only, and ages pop up onto the screen: Campius, the fifteen year old male tribute, and Sapphira, a girl just age eighteen who had lunged towards the stage when her brother’s name was called. Evin Mauve wondered how their parents feel, knowing that one or both of their kids may die. They smile and wave at the crowd below, who has gotten increasingly more rowdy, as they enter the city circle for a few loops as the others join them. The pair from Two’s name’s flash on the screen quickly, followed by Three’s: Juli and Specter from Two, Chrome and Zeno from District Three. They move by quickly, and Evin Mauve can’t quite grasp at what they’re wearing. 

He’s peering out over the couch, craning for a chance to see the tributes just appearing on the street like a giddy child on a school trip, when at the head of the city circle, he spots a thin, middle aged man with paper white hair making his way towards the large podium meant for public speeches: President Coriolanus Snow. He freezes. All enjoyment leaves his mind as he stares down Snow, glad he’s safely perched in his box a few hundred feet away but feeling closer than ever to the man. “Such an interesting name, is it not?”

 Woof has to tap him on the shoulder once the tributes from Seven’s names leave the screen, trying to get him to pay attention to his own tributes. But he can’t. Merino is his tribute. Evin Mauve’s responsibility. A punishment for that song, forever ongoing that he isn’t sure he’ll ever escape it. Snow’s piercing blue eyes scan the crowd, so subtle that Evin Mauve is positive he’s imagining things, especially from so far away, when he swears they make eye contact. He stops breathing. 

“Mauve?” 

Evin Mauve whips around, eyes wide as Woof lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. Woof points up to the screen, now showing Merino and Alma’s names. Evin Mauve can’t even look back down at the street. The crowd screams louder at the sight of the last four chariots. He’s just like them. A disgusting monster. A freak. A mutt. Seeing Snow sobered him. He was just enjoying the event that caused him this unending torment. Evin Mauve’s suffering because of him. Because of Snow. And he was playing along. Evin Mauve’s heart quickens as the final few tributes enter the city circle. Snow’s voice begins to echo all around him. He’s been playing that game that's managed to keep him alive for the past year so well he’s forgotten it’s just a game. For a moment, he became exactly who Snow wanted him to be: a pawn. A killer. Parentless, alone in the world and hated by everyone from his home. He’d become Evin Matthews. 

Chapter 25: When He's Tallied The Score

Summary:

Downing a glass or two of a strange intoxicating liquid, trying to quiet the voice that tells him he’s a monster, Evin Mauve sways over to the window.

“Pretty out, isn’t it?” she asks, joining him on his side.

“If you like starin’ at rock candy, then yeah.”

Notes:

I AM CHANGING SOME PLOT POINTS TO BE BETTER (such as Evin Mauve being outed by Merino to a homophobic District Eight instead of being blamed by Merino for SA him when it was the other way around)

I will be eventually changing the first 2 parts of this fic to third person because I think it generally flows better, but that is forever away so KEEP ON READIN

“For the past twenty-five years, the Hunger Games have been a staple in our way of living. For that honor, we thank you, the tributes of the twenty-sixth Hunger Games, for being the beating hearts of this extraordinary event.” Snow’s voice drones on, drowning Evin Mauve deeper into despair. “Here, we hope to continue this tradition; Let us hope for another twenty-six years of glory. Happy Hunger Games, tributes. In the words of the late Volumina Gaul, may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Evin Mauve scarcely moves, his eyes locked onto Snow’s withering frame. He’s scared that if he looks away, Snow will somehow be standing in front of his face. It takes Woof tugging on his arm to bring him back to the loudness of the applause and cheers that have erupted around them. He was just like them. His disgust and anguish must be visible on his face, because Woof gives a few reassuring pats on his shoulder. 

Downing a glass or two of a strange intoxicating liquid, trying to quiet the voice that tells him he’s a monster, Evin Mauve sways over to the window to watch as the tributes return to the stables. He’s woozy, and a part of him wishes he hadn’t resorted to drinking to bury the pain, but nonetheless he’s not all that aware of why he began to drink in the first place. He catches a glimpse of Merino and Alma; they’re dressed in long, flowing tunics and capes made entirely out of fabric scraps. He sneers, unaware that he’s being watched from behind him. They look just as tacky as he had last year. He only spots Mags when the lights of the surrounding buildings come back on, and her reflection summons itself in the window. He nearly jumps out of his shoes.

“Pretty out, isn’t it?” she asks, joining him on his side. 

“If you like starin’ at rock candy, then yeah.” Not that he’s ever really seen rock candy, but he imagines it to be grossly overdyed. 

“Yeah.” she sighs. “How are you feeling?” 

She turns to look at him instead of the buildings. Internally, Evin Mauve curses himself for being such an open book. Anyone would have probably seen how suddenly his mood shifted, and Mags seems to be able to pick up on even the slightest discomfort. At just age thirty, Mags had mastered the ability to feel like the caring mother most of the victors lacked. Evin Mauve couldn’t claim to be immune to her charm, yet he tries to convince her of his sanity. 

“I’m fine.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his cocktail. The room seems to spin a little. 

Mags glances away, huffing in exasperation. “You don’t have to hide it from me, Mauve.”

The nickname makes him freeze. She’s doing just what Woof is. Verbally rebelling against Snow. The room seems to turn a little faster as he realizes what they’re doing. Snow will have them killed for disobedience. 

“I know.” He suddenly feels the urge to vomit. Mags puts a hand on his arm to steady him as sways from side to side. Drinking was a mistake. Mags, realizing his face has turned a shade of green, drags him over to the bathroom that rests in the corner of the lounge. They make it there just in time for Evin Mauve to lose all the snacks and drinks he’d been having throughout the parade. He starts crying and shaking violently, apologizing over and over again to Mags for having to have her take care of him. She only answers by embracing him. 

When Woof manages to get Evin Mauve into the small apartment that District Eight holds claim to in the Tribute’s Center, he has become a shell of what he had been. He’s exhausted. So, without even taking a shower to clean the gel out of his hair, Evin Mauve falls into a restless sleep on stiff, blood red colored sheets. 

The next morning is a pain. Evin Mauve wakes up with a terrible hangover, head pounding with a migraine. It didn’t help that, like every day since Evin Mauve’s family were hanged, Woof banged loudly on his door at seven a.m. on the dot. His alarm had gone off at the same time Woof’s fist hit the wooden door for the first time, combining into a horrific chorus. The shower wouldn’t heat up either, and Evin Mauve spent ten minutes shivering out of his skin from the icy water. Cold and in pain, he was hoping against everything in the world that Alma and Merino had already been taken down for training. Unfortunately, when he walked out of his room and towards the long hall that housed the dining table, he almost ran into Alma as she walked that way too. 

“Good morning.” She says, voice filled with exhaustion. All Evin Mauve does is give a simple hum of response as they walk to the dining room.

Merino sits there, deep into a plate of eggs, hair still flattened out as it had been for the parade. Woof brings in a pot of coffee, sitting down and pouring himself a cup as Evin Mauve lowers himself into the adjacent seat. 

“Get yourselves some food. Training begins in an hour.” Woof tells the pair as Evin Mauve fills his plate with various pieces of bread. To his dismay, it isn’t long until Merino has opened his mouth and begun asking questions about the interviews. Evin Mauve holds back, not answering a single one, because Merino should, having watched the games every year on that plush couch, know everything that is going to happen. Although, given the parade was a new concept, only being introduced the year prior, Evin Mauve assumes that Merino couldn’t know everything. He still watched Evin Mauve’s games well enough to know every single person he’d killed, though, so he should have a broad enough idea of what changed and what didn’t. 

It's only when Alma starts asking questions that Evin Mauve stops mentally rolling his eyes. Alma, unlike all the superficial questions Merino has been asking, actually has questions about how to survive instead of how to win the public over. 

“How do we get fresh water if there isn’t any in the arena?” She asks, sipping from her cup. She’s also gotten coffee, with more creamer than even Woof puts in his. Evin Mauve thinks it must just be milk at that point. 

“Boil it, if possible.” Woof answers.

“But wouldn’t they see the smoke? I’d say quite a few tributes have died to careers that way.” Alma’s eyebrow lifts, deep in thought.

“If you needed too, light a small fire and get the wood hot enough to boil the water. Do it during the night, too. Harder to see the smoke.” He sips his coffee. He almost never puts it back on the table, only once so he can fill it back up. 

“Okay. Okay.” She nods her head, like she's writing a mental list of all the do’s and don'ts of the games. Maybe she should know these things too, if she's seen enough to know you die if you light a fire. “I know it’s not desirable, but if we see a way out safely, should we go to the cornucopia?” 

Evin Mauve thinks for a moment, weighing in on if he should be the one to give advice. He barely survived the bloodbath, and Polly didn’t. But maybe, just maybe, Alma can get out quick enough. It’s just a risk he wouldn’t tell someone to take.

“It’s a huge-” Woof starts, clearly just as uncertain.

“No. You both should run. Away, I mean.” Evin Mauve interrupts. “You don’t want to get killed in a few seconds, do you?”

Alma shakes her head, and Merino stares at him. 

“So run away. Grab a bag or something close to you, but don’t run more than a dozen feet towards that horn.” Evin Mauve sighs. A memory, of him and Polly working to kill that boy from District One, who was voted into the games because he was a psycho who had killed a kid days before the voting, surfaces, and all he can see is Polly’s sweat streaked face as he was struggling to get out of her grip. The footage of the bloodbath at his crowning ceremony was more violent than he had remembered; the boy from District One had, before climbing on top of the cornucopia after Evin Mauve, completely disemboweled the girl from Three, and his whole body was covered in her blood and bits of her intestines. Polly’s hands had been slick with it as they ran away. 

“Who’s to say we couldn’t make it through, though? You did.” Merino practically spits, clawing for Evin Mauve’s attention. Stupid Brat , Evin Mauve thinks. 

“Because I barely made it out, that’s why. Listen to me if you want to survive, or you die. Pick one, Merino, because like as not, I’m not sending a single sponsor gift to you once in the arena.” Evin Mauve sighs into his mug. It’s Merino’s first question even regarding his actual ability to survive, and using it to downplay Evin Mauve’s own ability drives him insane. Merino is the reason he was even there in the first place. “You’ll be on your own. Chances are, you won’t make any big sponsors anyway. Unless you can pull some wild story out of your brain to move the audience a bit, I doubt we’ll even get you a roll of bread.”

The questions stop after that. Woof, wide eyed, stares at Evin Mauve with a look of sterness. Evin Mauve feels he’s right to think that way; Capitol citizens will still remember his own interview from last year, hopefully putting Merino at a distinct disadvantage. Alma had barely said a word to him until today, and during the parade neither of them seemed to have had a single enthusiastic wave in their hands. 

Caius comes in, walking towards Merino and Alma with two white sheets of paper with a large red “8” on it. 

“It’s almost time!” he says, motioning for them to get up from their seats so he can pin the papers on their backs. They’re allowed a few more bites of food before Caius quickly takes them away to the training center. The apartment becomes silent. Woof and Evin Mauve barely acknowledge each other as they continue to eat their breakfast. Woof even leaves the table before Evin Mauve does, and leaves him to ponder in his thoughts. 

Evin Mauve’s still reeling from the parade. His coffee has hardly helped, and the silence of the building has brought worse pain than the talking. Vaguely, he can hear an argument from the floor below him, probably a conflict between the only victor from Seven, Myst Finch, and the fill-in mentor from District One. Myst Finch. Victor of the 2nd annual Hunger Games. She’s one of the last few still alive from the early years; most either killed themselves, went missing, or died of disease shortly after winning. Evin Mauve remembers watching her games on the television in Woof's room, horrified by how she murdered the last few tributes. And the horror of that arena, just an empty amphitheater and seats filled to the brim as the tributes killed each other in the large field in the middle, stained from the previous year’s deaths. It fuels enough fear that he tries his best to stay clear of her. 

He spends the next several hours wandering through the Tribute’s Center, admiring the old-Capitol architecture of high arches and sharp, angular walls. He takes a few rides on the elevator, enjoying how smoothly it runs. He only turns back towards Eight’s apartment when he spots a screen in the main lobby with a highlight reel of the Quarter Quell. He watches himself kill Rowan in slow-motion in horror before turning back. Myst Finch probably mentored him. He really should stay clear of her. 

He stops once he gets inside the walls of their apartment. On the television, volume turned high, is the footage of his crowning. The thin, tanned person sitting in that chair, hair slicked back to the point you can’t see a curl, looks nothing like the Evin Mauve he remembers. His cheeks are hollower, and even through the large rose-colored suit jacket he can see how sharp his shoulders are. They barely tried to make him presentable. Strangely fixated, Evin Mauve moves over to the couch to watch, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman makes his way to the chair across from him, and the audience cheers as he takes the stage. He watches as the still severely injured boy that was him just over a year ago struggles through the interview, stumbling on words and getting a tremor in his hands so terrible he ends up sitting on them to stop the shaking. 

Evin Mauve watches for a while, getting well into the games before he has to stop. It’s the cave, but the camera is on Orion, not him. The video cuts to the knife going into Orion’s throat, and there’s more blood than he thought there had been. It almost completely drenched him. He turns off the television after that. 

It’s a little after six p.m. when Merino and Alma walk through the front door. Woof greats them, leading them to the dining table for dinner, where Evin Mauve already waits. Woof sits opposite him, and Merino and Alma sit in the same spots as they had that morning. Evin Mauve blanches a bit, hating how he feels like he’s being interrogated. To his luck, Caius decides to sit next to him when he arrives in his bright orange suit that has small stitched butterflies on the collar and cuffs. Evin Mauve feels a bit self conscious, wearing nothing more than a knitted sweater and cuffed jeans, sitting next to someone covered in such displays of wealth. No one, not even Woof nor Evin Mauve himself, could afford to get such a set of garments without needing years of savings, let alone the months it would take to embroider the hundreds of butterflies onto the delicate fabric. Caius’ hair is also curled into weird shapes on his head, only adding a stranger quality to his appearance. Evin Mauve’s mind is taken away, however, when a large pot of lamb stew filled with dried plums is delivered to the table, followed closely by a pot of white rice. It’s heavenly.

The conversation between Woof and the tributes, particularly Alma, eventually makes its way to Evin Mauve, and he has no option but to answer their questions. Between large bites of lamb and rice, he answers questions over a variety of topics: How to find food, or skin an animal, or how to tell what’s poisonous and what water is safe to drink. All his answers are hardly helpful, as he’d barely managed to catch the few rabbits he’d eaten, and was only lucky that his games had plenty of storms to refill his metal bottles. To Alma’s dismay, even Woof doesn’t know much about what to eat and not to eat. Throughout his years as a mentor, only a small handful of tributes died from poisonous berries, so he tells them to stay away from any red or black fruits hanging from bushes. 

“Some help you guys are,” Merino mutters, rolling his eyes. Evin Mauve tries to ignore him, he really does, but Merino follows a bite of lamb up with “I don’t even know how y'all won.” Evin Mauve takes a deep, tired sigh at how unbelievably angry he gets at Merino’s words. He himself often asks the same question, at least once per day at present times, but Merino’s been undermining Evin Mauve’s abilities ever since they met on that day only three years ago. It annoyed Evin Mauve then, and it pisses him off now. 

“Yeah, you try and win the games. See how easy it really is.” He bites, earning a small groan from Woof, clearly just as tired from the boy’s arguing. Evin Mauve doesn’t mean to be a headache, yet he doesn’t care. He’s realized how quickly he’s started to go mad since Merino Weaver got reaped just three days ago, and it scares him a little. He embraces it though, just for this one fleeting moment, to try and shut Merino up. 

 “Has to be, right? You lived.” the brat says. It’s the same argument with him; Evin Mauve Baird won the games, someone who can’t even keep himself safe from Merino, so naturally he can win too. It’s making Evin Mauve crazy.

“Will you just shut it?” Alma says, interrupting whatever comeback Evin Mauve was about to let fly. “You two are not helping. Get over whatever history you two have, ‘cause otherwise District Eight is going to starve for another year!” 

Evin Mauve puts his hand to his forehead. Now he’s upset with Alma, because really what does she know? She probably believed Merino and voted for Evin Mauve to go to the games himself. He wants to bite back, to fight, just to have some form of control on the world that’s falling apart around him, that hasn’t stopped crumbling since his sixteenth birthday. “Who cares?” he mutters, hardly loud enough for anyone to hear but maybe Woof.

“What?” Alma barks, glaring at him with her glassy eyes. She looks as if she might cry.

“Who cares? Genuinely, who cares what happens back in Eight? They don’t care.”

Alma stares, gaze impossibly hardening more. “Don’t be bitter because they wanted someone like you gone.”

Evin Mauve practically hears his heart snap into several hundred pieces of glass. Alma was supposed to be nice. “Someone like me?” he winces. He doesn’t want to hear it, not in front of Merino, whose face has gone from the shock of her outburst to barely concealed delight, yet he can’t help but feel he deserves it. Merino’s awful, sure, but Evin Mauve is a monster. 

“Why don’t we order dessert?” Caius chimes in, raising his hand to gather the attention of one of the tongueless Avox. “Would you be able to gather us some small sweets? Gumdrops, mints, any of them really.” The Avox nods his head and walks away, in search of whatever sweets he can find. But Caius’ attempt at diverting the conversation has only doubled the tension.

“You know.” She snarls, turning back to the remaining rice in her bowl. Alma Gauge, the sweet daughter of the baker, fell for the stupidity of Merino Weaver and years of prejudice. Fighting angry tears, Evin Mauve steals a glance at Merino. His face is smug, his arms crossed. Are you happy? Evin Mauve thinks, You’ve ruined me. My life. Made me a monster.

Woof stays quiet, only speaking when they eventually return to the games, this time leaving Evin Mauve out of the conversation entirely. Once the sweets arrive, Caius seems to start weighing into the discussion of which training score is better to get; lower to stay under the other’s radar, or higher to stand out to sponsors and intimidate your opponents. Evin Mauve busies himself by silently separating the gumdrops by color, making a small rainbow-like snake across his placemat. He doesn’t eat any. He doesn’t deserve the enjoyment of sweets. Alma’s outburst makes him think of the days following, of the rumor Merino spread that Evin Mauve loved differently, as Evin Mauve wobbled around the hall with a large bump on his head and bruises on his back. The teasing, beatings, and abuse that followed made him wonder if he’d even make it to his last reaping, and when Snow announced the twist of the Quarter Quell, he’d known they’d throw him in there. He thought Alma was different, that she wouldn’t care if he wasn't into girls. But he’d been wrong so many times before he can’t act shocked she hates people like him. Everyone in Eight does. 

He can feel Merino’s eyes on him now, just like always. Forever peering into his tortured soul that Merino can never stop beating. He decides to try one of the gumdrops to take his mind off his pain, even if the thought itself of eating hurts. It’s a small, sparkling scarlet thing that once bitten into, is so sour and bitter that Evin Mauve makes a wildly comical face that draws a chuckle from Caius next to him. He hadn’t realized the man had stopped talking, leaving Woof alone to mentor once again. 

“That one’s grapefruit flavored.” He whispers. 

“Who would eat this? It’s repulsive.” He retches, ignoring the looks from the tributes across the table. He tries them all, asking Caius which one is which when he can’t determine the flavor. It makes him feel a little better, but the heaviness in his heart doesn’t leave, the tightness in his throat never easing.  

As they finish the sweets and turn into bed, Woof stops him and brings him aside after Caius and the tributes leave, and brings him into a hug. Evin Mauve sinks into his arms, just like he had in his father’s, and starts sobbing until his eyes are red and puffy. His chest hurt so badly, that the relief brings even more tears that shreds his throat. He’s half aware that he’s screaming into Woof’s shoulder, a man who not even a year ago probably would’ve agreed with Alma. He can’t fault her for it, not really. A large portion of the merchant class in Eight are taught that way, mostly just to keep the family business going. The peacekeepers make it worse for the rest of them. She’s just taught that he’s wrong, that he’s an abomination. In some ways he is.

He figures he must’ve cried for half an hour, for his throat is so raw he can hardly hum a note, and his face so wet it seems like he’s just bathed. Woof looks at him with such sadness that Evin Mauve hates himself for crying so hard, and he can hardly look his former mentor in the eyes. They bid each other goodnight, and after a light pat on the back, Evin Mauve locks himself behind the wooden door of his bedroom. He changes out of his clothes, noting the only sleeping garments being thick white shorts and a pair of slippers, before slipping himself into the warmth of the blood red sheets. Tired and cried out, he falls asleep quickly. 

When he wakes up to Woof’s rapid knocking the next morning, he drags himself out of bed, showers, and leaves his room expecting to find Merino and Alma at the dining table for breakfast. He doesn’t. Instead, Woof is sitting at the head of the table with a collection of suits and vests laid out in front of him, a resigned look on his face. Evin Mauve’s very confused until Faustina and Linian stride into the room. 

“Oh, how good to finally see you again, dear.” Faustina hums, delicately hugging him as if the slightest squeeze would shatter him into thousands of pieces. Her hair is a light blue and tightly curled onto her head, and a matching blue bodysuit covered in glitter sheds sparkles onto Evin Mauve’s thick robe. Linian shakes his hand, too, firm but kind. 

“What’s all this for?” Evin Mauve asks, gesturing to the garments that range from vibrant scarlet to the deepest forest greens Evin Mauve thinks he’s ever seen on fabric. Pale blue vests with dark black velvet lapels that absorb nearly all the light shine with crystals, and the dark purple suits covered with golden lines complete a rainbow of Capitol fashion. Evin Mauve, slightly mesmerized, almost misses Faustina’s response to his question. 

“Interview outfits.” She sighs, hands resting on her hips. “Both for you and the tributes.”

“Us?” Evin Mauve huffs, running his finger along a small ruffle of mauve colored tulle that covers the seams of a gray suit jacket.

“Yes! You guys have an interview right before the games start, and a few during. To help win sponsors, naturally.” Linian explains, pulling another pair of pants off of a rack. It’s burnt orange with lime green lining. Evin Mauve wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

Woof stands, observing the collection from above. Together they stare at the clothes for a while, before Faustina reaches out and pulls the suit and dress that Merino and Alma will be wearing for their interviews. Merino will be in a dusty red, just shades away from mauve, and has several pale yellow buttons sewn into the lapel of the suit. Evin Mauve hates to admit it, but it’ll make Merino look incredible. Alma’s dress isn’t too far off, just a little closer to the orange rocks that make up the terrain of District Five. Together, they’ll look like a perfect pair. 

It takes them several hours to decide on what interviews will each suit be present in, and to Evin Mauve’s horror, Woof informs him that he has the majority of the tapings, being last year's victor. He’s forced to try them all on, as Faustina wishes to avoid the swamping of the suit sleeves that was ever present during his victory interview, and he’s pricked several times by pins meant to mark places needed to be brought in. He’s thankful his prep team isn’t there, because he’s pretty sure they would’ve been pulling his hair out trying different styles. 

Woof barely tries anything on, much to Evin Mauve’s displeasure. He just sits and watches, giving notes and vetoing certain combinations that Evin Mauve’s sure they must’ve been drunk when making; who would want to wear vomit green over navy blue? Evin Mauve isn’t able to rest until they hear the front door creak open, letting in Caius and the tributes. Faustina and Linian are on them in a flash. Left alone, for the first time in the whole day, Woof and Evin Mauve sit in their usual silence as they wait for dinner. Neither bring up the mess of last night, or how Evin Mauve’s face looks even more tired, or how pitiful Woof looks at him. He doesn’t like the silence anymore, so he leaves for the living room. It doesn’t work in getting him away from his thoughts, though. Head in his hands, he sighs. He wasn’t ready for this part of the games yet. He hadn’t prepared. Merino, and now Alma, hadn’t given him any time to really prepare for reliving the violence of the Hunger Games as a victor. He can hardly handle the weight of his own nightmares caused by his games, and he isn’t ready to face the murder of two people who, even with all the horrible things they’ve done and said to him, are about to enter his dreams as corpses. 

His brain is silenced, much to his relief, when Caius, Woof, the stylists, and the tributes walk into the room. It hadn’t occurred to him that with the tribute’s training time being shortened in an effort to keep the Capitol’s attention firmly on the games, their scores would be released in a matter of minutes. Lucky Flickerman, tapped for his fifteenth Hunger Games, this time as the announcer instead of host, sits at a desk situated in the Capitol’s most prestigious secondary school, the Academy. He’d learned on his Victory Tour that Faustina was one of the lucky members who attended the school; the Friend name held old power in Panem’s history. Its seal sits in the back, large and foreboding; it boasts the honor of being the headquarters for the games since Evin Mauve was barely walking. 

The first few districts go by without any real upset: the kids from One and Two score high, the ones from Three score low, Unsurprisingly. It's only when the boy from Four, Murray’s, face appears next to a large “3”, does Evin Mauve begin to worry. Murray is a large, burly eighteen year old who easily dwarfs most of the tributes Evin Mauve has seen in person. His district partner, Adira, doesn’t score any higher, earning a five, baffling Evin Mauve. He assumed that they’d score high, like the kids from One and Two, maybe even score higher. Mags was sure to win. Four would get to eat better for a year. They still could win, of course. They’ll still get sponsors, being from the fishing district. But if the gamemakers are so wild with their scores, maybe the sponsors will look at Merino and give him gifts. Evin Mauve’s heart quickens.

The kids from Five both get fours. The ones from Six get a seven and a two. Evin Mauve’s anxiety spikes when the boy from Seven’s face appears, the spitting image of Rowan. Rowan. His first kill. The one who turned him into a murderer. The girl gets a seven, fittingly. Then Lucky is talking about Eight. How last year, the district voted in Evin Matthews who’d managed to score a measly five in training, yet achieved victory after five brutal kills. Evin Mauve’s stomach churns. Their faces swim across his eyes, screams echoing in his ears. A monster. A mutt. That's what he is.

“Now, District Eight’s male tribute, Merino Weaver, has a score of…” Lucky pauses, glancing back at a sheet of paper that presumably has the scores on it. The room holds its breath, and Evin Mauve’s pretty sure his heart stops for a moment. He wishes it did when Lucky continues. “Ten.” 

Ten. Merino scored a ten. Twice that of what Evin Mauve scored. He glances around nervously as the room erupts in cheers, only him and Woof staying silent. Ten. The number claws in his head. Merino finds Evin Mauve’s eyes, knowing. His slight grin that peaks its way through the corner of his mouth sends Evin Mauve’s mind into a frenzy. Ten. Merino got a ten. Merino is going to kill me when he wins. The wink Merino sends his way only tightens the grip his hand has on his arm. Evin Mauve’s sure he’s causing spouts of blood to spring from his wrist.
“Alma Gauge has a score of… four.” Lucky moves on to District Nine. Evin Mauve doesn't care about Alma, nor does he care about any of the other tributes. Any of them could win or die and he wouldn’t care. But Merino has to die, ten or not. When they get up to go eat the fresh smelling dinner laid out on the dining table, Evin Mauve lingers, trying to halt the ever worsening spiral of his sanity.

Then Merino’s hand brushes through the bright red curls on top of Evin Mauve’s head. The chill that runs through his body forms the thought he should’ve thought of the first day Merino snuck his way into the Victor’s Village and caused more pain then Evin Mauve thought he was capable of bearing. That he should have thought of when Merino insisted he’d stay the night just a few months ago after a visit. What he’d done to Orion. 

In that moment, watching the tall boy who has made his life a living hell since he met him, Evin Mauve decides to risk it. He promised himself. Merino Weaver could not survive the Hunger Games. So he decides to kill him in his sleep.

 

Chapter 26: The Last In The Old Therebefore

Summary:

 “Sorry.” She whispers.

“I know. I forgive you.”

   Dinner that night is especially tense. Evin Mauve hardly looks away from Merino, memorizing the boy’s quick movements while he shovels the creamy pasta into his mouth. He memorizes what was once familiar to him. The way Merino spears the corkscrew pasta, then meets his fork half-way to his mouth. He smacks while he chews, and then the process repeats itself, occasionally getting interrupted by a quick chug of water. Evin Mauve, so transfixed with Merino’s eating habits, scarcely touches his own plate. To his dismay, their dinner that night didn’t require the use of a knife, like Snow or whatever Capitol attendant in charge of their meals was in Evin Mauve’s head, trying to avoid the premature death of Merino Weaver. 

   Caius talks loudly next to him, yet again oblivious to the dangerous glare Evin Mauve’s shooting Merino, talking about how proud he was of the two tributes for scoring so well. Well, mostly proud of Merino. Perfect, proud Merino. Evin Mauve relents, deciding if tonight would be Merino’s final night alive in this world, he would at least enjoy the dinner before he himself committed the crime. He lets himself curl around the pasta, warm and cheesy as he savors every bite. It could be his last; he feels like he did last year. Eating what could possibly be his last meal, and just like last year, he’s planning on killing yet another person. This time, though, his victim isn’t innocent. So Evin Mauve ignores the rest of the table. He doesn’t see how fake Caius’ smile is while he asks Merino and Alma what they did for their private session. He doesn’t see how Woof stares at his plate, eyebrows furrowed, glancing slightly at Evin Mauve every so often. Evin Mauve doesn’t feel the playful kick from Merino when Caius praises loudly. Or when the stylists join in, discussing the beauty of the tribute’s interview outfits. Or when an Avox brings out a tray of chocolate covered fruit, and doesn’t realize he’s eating a strawberry until he places the leaf on his empty plate. Evin Mauve becomes almost dead to the world. Just for one night, he gives himself that pleasure. 

   Somewhere in his mind, he hears the familiar hum of his brother’s ballad. Of Reaper Rust’s song. 

 

        Behold her, single in the field,

        Yon solitary Highland lass!

        Reaping and singing by herself;

        Stop here, or gently pass!

 

   He’s been so afraid to remember him as anything more than an old comfort who happened to wander away, not as someone who was violently murdered in the Hunger Games. Perhaps, if he can trick his mind enough, Reaper Rust is at home, not in the grave next to their father. Maybe this was how he had felt, all those years ago, before he died. Evin Mauve was sure that, had he never been reaped, Reaper Rust would’ve killed Merino before they ever made it to the twenty-fifth reaping. 

 

        Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

        And sings a melancholy strain;

        O listen! for the Vale profound

        Is overflowing with the sound.

 

   When they break away from the table, bidding farewell to the stylists and Caius as they return to their Capitol homes, Evin Mauve stands back, eyes following Merino’s every move. He doesn’t want him to know, or think, that he’s in any more danger than that of the games. He wants Woof, Alma, and Merino to go to sleep quickly. Evin Mauve needs to find a knife. Otherwise, he’d have to improvise. He’d hidden an unused fork in his pant’s right pocket, its weight burning a hole in his leg. He bid Woof, whose face had grown increasingly concerned at Evin Mauve’s silence, a good night, slowly walking to his room. When he enters, he hears a silent conversation outside his door between the tributes after Woof exits.

   “Last night.” Alma whispers.

   “We have one more.” Merino scoffs.

   “You know what I mean.”

   The quiet that follows almost tricks Evin Mauve into thinking they’d left for bed, but then he hears ever so slight whispers that follow a beat later, making him stop himself from leaving his room. As hard as he tries, he can’t make out their words. Probably more bickering. Or complaining, if he had to guess.

 

        Will no one tell me what she sings?—

        Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

        For old, unhappy, far-off things,

        And battles long ago:

        Or is it some more humble lay,

        Familiar matter of to-day?

        Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

        That has been, and may be again?

 

   Then, after Evin Mauve had sunk to the floor in an attempt to keep his ankle’s pain at bay, he heard Alma whisper a quiet ‘goodnight’, and the sound of their doors shutting. He froze. It was time. He pulled himself up from the floor, grip tightening on his cane as he glanced around the now empty apartment. The kitchen. That’s where he has to go. But the wooden floors, to his distress, creak so loudly he determines being quiet is useless. So, Evin Mauve stomps to the kitchen, abandoning any sense of stealth he hoped to have on Merino. The kitchen, upon further inspection, is so barren of any equipment that the possibility of finding a knife plumits quickly. Frantically searching through the dozen or so drawers, he finds only a handful of forks. Forks. Evin Mauve stares at them, splayed out on the marble countertop, deciding if a fork would do as well as a knife. He still had the one from dinner resting in his pocket, but he still stands, weighing his options. He could stab out Merino’s eyes, rendering him blind and therefore almost guaranteed to die in the arena. But he wants that knife; one that can cut deep into Merino’s chest and cease the beating of his heart. 

   Then he hears the first creak of the floor. 

   Evin Mauve nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s been caught. He can’t tell by who, only that the footsteps are light enough not to cause the wooden floors to make copious amounts of noise. It’s most likely Alma. As Quietly as he can, he slides himself onto the floor just out of view from anyone. The island sits between them and him, and he can’t see whoever it is, so he determines they can’t see him. It feels like the cave again, when the boy from District Two crawled his way into Evin Mauve’s stony fortress. How he waited, and waited, for his chance to escape. Just like that night, his chance never comes.

   It’s only when a second, heavier pair of footsteps comes down the hallway does he figure out who the pair are; Alma, like he guesses, and Woof. 

   “What are you doing up so late? Long day ahead, y’know.” Woof mumbles, followed by a quiet yawn. 

   “Just thinkin’.” Alma responds, a sadness to her voice not present since the train. 

   “About?” 

   “Everything. Since the reaping.”

   Evin Mauve wants them to leave. Alma can have existential thoughts in her room. Merino has to die. Now. Tonight. He could, even as unlikely as it seems, get those in the Capitol on his side tomorrow night, and then Evin Mauve would be better off dead.

   “Go on.” Woof sighs. Evin Mauve holds in a breath, too scared of what would happen if either of them noticed the strange layout of forks resting just a few feet away from them. He curses himself for thinking this would go smoothly. 

   “I just feel… bad, I guess? For what I said to Evin. Or Mauve. What is his actual name? Not the one everyone calls him, I can tell it irritates him.” Alma continues. 

   “It does, yes. But we can’t call him it, that’s what hurts him more.” Woof grumbles, trying to divert the conversation away. Can they really have forgotten his name in such a short time? The people in Eight? It was only a year and a half ago when Evin Mauve Baird was being written on thousands of slips of paper. 

   “Oh.” 

   Silence stretches on for a few moments, only being filled by Evin Mauve’s quiet quickening breaths and the occasional creak of Woof shifting his weight from leg to leg. 

   “I think I’m going to apologize to him.” She says finally, stopping Evin Mauve’s heart. Woof doesn’t ask for what, merely just hums a response. “I heard him cry.” 

   Neither of them say anything after that, yet neither of them leave. Evin Mauve doesn’t move, still frightened yet wishing they would talk once again, just to silence his thoughts. Weak. She heard you break. You’re worthless. Nothing more than a mutt. It was easier to hate Alma. He hopes that, for whatever reason, this has all been a dream, and Alma will give him the cold shoulder for the whole day before her interview. Evin Mauve isn’t good at accepting apologies, and here Alma is, trying to make things right between them before her death. If she would just let her words continue to bury itself into Evin Mauve’s heart and twist into cold hatred, he wouldn’t have to feel the pang of guilt over her death. But no. 

 

        I listened, motionless and still;

        And, as I mounted up the hill,

 

   Reaper Rust would tell him to forgive her. He had that quality about him; looking at the world with openness and hope, even as they were forced to watch execution after execution at the gallows. He’d tell Evin Mauve that she was brought up that way, and that people, even if what they said was damaging, still deserved the right to grow and learn. But he was dead, because he’d trusted his fellow tributes too much. He was too good for the world, and so he died. 

   Several minutes later, the light of the kitchen flashed on, temporarily blinding him.

   “I know you’re there, Mauve.” 

   Evin Mauve hates Woof too. The man is too smart, too good at making people feel better and then sometimes worse about themselves, and too good at hearing. He must’ve heard the silent chokes Evin Mauve tried to keep in as he cried. Relenting, Evin Mauve pushes himself up from the floor, and locks eyes with Alma, who still sits at the island. Her eyes are wide, a little guilty, too. But the same sadness that laced her voice earlier is present in the drooping of her eyes. 

   “Sorry.” She whispers.

   And then, whatever resolve she had towards the girl, breaks. She reminds of a young boy he’d met in the few months after his crowning, whose bright gray eyes were so large and soulful that when he came up to Evin Mauve, asking if he’d like to bye any of the hundreds of peanuts hidden away in his pockets, Evin Mauve quickly fumbled through his pockets for some change and brought home a whole pound of the legumes. The tears flow freely from his eyes at the memory of the boy, who he’d watch get gunned down by a crazed peacekeeper after trying to sell the peanuts at the black market. Alma would’ve known him, too. The bakery had plenty of peanut flavored treats. The boy, even as little as he’d known him, would have wanted him to forgive her too. So he does.

   “I know. I forgive you.” He whispers quietly. It feels like a relief, to say those words to someone knowing they mean their apology and that he can actually forgive. He hasn’t been able to do that in a while. It’s enough that, even with the fear of Merino managing to win, that he gives up on the murder for the night. Merino will most likely die; he is right in that sense, that Evin Mauve’s win was a fluke. A rarity. The District Eight tributes die quickly. 

   So Evin Mauve turns himself away, and puts the forks back into the drawer, including the one still hidden in his pants pocket. He tries to ignore the questioning glance on Woof’s face, feeling a small weight lifted off his chest. Like he could breathe again, even if the breaths are still laboured. Woof reminds them that, even as needed as the apology was, they still had a long day ahead of them, so they should get to bed. Evin Mauve leaves the kitchen last, still slightly glued to the idea of blinding Merino, before limping his way to his bedroom. 

 

        The music in my heart I bore,

        Long after it was heard no more.

 

   He dreams of the boy that night. Of his small, round little face, haloed by an afro twice the size of his head, and how the brightness and innocence in his smile made Evin Mauve think that District Eight did have some sort of kindness. That the world, no matter how cruel it was to him, had spared someone joy. Evin Mauve didn’t even like peanuts, but seeing the bliss in the boy’s eyes was enough to make him spend an exorbitant amount of money to keep the boy and his family alive for weeks. Woof liked the peanuts plenty, so Evin Mauve spent his first joyous week since his games baking them into any kind of dish he could find a recipe for. He’d even called Caius for the instructions to a towering peanut butter cake for Woof’s birthday. It had fallen over once he managed to walk over to Woof’s house, insisting that Woof didn’t need to come over and to stay at his own home, but they managed to save enough to eat. Woof said it was the best thing he’d ever eaten; Evin Mauve was pretty sure he was lying, but took the compliment nonetheless. When he saw the boy, hair pulled tightly into a cap, sunlight glinting off the child’s dark brown face, he gave him more money for more peanuts. 

   He didn’t see him again until that night, when he was walking with Woof to get some sort of booze at the market. Evin Mauve had had a bad day, Merino having showed up and not eating any food because of it, and Woof was trying to fix Evin Mauve’s mood. They stopped when they heard the boy’s mother’s pleading to a Peacekeeper, then telling her son, not even ten, to run. Run as fast as he can, and to not look back no matter what noise he hears behind him. She died first. Evin Mauve couldn’t move, frozen with shock. Because he realized he knew her. She had been one of the few people holding him back as the mockingjays sang out musical melodies of his mother’s screams when she hung. When his grandma followed, weeping. She held him back as he broke down. He didn’t move, though, when she crumpled to the ground. He knows he should have, his status as a victor could have saved her. And for a fleeting moment, he thinks they met eyes as she fell, and a plea to save her little boy was all but said into the air. He might not have been able to save her, but he couldn’t let the boy die too. But Evin Mauve, a busted ankle worth nothing, couldn’t move fast enough. Woof gripped his arm, like the woman had, to avoid the bullets piercing his chest, when the boy’s shrill but short scream rang out into the cold, wet air. The image is burned into his eyes. Once happy boy, now riddled with bullet holes as his blood soaks the concrete that covers District Eight. It made Evin Mauve furious when he watched the same peacekeeper who killed the boy and his mom buy a homemade candle from a blond haired woman who was just as starved and poor as they had been. So, his dream, now nightmare, ends the same way that night had: blood draining down into the sewers and the miserable cry of someone who should have helped. 

   The next morning, his mood was similar to that of the days prior. Whatever hope Alma had instilled inside Evin Mauve with her apology was long gone, and whatever tried to remain alight was snuffed out when Merino was the one knocking that morning, not Woof. Evin Mauve’s alarm hadn’t even gone off when Merino’s knuckles hit the door. The eyes of the boy’s mother still burning in his skull, he got ready sluggishly, knowing he’ll have to change for The Hunger Games: A Night of Interviews in a few hours anyway. It makes him laugh, still, that they force the tributes to act happy about their situation the very night before they are all to die horrifically. 

   He enters the lounge, windows open towards the rising sun, slightly blinding him from seeing the chaos that was strewn across the coffee table. On the couch, Linian is hunched over, frantically making alterations to Alma’s dress, muttering some nonsense about loose buttons causing such headaches. Faustina sits across from him, hair piled in a blue heap on her head as she fixtates the final few buttons onto Merino’s suit jacket. Evin Mauve stands over them, watching quietly at the small mistakes Linian makes on every button, but not saying anything. He’s pretty sure that if he did, Linian would stab him with the sewing needle. He wonders slightly that had Polly seen the state of distress her past stylist was currently in, she would have given him an hour-long lesson regarding the different ways to attach a button to cloth. 

   Then Merino is there, standing right next to Evin Mauve’s bad leg. He has his cane there, so if he really needed to, he could probably stomp it through Merino’s foot.

   “Heard you were up early.” he whispers into Evin Mauve’s left ear. Evin Mauve tenses, not quite sure how to navigate the conversation. He fears that if he tells Merino the truth, he’ll use it in his interview to somehow get Evin Mauve into trouble. But part of Evin Mauve wants Merino to know how close he was to death, to see the look of betrayal cross his face when he tells him he was looking for a knife meant to kill him. Not that it would be a betrayal; there had to be trust to be broken, and Evin Mauve certainly does not trust Merino at all. 

   “Couldn’t sleep.” is all he says, turning his attention back to Linian, who has pricked his finger with the needle. Evin Mauve sighs, remembering how many times he himself would stab himself with a similar looking needle when he worked at the factory. Sometimes, the fabric would rip, and if it wasn’t being sold to the Capitol, they were to sew it back up instead of throw it out. He misses it. 

   Merino doesn’t press any further, a rarity for him, and eventually gets bored of Evin Mauve’s tense shoulders and leaves to the dining room. Relaxing, Evin Mauve doesn’t move, continuing to watch the two stylists work their busy hands. They remind him of his dad, who being one of the few workers in Eight to actually craft garments, taught him and his brother how to sew, and the days in which a young Evin Mauve would sit on the scratchy sofa and watch his father’s hands fiddle around with the needles and thread. Everything around him seems to remind him of his family. The yarn of his vests. The birdsong outside his windows at home. The laugh of the school children who pass by the Victor’s Village in awe, holding each other's hands and looking out for the younger ones just like Reaper Rust would’ve done with him. The pain hits him, like it always does, when he realizes he is the only one left. That he is, much to his dismay, the last of his family to move on from the old therebefore. The only Matthews left. Not even a Baird anymore, by the Capitol’s view. The people in Eight call him Evin Matthews, so it stands to reason the whole country does too. The Bairds are gone, whipped out by the Capitol’s cruelty. His grandma would’ve called him a  “rare bird” for being the only survivor, but he wishes he wasn’t. He can’t think about it too long, though. Otherwise he’ll do something drastic that could get the few people still alive in his life whom he cares about hurt. Like leaving. He couldn’t now, of course, being stuck here in the Capitol. But several times since he’d won the games had he found himself wandering ever closer to the electric fence that kept them all in. Maybe he would, after all he only seemed to cause Woof stress. Maybe they would all be better off without him. 

Chapter 27: The Abused Rat

Summary:

“It Looks like a rat died in here!” Trillium jokes, gesturing to the large pile of orange curls resting on the floor. Rat. He's a rat.

As the prep team begins to fuss over Evin Mauve’s disheveled curls, chipped nails, and scarred face, Vibius eventually pulls out a pair of scissors and begins chopping. A thunderstorm, low yet loud, rolls in. Merino and Alma had already been dressed up, and, according to Faustina, left a good fifteen minutes before they got Evin Mauve in the stiff chair he’s sitting in now. He winces at every clump of his curls that fall into his lap. 

Evin Mauve’s anxiety grows more and more with every clap of thunder that rings across the Capitol. He’s been dreading the interviews, dreading how Merino could possibly get the people in the Capitol on his side, and here he was, hours away from being in that large auditorium with every other mentor, escort, stylist and prep team from each district, most of which watched his drunken self be coddled by Mags and Woof the night of the parade. He feels his cheeks heat up under the thick layers of makeup Trillium has been beating onto his face at the memory of the other mentor’s looks, which whatever opinions they formed that night he hopes dissipate at the interviews. Most likely they’ll worsen.

The prep team, as well as Faustina, fill the air with enough noise to just about cease Evin Mauve’s worried thoughts. Trillium’s wife had a baby, the room is full of oohing and awing and congratulations. Deecee got divorced from her husband, or boyfriend, or whatever the man had been to her, and more cheering ensued. Evin Mauve sits quietly, though, only responding to Deecee’s questions about which polish she should paint his nails with, eventually deciding on a rusty-orange color. Still, his worries whisper in his ears. His hair has been cut down considerably, the cool air of the bathroom touching his scalp, the only relief to his misery. 

“It Looks like a rat died in here!” Trillium jokes, gesturing to the large pile of orange curls resting on the floor. Rat . The word twists itself into Evin Mauve’s mind, and suddenly he has the urge to chop off all his hair. Bleach it even, like Caius had. Make himself so different from the person he knew himself to be that he truly isn’t Evin Mauve Baird anymore. Because that’s all he is to them, to everyone in the Capitol, even if he is a victor; a district rat. He doesn't even consider the idea of a red-haired rat even existing in Panem, nor the idea that Trillium meant it as nothing more than a joke about the amount of hair that had once rested on Evin Mauve’s head. He’s a rat. He knows it. Every one of them knows it.

With his Face covered in so much makeup moving feels like a genuine effort, hair slicked back leaving only a single curl falling down onto his forehead, and nails perfectly manicured, Faustina helps Evin Mauve into his outfit. The suit jacket and matching pants are both raspberry red and studded with small buttons that reflect the light of the room, and a pale yellow undershirt has small frills around the neckline. It’s tight and a little restrictive, yet Evin Mauve feels a strange comfort by being wrapped around in the thick jacket. His shoes are made from dark brown leather, and come up past his ankles. For a rat, he sure is an ugly one, no makeup can change that. Dolled up for the Capitol cameras, Evin Mauve grabs his cane, still the violet one from the reaping, and walks out to join Woof in the lobby of the Tribute Center. Apparently, the prep team doesn’t even try to get Woof ready anymore, instead letting him do it all by himself. He'd tried to break Trillium’s arm off when he pounded the powder too hard onto his face several years ago, according to Trillium himself. Evin Mauve can’t say he doesn’t envy him.

Woof stands with a few other mentors, quietly chatting about some issue Evin Mauve can’t quite make out, and once he hobbles his way into the group, a hush descends upon them. He doesn’t recognize any of the other victors, which surprises him, save for one. The boy who won the nineteenth Annual Hunger Games, the one who killed that boy from District Three several hours after Reaper Rust had his blood drained from his gut. Levant Galloway, a tall, blond man boasting the richness expected of a mentor from District One. While he was the tribute to take District Three out of the nineteenth games, Evin Mauve can’t help but feel resentful of the man. He had been fifteen, a year younger than Evin Mauve had been when he won himself, and several years younger than Reaper Rust had been when he was reaped. He’d been days away from turning nineteen. July Fifth. Then he would’ve been out of the reaping forever, only having to worry about Evin Mauve’s chances. But instead he got picked, killed by some stick of a boy from District Three, and then Levant showed up in front of District Eight’s Justice Building six months later. It was hard not to hate him. Maybe not hate, but a strong sense of disgust. He can’t feel superior, though. He’s a rat.

“Hello.” Evin Mauve grunts, throat dry and scratchy. He realizes he hadn’t drank any water or coffee that morning, meaning some form of migraine and or fatigue was bound to approach him that evening. The other mentors nod in greeting, exchanging glances with Woof that Evin Mauve can only assume means they were talking about him before he showed up. Evin Mauve tries to ignore it, pretending to be long used to the whispers and gossip. But he isn’t. Guess even in the Capitol, people were weary of Evin Mauve Baird. Evin Matthews. Evin Mauve wasn’t even sure which was really his name anymore. 

“Hey.” A soft voice spoke. Had Levant not been the only person looking at him, Evin Mauve was sure he would never have guessed it was him who spoke. Suddenly he’s embarrassed, shy even, that out of the seven or so other mentors in this strange little gathering around Woof, Levant was the only person to respond. So, out of fear of saying something stupid, Evin Mauve just nods in response, just as the other mentors had to his own greeting. Even if he could muster up a better, more intelligent response, he wouldn’t have been able to say it as Peacekeepers quickly begin to usher them into long black vans. The interviews are just an hour or so away. Sweat begins to poke at the base of Evin Mauve’s neck. 

Before he knows it, he’s sandwiched between Woof and another victor, the name of which escapes him. He thinks they won a few games after Woof did, but he isn’t very sure. What he is aware of, though, is that the van has scarcely any leg room, and his knobby knees are pressed up against Levant’s, who sits across from him. To his credit, Levant leaves enough room between their legs for Evin Mauve’s cane, even if it still presses into the side of his leg. They rock gently as the car moves silently through the Capitol streets, windows blacked out enough to obscure most of the city, but the occasional screen can be made out. Shots of the Reapings, parade, and the scores are flashed across the city in a large recap as Lucky comments with a man who Evin Mauve thinks must be the new host of the games. The interviews had been one of the worst parts of Evin Mauve’s stay in the Capitol, a dreadful mixture of shame, fear, and pain from his ankle combining into a sick grief that made the lights of the stage blurry. And now, there's the rain and thunder, the man who won the same event his brother was murdered in, and a stabbing fear of what Merino could say that make this night possibly even worse. He hopes they have refreshments. 

With every clap of thunder, Evin Mauve can’t help but feel his shoulders jolt. It reminds him of the arena, when he was gripping onto Orion’s hand like a vise as they ran away from a twister, and it reminds him of home, where the storms are so often and strong the sirens go off every Monday at noon for maintenance. Since he’d gotten back to Eight, strong storms sent him almost crawling into Woof’s house, just being next to another person bringing him comfort. But here in this stuffy van, he feels claustrophobic, and he wishes he could get out and into the cold rain. When the van stops suddenly, and the doors open to the cold drizzle outside, Evin Mauve almost crawls over everyone to get out the door. Once he makes it outside, he sees hundreds of people and even more lights flashing and waving at him and the other mentors, and suddenly he wishes he was locked back in the van. He wasn’t ready for this. Woof grabs him by the arm, and together, they walk up to the people waving papers and pens at them from behind a velvet rope. Evin Mauve sees most of the other mentors doing the same. So startled is he that he struggles to open the cap off the black marker someone shoves into his hand.

He lets go of Woof. Which, once Woof quickly began to move down the crowd, was a mistake. Wobbly and confused, Evin Mauve walks up to a woman in her mid-twenties, although he wouldn't be able to tell with the amount of white powder she has splashed on her face, and signs the interview program everyone seems to be holding. He writes his name shakily, hoping it's nice enough to be legible, and moves on to the next. He’s just about done with his second signature when the first woman speaks up.

“Hey! You wrote the wrong name down!”

Confused, he leans over to look, and he sees his name, the one given to him by his parents, plastered on the paper.

“Oh. Guess I did.” he huffs, forcing a laugh. The woman is none the wiser, and lets him correct his mistake. His name is Evin Matthews. Evin Mauve Baird died in the Hunger Games. 

He doesn’t sign anything else. He can’t bring himself to do it. So he follows Woof from far behind as he makes his way into the auditorium. Inside, Evin Mauve finds, is even worse than outside. A tight staircase leads up to the mentor seating, and an Avox collects Evin Mauve’s cane, leaving him to lean heavily on the railing. When he manages to reach the even tighter seating, he spots Woof several seats ahead of him and about four other mentors between them. Great. He’ll be sitting by a bunch of strangers who will watch as he gives into anxiety for the next three or so hours. He can’t even spot Mags, and assumes she must have been in the other van that had left before his had. So, trying to prepare himself and to stop the slight faintness that has made him woozy, he sits down in the rather plush and comfortable chair. He can see everything from where they are seated, even the majority of the crowd below. Across from the mentors, in a matching set of balcony seats, sit what Evin Mauve assumes to be the Gamemakers. 

And then, to his horror, Levant sits down in the seat next to him. He looks over at him, wide eyed and heart beating fast, as Levant tries to fix the tie that is clearly too tight around his neck. He struggles so much Evin Mauve can’t help but feel some of his mortification leave his body, but then Levant flashes a shy smile, and it returns. Still, Levant’s fussing over the tie is so sad Evin Mauve can’t help but fix it himself. It’s a good distraction.

“May I?” He asks. Levant gestures with his hands, leaving room for Evin Mauve to undo the tie enough that it kills the tight wrinkle in Levant’s collar. 

“Thank you.” Levant whispers, voice a little affected by District One’s accent. “You did that awfully fast.” 

“You pick it up quickly if you do it enough.” Evin Mauve huffs, trying not to sound as scared as he is. 

“Didn’t think you guys really wore that many ties in District Eight. Woof almost never does.” 

“You must see a very different Woof than I do. His whole house is practically covered in ‘em.” Then Levant laughs, a good, quiet laugh. Evin Mauve freezes. He hasn’t made someone laugh in ages. It’s foreign now, the feeling of bringing someone else joy. He doesn’t know what to make of the slight giggle that forces its way out of his lungs, and how nervous even that is. Then the slight levity Evin Mauve was feeling tightened back into his tense shoulders as the lights dimmed and the audience burst into cheers. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle up at the sound of their clapping, mixing with the soft rumbles of the thunder that manages to squeeze through the walls of the auditorium. 

Then, a tall man dressed in a scarlet red suit that sparkles in the harsh theater lights, spins onto the lit-up stage as the people around and below Evin Mauve rise to their feet in a standing ovation. Even Levant does, if not several moments later than the other mentors. Evin Mauve doesn’t though, and mentally decides to use the loss of his cane and his still crippled ankle as an excuse if anyone presses him. Then, the man’s booming voice echoes out of hidden speakers, warm and excited as he introduces himself as Lepidus Malmsey, a Capitol News reporter who had risen through the ranks, gaining popularity to be Lucky’s replacement after Lucky himself gave a glowing speech of recommendation to the man who’d began his Hunger Games career during the same year Lucky had. Evin Mauve had met him briefly for one interview in the Capitol after his victory, but he hadn’t stood out to him. 

“Hello! Hello!” He boasts, waving out to the crowd below, who in turn let out more shrieks of joy that make Evin Mauve cringe. The mentors around him have sat down, some grinning and other’s face’s a blank stare. Evin Mauve tries to peer around the other mentors to spot Woof, but he can’t find his eyes in the dim. 

“Well, I know you all didn’t come here for me, and while your cheers are intoxicating, I must begin interviewing our tributes. Welcome to the Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games: A Night of Interviews!” The crowd erupts into louder screams than Evin Mauve even thought possible. Instinctively, he shoves his index fingers into each ear, trying to block out the painful noise. It’s almost as wailing as the sirens that go off during a factory fire back in Eight. 

“Shall we begin with our first tribute, Sapphira Good from District One?” Levant leaps up in response, joining into the continuing applause. His loud claps ring in Evin Mauve’s ears, pulsing. He sits there, stunned, as Sapphira answers the questions quickly and properly, making light jokes along with Lepidus at her predicament. No doubt, she has a good chance of winning. Evin Mauve hopes she does.

After Sapphira is Campius, then the pair from District Two, Juli and Specter, and so on and so forth. Each of the tributes answers well, like they had been trained by President Snow himself, and Evin Mauve feels his anxiety grow more and more. He occasionally takes glances over at Levant, seeing the man’s face tight in a way so strange to Evin Mauve that he can’t help but wonder if Levant has died and gone stiff. But a blink of his blonde eyelashes and a huff of breath after the boy from Four, Murray, walks off stage after a rather bland interview, lets Evin Mauve know he’s still there. He needs Woof next to him, just for a supportive hand on his shoulder to keep him here. Like Levant is. Present. 

Evin Mauve’s grip on the chair tightens as District Five and District Six run through their interviews quickly, leaving only District Seven left before Alma walks onstage. He can’t see his hands, but with the numbness he feels he bets they’re paler than the snow in his arena. Last year he had been standing backstage with his hands locked in Polly’s as he tried to ignore the pain of his throbbing ankle. Now, just a good six minutes away from watching Alma possibly fumble this interview, the same pain echoes throughout his lower leg. Why did these stupid victors have to sit between him and the only person capable of calming him down? All it took was one simple, snide remark from Woof and a pat on the back and his chest would stop aching just enough for him to breathe. Mags, even, would be better, and he scarcely knew her more than someone who could provide comfort to his drunken self. Oh, how he wishes he had a drink! But all Evin Mauve has now is Levant, a strange man who won the year his brother was murdered. And a victor from District One, of all places. Evin Mauve wishes he were anywhere else. Even that empty-feeling arena filled to the brim with dead children, five of which he killed, would be better than this crowded, cold theater. And then, whatever the boy from Seven’s name was walks offstage, and Lepidus calls out their next interviewee. 

Alma Gauge.

This was it. He was ready to let her die just a night ago, and now, he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. They knew each other before; well, knew of each other. And even if she had said a horrible thing to him, she didn’t deserve to die. She was just brought up that way. He has to keep telling himself that so he doesn’t return to hating her. If she wins, then Merino doesn’t, and that's all he could ask for.

“Hello, Ms. Gauge!” Lepidus cheers, gesturing to her to sit in the chair next to him. Her dress, the same one Faustina had pulled from the pile to show Evin Mauve just a day earlier, looks like it has been adorned with glittering gems. Everytime she moves slightly, light bounces back into his eyes like twinkling stars in a sunset. She looks pretty, her hair pulled up into two matching buns sprinkled with what seemed to be more glitter. Evin Mauve has realized that if he doesn’t start moving in some way, his heart may as well give out. It’s beating faster than it had been when he entered the arena. If it was possible for his grip on the arms of the chair to tighten, they somehow do. He isn’t sure he’ll have hands after this. He isn’t really sure of anything anymore. 

“Hello there.” Alma responds, managing to be rather composed, just as she had been at the Reaping. She doesn’t show an ounce of fear. Evin Mauve feels slightly ridiculous being more nervous than the person who’s actively fighting to keep themselves alive, but nevertheless her calm does nothing to quell his anxiety. 

“So, Alma–can I call you Alma?” Lepidus asks, receiving a quizzical look from Alma.

“Of course you can.” She nods.

“Good. So, Alma, what would you say is your biggest strength?” 

Alma mulls the question over for a second, essentially stopping Evin Mauve’s breath. If this is how he is during Alma’s interview, he might actually pass out from sheer stress once Merino takes the stage in a few minutes. 

“I’d say my biggest strength is that I don’t show my weakness. Now I know I got a four in training which, to be honest, isn’t the best score in the world, but I wouldn’t write me off just yet.” 

Alma is so smooth with Lepidus’ questions that Evin Mauve begins to question if that's what the stylists had been doing while they made her up. It wouldn’t be a terrible plan, having them ask her questions as practice. A part of him wishes he’d had thought of it last year. He lets out a labored breath as he finally realizes Alma is in no danger of fumbling her interview. She’s good. If he had any doubts about her or Merino getting a single sponsor, they’re squashed by the overly optimistic answers Alma sends out to the crowd. 

“I know I certainly won’t!” Lepidus beams, leaning his head over towards the crowd, who all let out a quick applause. “Tell me, Alma, about this dress! I mean look at it! What a piece of work!” 

“Oh yes. Linian made it for me. Rusty orange.” Alma nods. 

“Well, Mr. Juni, take a bow!” 

In the front row of the auditorium, Evin Mauve can see Linian’s short form stand up and take a rather low bow. 

“I must say, it is extravagant work! Being from the textile district, do you often find clothes meaning more to you than those from other corners of Panem?” Lepidus asks, oblivious to the fact that most people in District Eight don’t have much love for fashion. Evin Mauve is one of the few who care only slightly, mostly because of his grandmother. “Clothes bring people together” is what she would tell him, especially when she was giving him things. Like his rainbow scarf, which now sits wadded up in the back of a drawer in his bedroom almost devoid of color from the amount of washing it took to get the blood stains out. 

“I personally don’t. I work at my parent’s bakery, so the most I get from fabric is oven mitts and aprons.” She says, sparking a small laugh from the audience. “But some people do. We give pieces of clothing to each other as gifts, like scarfs and other smaller items, but we aren’t any more conscious of our dressings than other districts are.” 

And then, much to Evin Mauve’s slowing heartrate’s disappointment, the buzzer marking the end of her interview sounds, and she’s walking off the stage to the sound of clapping. It feels as if he’s being held by the throat in the cave again the way his breathing becomes labored. Merino is next. He’s been dreading it since the Reaping, and yet he’s survived long enough to watch the charming man who destroyed his life find some way to twist the Capitol’s view of him into something that he isn’t. And probably the other victors, too. Soon, Evin Mauve won’t have anyone who even cares about him.

“Now, as we say goodbye to Alma, we must move on to our next tribute, also from District Eight, Merino Weaver!”

It feels as if every eye in the large room locks onto Evin Mauve’s sweating face. For a moment it's quiet, like no one is sure if they should clap or not, drawing Evin Mauve into a sense of safety. Maybe they aren’t all that bad; even if the people of the Capitol watch the deaths of innocent district children for sport, they have some form of moral code. But Evin Mauve is wrong, so, so wrong. For the moment Merino walks out onto the stage looking disgustingly handsome, hair gelled and in the fabulous suit created by Faustina, the crowd lets go of whatever pretense they remembered about the boy mentioned in last year’s victor’s first interview. The exact moment Merino flashes a grin, like he’d done to Evin Mauve two and a half years ago at school, the room erupts in screams. It feels like betrayal. He doesn’t realize it’s happening, as his fingers dig into his ears, but Evin Mauve joins them. Not because he’s excited, or even somewhat still attracted to the person walking to Lepidus’ outstretched hand. No, Evin Mauve Baird screams like he does when the evil that is Merino Weaver pins him to the bed. When Evin Mauve can’t escape his abuse. He screams as if he is being murdered. 

Notes:

HEY GUYS idk if you saw the update i did and then promptly deleted, but i decided to animate the first act of A Finch's Lullaby (Which is all of Evin Mauve's pre-games and his time during the Hunger Games)!!!!

So here is the link if you wish to watch it: https://youtu.be/ithLWwIyZYE?si=SCKfa_8a8mbs0Vf8

I Worked very hard on it, and I think it's nice to see the ways I picture the characters of this story in my head! (If you want to know exactly who is who, I posted this video here: https://youtu.be/4yMzyDMBbRU?si=-fwf1Tjd5OmO2k5n for context!)

Anyways, thank you for reading and please leave any comments and suggestions you may have!!!!

Chapter 28: A Finch's Strangled Scream

Summary:

“Wake up! It’s a big day!” Caius says somewhere in the apartment, echoing throughout the pinkish walls. Evin Mauve scoffs.

All Evin Mauve is aware of is that impossibly, his voice rings out louder than the crowd’s. Yet as soon as his throat begins to feel raw, their cheers die down, and several hundred pairs of eyes lock onto the mentor’s balcony. The auditorium is so silent when he pulls his hands away from his ears. He swears he hears a pin drop, or some sort of accessory. But the few eyes he can see in the dim aren’t looking at him; Levant’s eyes, and whoever the victor next to him is, lock onto the stage as a sharp, quick laugh echoes through the room. A laugh that belongs to Merino. A laugh that grows as everyone follows Lepidus in a shaky laugh as they try to play off the awkwardness of the moment. And Evin Mauve’s face burns. Embarrassment, fear, sadness. All in one deadly storm that brings his misery to the surface. If the lights weren’t so dim, Evin Mauve was positive Levant could see his face reach the color of his curly hair. He burns like the fires that take the lives of so many people who work in the factories.

Then a hand, steady and firm, is on his lower arm, willing him to loosen his grip on the seating. Evin Mauve doesn’t acknowledge that he knows it’s Levant’s, and keeps his head locked on Merino who has practically doubled over in laughter. 

“Quite the start, don’t you think?” He asks Lepidus between breaths. To his credit, Lepidus just sits in shock a little, before setting back into his show-man character. 

“Yes, yes it was. Now Merino, what would a tribute like yourself do in training to get such a high score?” Lepidus questions.

“Well, I have practice with …tackling people. Just showed ‘em with the mannequins.” 

Lepidus stares at him, utterly failing at covering the disgust on his face. Levant’s hand tightens on Evin Mauve’s arm, slowly becoming the only thing keeping Evin Mauve from passing out. This isn’t real. He should be at home, in the Victor’s Village, maybe making some stupid bread or cake for the Quails or for Woof, or maybe he should be dead and Prudence should be sitting in this cold auditorium right now. He doesn’t know what should be happening, only that this–Merino joking about the horrors he’s already committed before even being reaped– shouldn’t be his reality. 

“Yes, well, how do you think you’ll fare in the arena?” 

“I’ll do well. Bigger than most of them and stronger for sure. Could just win by luck, of course. We’ve seemed to have a few of those types of victors these past few years.”

To Evin Mauve’s relief, the buzzer rings out into the still air.

“Ah. You got us there. But I’m sorry to say we’ve run out of time. Ladies and gentlemen, Merino Weaver, from District Eight!” Lepidus says, clearly eager to get him off the stage. The audience claps, but they aren’t fond of him. Evin Mauve feels some of the stress leave his body. Merino stayed cocky and arrogant, and thankfully, it seems like it will be his downfall. Even Lepidus, who has managed to present each of the other fifteen tributes as somewhat likeable, including the few bold ones from Districts Two and Four, couldn’t even do that for Merino. Granted, he isn’t as good as Lucky had been, but it’s his first year. Evin Mauve can’t help but thank him for it. 

As Merino leaves the stage, Levant’s hand loosens before eventually slipping off Evin Mauve’s arm entirely. The interviews are over, Evin Mauve doesn’t need to be worried. Alma did okay, and Merino was his true self, and they seemed to hate that person. The Capitol seems to still be on Evin Mauve’s side. Yet the moment Levant’s last finger brushes away, he wishes they were back. It was a good reminder that he was alive, still breathing. But he couldn’t reach for Levant’s hand, no matter how much he wanted to. He hardly knew the guy! Perhaps he could get to know him enough where he felt comfortable to cry, like he had grown to be with Mags. Woof was the only other person he let calm him down, so why not make another friend while he was forced to be here? It might make the following days better. Maybe it’ll even keep him from drowning in a bottle or two. 

Evin Mauve, just like the year before, hardly follows the other tribute’s interviews. He tries, knowing that it could help Alma, but eventually after his heart calms down to a steadier pace, he realizes that he isn’t any help if she herself is already paying attention. She’s smart. She doesn’t need his help, she never did. From the few classes they had shared in Eight, she had mostly been the one their classmates went to for help. Why Evin Mauve even thought she could use his assistance is astounding. The way she presented herself is proof of that. And then there is Merino, who even though he will never help him in any way, couldn’t possibly need it more. Even if Evin Mauve did offer it, like he has tried to since the Reaping, he knows Merino would just point out that it was all a fluke that he won. He hates that he believes him. 

The tributes from the final four districts go by without much notice. Evin Mauve zones out several times, feeling tired and weak from his stress, only noticing how small the kids from Twelve look. Like they always look. There is no possible way any person from Twelve could have won the games. The two from last year had been gutted in the bloodbath; the two before them had been drowned and killed by some sort of mutt that Evin Mauve can’t remember. They are only skin and bones, nothing else at all. It isn’t like District Eight’s tributes ever fare any better, but the poor kids always seem at such a severe disadvantage it was no wonder they’d only managed to have one victor. And even then, she’s been gone long enough no one remembers her name. Won the Tenth Hunger Games, Woof had told him once. That was the year his grandmother told him someone sang to snakes in the arena. He doubts whoever that was was the one to win. It doesn’t seem like the behavior of someone from District Twelve. 

As Lepidus makes his closing speech, waving and bidding goodnight to the applauding audience, the mentors are escorted back into the vans they arrived in, this time with their tributes as they head back to the apartments that serve as the Tribute Center. Tomorrow was the big day, after all, and then Evin Mauve would be free of Merino Weaver forever. He just had to get through tonight. In the van, the five of them, Caius finally joining the group, didn’t speak a word. Evin Mauve’s eyes were planted at his boots, looking down to where the throbbing pain was coming from. Just a year ago he would’ve been more nervous than he’d ever been thinking he was due to die the next day. Now, he feels similarly nervous, just more worried about his close proximity to Merino. But he would be gone in a day or two, wouldn’t he? Sure he’d gotten a ten in training, that much is clear: but he’s bound to not get many sponsors after his interview, right? They rocked back and forth as the van drove through the Capitol, the bright lights shining through the dark tinted windows. They were lucky they even had the windows. 

They arrive at the apartments soon enough, and as Alma and Merino exited first, followed closely by Caius, Woof gives Evin Mauve a barely concealed look of concern. 

“I’m fine.” Evin Mauve whispers, trying to sound reassuring. He knows he doesn’t, he isn’t a good liar. 

“Need help gettin’ out?” Woof asks as he scoots along the van’s benches. Evin Mauve nods, ankle long since being useful since having to make the walk out of the auditorium without his cane. He’d grown fond of the swooped bird’s feathers at the handle. It was like a little friend he hadn’t realized he needed to appreciate. As Evin Mauve carefully steps out of the van, Woof continues to hold onto his arm as they walk inside. The rest of the mentors and tributes seem to arrive at the exact same time, so Evin Mauve gives a small wave to Levant. It feels like he has a friend. He hasn’t had one besides Woof, although he’d liken their relationship closer to that of a parent, in a long while. Maybe friend wasn’t really the right word, but Levant’s become a comforting face nonetheless.

When they enter the cold apartment, after Caius leaves to go back to wherever his Capitol home is, Woof instructs Alma and Merino to change out of their interview costumes and to go ahead and get some rest. 

“If you need food, Mauve and I’ll bring something to your rooms. I can’t imagine you’ll be feeling up to eating a full meal.”

Evin Mauve wants to protest, but he knows Woof will hear none of it. 

“You go change too. Meet me in the dining room after, though. I’ll make some coco.” Woof says, getting up and heading to the kitchen. Always telling him what to do. Evin Mauve figures that's why he makes such a good mentor. So he listens. He takes a nice, hot shower, and combs through his curls before dressing in the most comfortable clothing in the drawers. Dark gray corduroy pants and a large hoodie. The corduroy reminds him of the vest and pants he’d worn on Reaping Day. They’ve long since been burned to bits, and when he had found out their fate, he had been inconsolable. The loss of the garments only reminded him of the snap of the ropes as his mom and grandma fell from the gallows. 

When he meets Woof in the dining room, he sees no coco in sight. 

“Did I take too long?” He asks as he limps dangerously to a seat. 

“No, I just figured you’d want it to be hot instead of cold.” Woof gets up and goes back into the kitchen, returning with a steaming mug. 

“So why are we staying up later than we need to? Got a pair of potential winners to get through the Bloodbath.” Evin Mauve says sarcastically, taking a sip and burning his tongue. 

“Just checkin’ on you. Heard the scream, figured it was you.” Woof sighs into his mug. 

“Everyone heard it, Woof. Even Lepidus.” 

Woof nods and takes a few more sips of his coco. He seemed to have given himself more than he had Evin Mauve, who feels a twinge of annoyance. 

“You have an interview tomorrow.”

“Ah. There it is.” Evin Mauve says bitterly. He’s being forced into the game he has played ever since winning again. It feels like he’s still a tribute, in constant danger from everyone around him. Except Woof, who ever since Polly was killed by that knife a year ago has been the one trustworthy person Evin Mauve knows. “You here to mentor me through it, then?” 

“Oh no, you can handle yourself. Might even add a few remarks on Merino’s poor interview.” Woof smirks. His smile brings Evin Mauve a little more peace, because even though he’d been worried sick, Merino had royally screwed up his chances at getting sponsors. At least Evin Mauve believes he has. He supposes they’ll see in the morning.

“Did all that worryin’ for nothin’. Alma did good, though. About as well as she could’ve.” Evin Mauve snorts, ignoring the growing pain on his tongue. He should really get in the habit of blowing on hot drinks. 

“Wouldn’t say for nothin’. He’s horrid, all right, but he is charming. Don’t need to tell you that, though.” 

They sit in silence as they finish their drinks. For a moment, the stuffy, poorly decorated pink walls of District Eight’s apartment feel like home. They remind him of a snow storm that had driven Evin Mauve to brave the cold and ice over to Woof’s house right after they’d returned from his Victory Tour. He drank similarly hot coco, but even being rich and a victor they couldn’t always get the nice Capitol stuff. It was still nice, sitting by the fire and ignoring all the pain he’d just relived as he stared at the families of the dead. He had to remind himself, though, that the districts hadn’t wanted them to begin with, and had sent them off to die. Just a bunch of rascals they’d wanted to be rid of. It hadn’t helped his stupor when he remembered that he helped get rid of them, so he couldn’t claim to be innocent. It didn’t matter, though. Evin Mauve had been safe. Well, as safe as he could have been in an ice storm. 

“I wanna go home.” Evin Mauve whispers.

“We’ll be there soon. Just a few weeks and then you can go back to the Victor’s Village without the fear of Merino.” Woof tries to reassure him, yet it has the opposite effect. A month of worrying, even more than he already is, about whether or not Merino will survive. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to do it. “Finish your cup and get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.” Woof orders. 

So Evin Mauve finishes his hot coco and barely manages to get to his bedroom without falling victim to the pain in his ankle. It hasn’t hurt this badly in a while. It has to be the stress. Or, maybe, his body has already started to give up, just a few steps ahead of Evin Mauve’s mind. Because like as not, Evin Mauve won’t be mentally prepared to watch people he knows, regardless of his feelings, get brutally murdered. Merino deserves it, yes, but that doesn’t mean Evin Mauve really wishes to watch. Woof will have to help an unstable Evin Mauve while juggling Alma’s life in his hands. So as Evin Mauve slides himself under the blood red covers of his bed, he makes a promise to himself: that no matter how hard, how brutal, how long the Twenty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games last, he’ll try and keep himself from shattering into thousands of pieces. He can do it. If he can just believe it’ll all be fine, he can do it. Then he’ll be home, which, granted, hasn't truly felt like his home since the Hunger Games, but he’ll be in a place that’s warm and familiar. And maybe, just maybe he can figure out some way to live with what all’s happened, and live in general peace. He tries to think of that life as he drifts off into sleep.

A cold hand resting on his stomach startles Evin Mauve awake. His room is dark, and he can’t see who it is. But in his heart, he knows. He wishes it wasn’t him. He was almost free of him. Couldn’t he have just left him alone? 

“I know you’re awake, Evin Mauve.” 

Why was Merino using his name? He never, not even when he had been sure he’d loved him, called him anything other than ‘Evin’. It felt wrong to hear. Evin Mauve reaches over to the night stand and pulls the chain of a lamp. On the edge of the bed, Merino sits in nothing but his underwear. Evin Mauve’s heart drops.

“What are you doing here?” Evin Mauve whispers, afraid. He had nothing to get Merino out. His throat was scratchy from the hours of sleep, his cane gone, and only one good kicking foot left. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, but Merino’s hand just slides down to his thigh.

“I don’t know.” 

Oh he knows. He knows exactly what he wants and what he wishes he could do. But Evin Mauve won’t let him. Not tonight. Not when freedom is so close he can practically taste it. And Evin Mauve hates how he hears the uncertainty in Merino’s voice, like maybe he finally realizes what he’s done is wrong. What he’s done is what is getting him killed, that somehow didn’t get Evin Mauve killed. He’d claimed he loved him, and Evin Mauve had believed him. Even during his visits, as Evin Mauve was trying to get him off of him, Merino would say he loved him. It wasn’t true, though. You don’t hurt someone you love. 

“Then go.” Evin Mauve croaks out. Whether the tears running down his face are from fear or the memories of his torture, he doesn’t know. He just wants Merino to leave. But he just sits there, hand resting on Evin Mauve’s leg. The room is silent. Neither move, nor talk, and Evin Mauve hardly breathes. 

“I’m sorry.” Merino whispers. Evin Mauve just stares at him through the darkness. “I’m sorry for it all.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re going to die.” Evin Mauve deadpans, slowly going numb. He can’t care about him. Merino must die, no matter how scared he is. He has to pay, and a simple ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it. Not anymore. Not ever, really, but Merino is the reason Evin Mauve went into the Hunger Games. He’s the reason his body is in constant pain and why his ankle barely works. All his pain comes from Merino. Merino just hums in response. He knows it. “You should go. You have a big day tomorrow.” 

Merino shakes his head, and rises from the bed. “See you later.” He says, exiting the room. Evin Mauve doesn’t want to see him at all. He knows that Merino is bound to die, and he’ll be able to relax for one moment of his life, yet the worry that ‘later’ could mean after the games sends a shiver down his spine. If Merino wins they’ll be neighbors. He wouldn’t be able to do anything to get rid of him then. Evin Mauve would have to leave. Which may still happen if he returns to District Eight without their beloved Weaver boy. Woof would help him, though, so maybe things would be fine. He clings to that as he slowly falls into a fitful sleep full of dead kids on a blood stained, snowy floor. 

Woof’s hand on the door wakes him up, like it does most mornings. The sun is barely peaking through the barred windows, though, letting him know it isn’t quite yet seven. Evin Mauve slowly gets out from the sheets, exhausted, and leans on the wall until he reaches the door. When he opens it, Woof is standing there with hot cups of coffee. He takes the one without any cream, preferring his coffee as dark as possible. The bitterness wakes him up faster. Behind him, Faustina comes over quickly, holding what Evin Mauve assumes to be his outfit for the day. Right, he has an interview. She gives him the suit bag, and ushers him into his room before closing the door. He sets down his half-empty mug and unzips the bag, unveiling a deep red pair of pants and a matching vest. Stitched in such a similar red that it's hard to make out are several flying birds. What type of bird, Evin Mauve can’t tell. Maybe a robin? It doesn’t really matter. As he dresses, the panic in his chest silently grows until he eventually has to sit down on the bed to try to calm himself down. It hardly works. A year ago today, he remembers, Woof woke him up with a similar cup of coffee to keep him awake for the Bloodbath, his only goal to keep Polly alive. She died and he didn’t, and now he’s here, about to be the reason two more children die horribly. Just like a year ago, he shouldn’t have drunk the coffee, because he’s sure that’s the reason for his jittery limbs. He hasn’t even finished it all, half the mug still filled with the bitter stuff. He isn’t doomed to die today, though, so he pushes himself up and meets a grim-faced Woof outside.

“Wake up! It’s a big day!” Caius says somewhere in the apartment, echoing throughout the pinkish walls. Evin Mauve scoffs. 

“When did Caius start actin’ like that?” He whispers to Woof, who just shrugs. Caius hadn’t been like that, half a year ago. But half a year is half a year, and things change at great speeds. Faustina and Linian, who must have been over just to drop off Evin Mauve’s and Woof’s clothing, speed out the door in order to make it to the hovercraft in time. They’ll meet Merino and Alma in the launch rooms. The two tributes enter the living room at the same moment the stylists exit, both looking visibly scared. It’s then Evin Mauve’s resolve breaks slightly, and he feels the need to comfort the pair.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” He says, mostly to Alma but doesn’t exclude Merino. 

“Any last advice?” Alma asks, her arm gripping tightly on Merino’s. Evin Mauve almost tells her to stay away from him, for her own good, but that wouldn’t be helpful. But he can’t think of anything else, because he himself didn’t have much of a plan going into the arena, just to keep Polly alive. Like Merino has said several times, his winning was a fluke. Woof speaks up, to Evin Mauve’s relief.

“Don’t go to the middle. If you think you can reach a bag or something, then go for one farther out.” He says. And then Caius has returned, bubbly and in a violently bright green suit, and begins to escort the tributes out the door. They have a schedule to uphold. But neither of them move, their feet planted firmly into the ground. 

“Hey.” Evin Mauve says, hobbling over to them and placing a hand on Alma’s shoulder. “It’ll be ok. You won’t be alone, even if you think you are. We’ll all be watching, your families will be too.” He laughs inwardly. Just days ago he was telling Woof to not give them hope, and now here he is, reassuring them that they won’t die alone. But he isn’t lying to them, like Woof had. They are going to die. Then the pair, as if sharing a single brain, converge on him in a squeezing hug. Everything in his body tells him to push them, to push Merino off of him, to kick and trash until he knocks himself out. But he knows they’re both on borrowed time now. In a little under an hour, they’ll be dressed and ready for slaughter while Evin Mauve sits on a plush couch and gets asked questions by either Lepidus or Lucky. So he embraces the pair, letting this be the last memory of them he’ll have. His chest hurts. And then Caius is there, trying to gently take their arms off of him. Alma is crying, Merino is teary-eyed. Cold and so unlike the man he knew, Caius takes each of them by the arm and brings them towards the door. Perhaps he’s just getting Merino off of Evin Mauve. He has to think that’s the reason, otherwise he’ll start to really resent him. And then their scared faces disappear behind the front door. They’re off now, he can’t do much about it.

Evin Mauve and Woof stand in silence for a beat before Evin Mauve cracks. 

“How do you do this?” He asks Woof, not even attempting to fight back tears. “I thought it’d be easier. Hating them.”

“You push through it.” He shrugs. 

They make their way down to the entrance level of the apartment buildings, and meet up with the other mentors as they wait for the car that will take them to the Academy. A majority of the games’ production still takes place in the ancient building, from the controls of the arena to the live commentary and interviews with the past victors. Evin Mauve’s ankle starts screaming again, so he has to sit himself down on a wooden bench that isn’t comfortable in the slightest. Woof didn’t tell him much, but from what he gathers, the mentors will be taken to a special room where they’ll have access to the sponsor gifts and, of course, be on camera. Woof also warned that if he wished, Evin Mauve could order drinks from a Capitol Attendant, but not to drink too heavily. Evin Mauve wishes he could say he won’t, but at the current moment he already wants to drink the heartbreak away. How any of these people get through more than one year of mentoring, he doesn’t know. Levant, blonde and gorgeous, saunters over towards the still reeling, tear stained face of Evin Mauve. Levant sits down on the other side of the wooden bench. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Evin Mauve in a way that makes him feel extremely open, like the pages of a book have been ripped off the spine and Levant stares at the hundreds of words on the scattered pages. He feels his face heat up at Levant’s peering, and he wishes he could shrink into himself, or find a drink. This is a horrible start to the day.

“Are you good?” Levant asks, eyebrow raised up into his hair. Evin Mauve hates how his face feels like it's burning and simultaneously damp from sweat and the soft trickle of tears that fell in the elevator. He hates people seeing him like this. Especially people so put together like Levant. 

“Wouldn’t even believe myself if I said I was.” Evin Mauve huffs, trying to lighten his own mood. Levant’s hand meets Evin Mauve’s upper arm, slowly going up and down in a calming motion. He sure is touchy, but it isn’t entirely unwelcome. If only it didn’t feel like he was being burned alive. 

“Is it because of him?” 

Does everyone know about his problems? Has Woof told every single mentor from the past few years? Of course, he told the Capitol what had happened in his interview before the games, and Polly had all but confirmed it had been Merino before he even got his story out. Woof wouldn’t tell anyone anyway. It was his own fault that people knew. Doesn’t matter, they seem to have a great disdain for Merino, which means not many people here in the Capitol will care much when he dies. District Eight will, of course, unless his interview cleared their heads of his nonsense. Maybe, when Evin Mauve gets home, he’ll be met with thousands of apologies. How he can only hope. 

Evin Mauve nods slowly, wiping his face from the sweat. It’s so hot in this building. Their apartment had been decently cool, and his clothing is much too warm for the sweltering heat of July. Levant continues to rub his arm as they descend into silence. The other mentors are talking, but many look just as devastated as Evin Mauve does. Mags, who’s standing with the other mentors from Four, has glassy eyes as she answers questions sporadically with a nod. It’s as they lock wet eyes when the vans pull up to the doors outside. A few Peacekeepers shuffle them inside, and having sat next to him, Evin Mauve allows Levant to help him into his seat. He doesn’t know where Woof went, perhaps in the other car. He hopes he’s in the other car. Evin Mauve can’t do this by himself. 

When they pull into the parking lot outside the Academy, Evin Mauve is struck with the grandeur of the Capitol. He hasn’t really been outside during the day to look at the towering buildings with ornate details. Some have become more colorful, sporting shades of reds and yellows, but most remain tannish gray like the stone they’re constructed of. The Academy is no different. Its tall pillars and large arched windows boast the pre-war designs of the Capitol, and the occasional scorch mark remains as if to remind the students who attend of the violence that once occurred on these streets. But that doesn’t deter the people of this city from watching their beloved Hunger Games. As Evin Mauve slowly walks up the steps, Woof falling behind to help him once it becomes an obvious toll on his ankle, he spots the hundreds of red-clad students eyeing the mentors as they travel through the building. Their wide eyes and loud whispers embarrass Evin Mauve even more; it was enough having Levant peering into his soul, he doesn’t need more people trying to examine him. 

Evin Mauve thinks he’s already seen what is probably the largest room in the Capitol, being the amphitheater where the interviews are held, but the grandness of Heavensbee Hall almost trumps even that. High pillars and arches, dazzling chandeliers. For a school, this is incredibly extra.  Evin Mauve’s eyes can’t seem to look away from the shimmering jewels that hang from the ceiling as they cast light and tiny rainbows around the hall. He hates its beauty. The schools in Eight are run down, rusted and molding in every corner, and here these people are, no better other than where they live and how much they get to eat, with trim around the walls and a mural painted on the ceiling. The hours of labour this building would have taken to create, and probably by Avoxs, dumbfounds him. Evin Mauve stops his staring. He is here to help kill more children, not enjoy jewels and paintings. 

The mentors are herded into a small area with a few couches and chairs, as well as what Evin Mauve assumes to be a makeshift kitchen. Surrounding the rest of the hall are bleachers that could sit, and are quickly filling up with, hundreds of people. A screen that spans the height of the wall shows the seal of the Capitol that occasionally turns to the logo of the Hunger Games. Someone who Evin Mauve assumes to be a Gamemaker comes around with a packet of paper and small touch screen devices that she hands out to each mentor as they sit down. In the packet, Evin Mauve sees, is a list of supplies that can be purchased by sponsors and the price increases as the games progress, and a list of the tributes’ first names:

District One        District Seven

Sapphia              Grove

Campius             Woody

 

District Two        District Eight

Juli                      Alma

Spector              Merino

 

District Three     District Nine

Chrome              Awn

Zeno                  Glenn

 

District Four     District Ten

Meena              Paloma

Murray               Dale

 

District Five     District Eleven

Petra               Juniper

Rush              Henry

 

District Six    District Twelve

Tinn              Lily

Wip              Cole

 

Evin Mauve stares at the sheet, trying to place a face to each of the tributes. He remembers a few, but most of the middle districts he can’t place. But he knows that most of them, especially the ones he can’t remember, won’t survive the day. And even if he hasn’t met them, his heart breaks a little more. Woof sits down next to him on one of the long plush couches, grumbling at the sheet of paper with the sponsor gifts printed on it as he scrolls through the touch screen’s options. 

“It’s gotten more expensive.”  He mumbles, peering closer to the paper. Evin Mauve sighs a little too, but less one of stress and more one of relief. He’s made it. Merino and Alma aren’t his problem anymore, although they haven’t really ever been his problem, as they’re no doubt still waiting on the hovercraft to be dressed by Faustina and Linian in the launch rooms. And if the prices of sponsor gifts have raised, then Evin Mauve won’t have any issue ensuring Merino doesn’t receive help. He doesn’t even know how to work the small screen, so that could also be a present excuse. He hates how cold hearted he feels, after just letting the pair embrace him before they left, but this is what Merino gets, and Alma just so happens to be in the crossfire. Woof will get them some sponsors anyway, so Alma won’t be without help. That is, if either of them last the day. All of a sudden, the audience, which has nearly tripled since he sat down, makes loud applause as a man walks towards a pair of chairs. It’s Lucky Flickerman, here to provide commentary along with Lepidus,who has yet to show his face. Evin Mauve feels a little at ease seeing Lucky again. But as he spots the Gamemaker walking towards the group of mentors, he feels his adrenaline spike.  Is it time for his interview? Already? According to the schedule on the touch screen, it says the tributes haven’t even landed yet. Sure enough, the Gamemaker starts rattling off the order of interviews for the day.

“Evin Matthews? You’re up first.” he says,waiting for Evin Mauve to shakily get up. When he doesn’t move, the Gamemaker gestures for him to make his way over to Lucky. He isn’t ready for this. Evin Mauve is startled at the cheering that accompanies him as he hobbles over to the chair across from Lucky, who stands up and holds his arms out as if waiting for a hug. It was time to return to that habit of his, of playing the game that the Capitol wants him to. To become Evin Matthews for a few hours. The moment he enters Lucky’s arms, he already feels tired. But he smiles harder than he has in days, trying to put on the ‘happy victor’ persona he’s supposed to present. 

“Hello, my boy!” Lucky says into the microphone as they take their seats. Cameras are on them, the lights in the hall dim and a few stage lights blind Evin Mauve’s eyes. He tries hard to push down the blush that creeps up his neck, willing the sweat that trickles from underneath his curls away. How quickly he stopped being used to this. How quickly he thought he had returned to a somewhat normal life, just to be thrust back into the nightmare it’d become. “How are you faring? It’s been just a few months since I saw you last, but goodness we have much to talk about!”

“Yes, yes we do.” Evin Mauve giggles sheepishly. Just try to stay calm , he thinks. The large clock that hangs in the center of the hall lets him know that the games are still an hour away from beginning, meaning this interview could go on for a while. 

“Oh, don’t be shy! Tell us, how has the life of a victor been treating you?” Lucky asks earnestly, like he’s catching up with an old friend. What does he tell him? That the male tribute from District EIght has been the sole reason that whatever luxury he earned from winning the Hunger Games was pointless? That he can’t leave the bed most mornings because he’s so sore and feels so broken he can hardly stand? No, that wouldn’t be acceptable. 

“Its been good. Gotten into baking, recently.” He says. 

“Baking, eh? You didn’t strike me as a baker!” Lucky responds.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much growin’ up, so I’ve been tryin’ to find things to keep myself occupied.” Occupied from the large pit of despair that consumes my thoughts , he thinks. Somewhere behind him, he hears quick, panicked whispers. It distracts Lucky enough for him to stall on the next question. It takes everything in him not to turn around, especially when Lucky starts to visibly look concerned. But, ever the professional, he continues.

“Well that’s good, baking! Uh- So, Evin Mau- Evin!” Lucky is cracking, which only sends Evin Mauve into deeper worry, especially as the crowd begins to murmur. Lucky takes a few breaths before eventually pulling out and looking at a sheet of paper full of questions that have been prepared in advance. No doubt, Lucky has these all memorized, which only quickens Evin Mauve’s heart rate. He finally looks back behind him, hardly being able to spot the dimly lit faces of the other mentors. But with the soft glow of the small screens, he can see that each one of them is in some kind of shock, ranging from anger to horror. Except for one, Myst Finch, the girl who won the Second Hunger Games so brutally, whose face remains stone still with little emotion peaking through. 

“What’s happening?” Evin Mauve asks aloud, hoping someone heard him, just so his panic can be quelled. But all Lucky can do is stare at him, eyes wide as he plasters on a smile. He tries to continue. 

“Evin, we’ve heard that you have been-” But Lucky doesn’t get to finish. The large screen, which was previously broadcasting his interview, now flashes with the logo of the Capitol News station. Its slogan rests just under it, followed by a large red banner with the words “BREAKING NEWS” in large, white letters. Whatever fear Evin Mauve held doubles as the lights around him begin to grow hotter and hotter. He can’t remember the last time he saw a Capitol News broadcast for anything other than the constant updates about that year’s Hunger Games, only ever playing in the districts when something bad enough has happened that they feel the need to address the entire country. Which is extremely rare. Then a woman, glittered in gold hair and eyeshadow, sits at a desk with a sheet of paper in her hands. 

“We are live, here in the Capitol, with breaking news regarding this year’s opening day of the Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games. As of a few minutes ago, a Capitol hovercraft carrying tributes to the arena, has been shot down from the sky, killing ten people.” The screen is replaced with live footage of the hovercraft’s burning wreckage. Evin Mauve’s blood runs cold. Shot down? By who? “We believe it to be a rebel attack. Peacekeepers are now searching the surrounding area in District Nine for the suspects responsible for this attack. Of the ten casualties, four tributes, the pairs from District Five and District Six, have died.” 

Gasps ring out from the crowd, Evin Mauve joining them. Had it been a hovercraft over, or maybe just a little earlier, Alma and Merino wouldn’t have even made it to the arena. And the four who never will now burn on the screen as the Peacekeepers drag out their singed bodies. 

“Their stylists, and the pilots, have also died. Head Gamemaker Jarius Allard has released a statement that the Hunger Games will still open this morning, without those from District Five and Six.” 

And then Evin Mauve is staring back into his own, horrified eyes. His mind is reeling, trying to grasp at the implications of the crash. Why were the stylists with the tributes on the hovercraft? They’re just going to continue the Hunger Games with only twenty contenders? And the thought that claws its way to the surface, one that Evin Mauve thinks most of the people in the audience are thinking as well: Has a second, more dangerous rebellion just begun?

Notes:

HEY GUY!! i decided to animate the first act of A Finch's Lullaby (Which is all of Evin Mauve's pre-games and his time during the 25th Annual Hunger Games)!!!!

So here is the link if you wish to watch it: https://youtu.be/ithLWwIyZYE?si=SCKfa_8a8mbs0Vf8

I Worked very hard on it, and I think it's nice to see the ways I picture the characters of this story in my head! (If you want to know exactly who is who, I posted this video here: https://youtu.be/4yMzyDMBbRU?si=-fwf1Tjd5OmO2k5n for context!)

Anyways, thank you for reading and please leave any comments and suggestions you may have!!!!

Chapter 29: Blood-Drenched Mesa That Beats Like A Drum

Summary:

Evin Mauve braces himself as the camera pans out to show the whole circle of tributes around the golden horn. Thirteen children have been killed in less than twenty minutes. Eleven are left. Both from District Eight are still impossibly alive.

   If a second rebellion really had just begun, Evin Mauve is sure they’d all be dead right now. But instead he’s brought back to the other mentors, who all sit in the plush seats under heavy surveillance as the screens change back to the seal. He doesn’t know what's happening, and his head spins violently. Of course this had to happen during his interview! The world seemed bent on stressing him to death, and he wished his heart would just finally give out. No one needs him, certainly not the tributes, and his life just seems to have been a factory fire that grows past the confines of the concrete walls and into the streets. He’s caused Woof more stress than he thinks Woof has experienced since his own Hunger Games. There he goes again! Making things about himself! People just died and he’s worrying about his usefulness to the world and those around him. 

   The crowd that has finally stopped filling the stands murmur in fear, whispering to each other just like the other mentors do. The chattering fades out of Evin Mauve’s ringing ears. His breath has become faster and more shallow, his heart races so fast he hears it pounding through his whole body. He’s so scared, and he hates to admit that. If the attack made the hovercraft land inside District Nine, does that mean the rebels were from Nine or some other district? What if they found out they were from Eight and Evin Mauve never got to go home? What if that horrible place with its gray walkways and walls with people who don’t love him is already being destroyed as he sits? He can’t hate them, not really. They did what they had to do; a boy tribute had to be picked, and it was better him than anyone else. So even if they hate him, and even if a part of himself loathes them as well, they don’t deserve to die. But they don’t know who the attackers are from, and more likely than not, they are from Nine. 

   No one moves for a while. The mentors try to console the only victors from Five and Six as Lepidus and Lucky struggle to find a way to distract the audience. Lucky brings out an ancient looking bird and tries to do some tricks with it, but the old thing can hardly move and he gives up rather quickly. Whatever they’re doing, it does seem to work somewhat. Evin Mauve is slowly getting his breathing back to normal, mostly thanks to Woof’s hand on his shoulder, and the audience has settled slightly. They even laugh every once in a while as Lucky cracks a few terrible jokes. But the somberness that surrounds the mentors never lifts, instead it grows. Evin Mauve can feel it, and even though he himself is feeling less stressed by the minute, the weight of sadness threatens to shatter what little of himself he still has put together. Even those from the more blood-thirsty districts have their lips sealed in thin lines on their faces. 

   It takes about thirty minutes until Levant makes his way to Evin Mauve. Woof had, up until a few minutes prior, been sitting with him, but he had been called over by a few other victors to order some food and to go over the sponsor gifts. While they each want their own tributes to win, they do all seem to share a sense of comradery Evin Mauve hadn’t expected. Just like how he doesn’t expect Levant to walk over to him willingly.

   “What a start to the morning.” He huffs as he sits down next to Evin Mauve, who just hums a ‘yes’ in response. They sit there in silence for a bit, before Levant speaks up again.

   “I’m sorry. About this, how it happened while you were in the hot seat.”

   “You have nothing to be sorry about,” Evin Mauve sighs, turning to face the other victor. “Unless, of course, this is actually your fault.” 

   Levant laughs quietly, a warm smile that stretches across his face. “You remind me of your brother.” 

   Evin Mauve freezes. They hadn’t once, in their several yet short interactions, brought up Reaper Rust’s involvement in Levant’s Hunger Games. Evin Mauve, of course, thought about it in some form or fashion every time they talked, but Levant had never once mentioned his long dead brother.

   “I do?” He asks, trying to hide the lump in his throat.

   “Yeah, you do. Same red hair, funny accent, strange name. But I mean, just as funny. I remember being so enthralled by his interview I forgot why I was even there.”

   “So I remind you of him ‘cause I have a sense of humor?” Evin Mauve questions.

   “No, no that isn’t what I meant. You have this way of capturing other’s attention that completely eclipses the things happening around you. Not many people in the audience even noticed Lucky’s panicking until your smile faltered.”

   Evin Mauve can’t help but blush. Levant has to be lying of course, but he gets such few compliments from anyone Evin Mauve just decides to take it. 

   “Talk about funny speech. Never in my life have I heard someone use the word eclipse.” Evin Mauve taunts, hoping that the warmth in his cheeks isn’t as prominent outside as it is inside. 

   “Okay, carrot top.” Levant teases back, a wide grin plastered on his face. Evin Mauve hates how drawn to him he is. They sit there for a while more, just enjoying the other’s presence, until Lepidus’ voice booms out into the room and squashes Evin Mauve’s joy. 

   “Ladies and gentlemen, the Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games will commence in half an hour! Feel free to get up, grab some snacks, and for any of you wishing to sponsor any one of our twenty tributes, just call this phone number and provide your Capitol Identification card to the attendant on the other end of the line!” A number flashes below his face on the screen, and the seal is back as Evin Mauve settles back into his fear. Why is he scared? He isn’t directly related to the crash, and the chances of it just being an accident are high. He can’t come up with a reason other than he just isn’t ready to relive the Hunger Games. No doubt, every moment will pull at a memory of his when he was in the arena. 

   “Hey,” Levant asks softly, “You okay?”

   “Yeah I’m just not… not sure I can handle this.” Evin Mauve admits, wishing Merino would have just been in that hovercraft. Why on earth would he tell Levant that? He’s gotten too comfortable. He’s here to suffer through another Hunger Games, not make friends. But is it so bad to want comfort in someone who went through the same horrors he had? 

   “None of us are sure we can. That is the life of a mentor.” Levant says.

   “That wasn’t very reassuring.” Evin Mauve answers. 

   The conversation ends there. Evin Mauve refuses to say anything more. Not because he doesn’t trust Levant, honestly he wishes he didn’t trust him, but because he doesn’t trust himself not to say anything stupid that would make him seem more weak than he already appears. At some point, Levant gets up without a word, most likely bored of the silence, leaving Evin Mauve alone with his somewhat quiet mind. It’s almost nice to be able to shut out his surroundings for a few minutes and it actually works. His heart has settled, even as the clock ticks down closer and closer to the start of the games. He feels oddly peaceful. But in the back of Evin Mauve’s mind, he knows that this is a familiar feeling; he calms down, only to have such strong anxiety that makes him positive he’s having a heart attack. But he rests for the moment, painfully aware that the moment Lepidus’ voice rings out into the large hall, he’ll explode in a ball of panic. Where is Woof, anyway?

   Evin Mauve looks around at the other mentors, most of which have split off into a few groups: those from Districts One, Two, Four, and Eleven gather together to no doubt discuss strategy. They’ve formed a type of pack, like those districts do most years, with their tributes being the stronger and more physically fit of the bunch. One, Two, Four, and Eleven also have the most victors out of everyone. The other few mentors, notably the ones from Nine, Ten, Six, and Five, sit talking to each other, with the latter sitting mostly in silence as they no longer have tributes. Evin Mauve feels bad for them. District Five has managed one victor only two years ago, and the only surviving mentor from District Six won just under a decade ago. Claire something. Woof must decide that he’s done with consoling Claire and whatever the name of Five’s lone victor is, because he walks back over to where Evin Mauve sits watching the rest of the group.

   Him and Woof are the only other mentors not chatting with anyone else. They’re a rare pair. Two victors from one of the poorest and smallest districts. Evin Mauve isn’t old enough to remember how quickly Woof had won, but Evin Mauve knows his own victory, like Merino would always remind him of, was a rarity. District Eight, victor of the first ever Quarter Quell. Evin Mauve can’t even help but feel a small sense of pride at that thought, that he was the first person to win a Quarter Quell. And yet, the idea that he wouldn’t be the last, is worse. His own games had been terrible, but in twenty-four years time, how much more twisted will the Hunger Games be? Will the victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games return to their family gone, or will they have been doomed to fail since they were reaped? Evin Mauve’s heart slowly starts to increase in speed. And then he mourns that poor person who will have to survive twenty-three other children, just like whoever wins this Hunger Games will have to do. And that brings Evin Mauve back into sharp awareness of his surroundings, that he’s hunched over with his head between his knees as Woof rubs circles into his back. He’s sweating terribly.

   “Breathe, Mauve.” He vaguely hears Woof say. And he tries too, breathing in and out in shaky, thin breaths. 

   To make his reality worse, the speakers crackle with the overly cheerful voice of  Lepidus Malmsey. Evin Mauve wishes Lucky was still hosting instead of just being a regular guest. He had somehow managed to make Evin Mauve somewhat calm during his interview last year, and unfortunately Lepidus doesn’t seem to have that same showman quality Lucky had. 

   “The Twenty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games will begin shortly!” He booms before his voice fades away. Evin Mauve is close to passing out. He feels claustrophobic yet needs to be suffocated in a hug tight enough to squeeze the panic out of him. His head rings, the occasional number of a countdown cuts through the fuzz, the one from his own Hunger Games. He isn’t even about to die, yet he feels more nervous than he had the morning the Quarter Quell began. 

   “Mauve, you need to sit up.” Woof whispers, trying to pry Evin Mauve into an upright position. Evin Mauve does so, face tingling as it slowly goes numb. He can’t think of anything, not where he is, not if he’s ok, not who he knows or how they are about to die, just that he can’t focus on anything other than his own pain and grief. Woof takes Evin Mauve’s hand and grips it tight enough that with time blood will stop flowing, and Evin Mauve locks onto that feeling. If he can just focus on that, he can make it through this. But it doesn't just last for today. He has to relive the Hunger Games over and over again for the next month, hoping and praying that Merino dies in that arena. He has to-

   “Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Twenty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games commence!”

   The screen flashes at the faces of the twenty tributes who circle the cornucopia. This marks its second ever appearance in the Hunger Games. Evin Mauve remembers climbing on top of it after getting sprayed in blood from Rowan. Rowan’s been dead a year now. He killed him. 

   The arena is a dusty canyon not too different in color than what Merino and Alma wore to their interviews. It must have been man-made, because from what little of the Victory Tour Evin Mauve spent sober, he remembers the land around District Nine being flat and green, not layers of multi-colored rock that rises up to almost block the light from the arena’s sun. The rocks almost glitter in the small rays that peak over the cliff’s edge, and if it wasn’t for his knowledge that children are a few seconds away from murdering each other, Evin Mauve would have wanted to visit. But the countdown is going so quickly Evin Mauve hardly catches the colors of the tributes’ clothing, or anything other than the fear stricken faces of Merino and Alma as their faces flash across the screen. Because they are about to die.

   “Ten…” Lepidus says, grinning heavily in his voice. He is enjoying this more than he should.

   “Nine… eight…” Evin Mauve’s hand tightens on Woof’s. “Seven…six…”

   The world freezes for a moment. He sees himself on that screen instead of Merino, dressed in a jumpsuit the color of coral, waiting and stressing as the heat of the mesa surrounding him causes sweat to bead on his forehead. In five seconds, he will die.

   “Five…” Does Evin Mauve want Merino to run towards the cornucopia or away? What about Alma? What should they do?

   “Four…” Is a quick death more satisfying, or would a more drawn out one give Evin Mauve the sense of relief he’s been desperately waiting for since he returned to Eight a year ago?

   “Three…” Him and Woof share a glance. Woof must see in Evin Mauve’s eyes the uncertainty, the worry and fear for what is about to play out in front of them. But Evin Mauve also hopes Woof sees his resolve, that Merino Weaver has to die in that sparkling arena. Let it be at either the cornucopia or at some jagged cliff, he doesn’t care. He hopes Woof knows that not one sponsor gift will be addressed or bought for the mayor’s son who’s caused him all the pain imaginable in this horrid world. 

   “Two…” Evin Mauve braces himself as the camera pans out to show the whole circle of tributes around the golden horn. 

   “One!” Lepidus cheers. The whole room erupts as they lean closer towards the large screen, watching as the tributes sprint off their platforms. “Happy Hunger Games!!”

   Evin Mauve’s eyes have trouble following the camera. From his tablet that rests in his lap, he feels small vibrations, from what he isn’t sure. What he is sure of, though, is that the kids this year seem to be killing each other at an alarmingly fast rate. The pair from Twelve are gone before they reach the cornucopia. The two from Seven escape with bleeding wounds. District Three is out with a broken neck and a removed heart. A twist of District Four’s trident kills off the boy from Nine. Faster and faster the tributes seem to die off. The camera has trouble focusing on their blood-splattered faces. Evin Mauve isn’t sure he’s breathing. Because all he can see is the blood on his clothes as he struggled to find Polly just a year ago.

   But the camera finds one face, so wide eyed Evin Mauve would normally laugh, as Merino clubs the boy from Ten in the head. He’s already killed someone. Merino runs off to an incline that appears to lead to the upper cliffs of the arena. Alma’s nowhere to be seen, but he can’t spot her corpse on the rocky ground. Has the impossible happened? Have both tributes from District Eight made it out of the bloodbath? 

   Evin Mauve is sure the death ceases for a moment, even daring to take a short, shallow breath, when it becomes clear the arena is as dangerous as the tributes who inhabit it. District Nine is taken out once the girl falls into a ravine not too far off from the cornucopia. It’s deep, at least from what Evin Mauve can tell from the screens. She’s followed closely by the pair from District One, as they fail to stop their chase in time. Levant’s face twists in pain. With each death, the crowd grows rowdier, hooting and hollering as the tribute’s blood splatters the already red rocks beneath their bodies. Evin Mauve is sick. From anxiety, numbness, and the behavior of the crowd. He can’t do this. He needs a drink, and quickly, otherwise he will lose what little he’s gotten to eat. He wants it to stop. But the Hunger Games persist, and finally a lull in the death allows for the cannons to fire. 

  One by one, the loud booms echo around the large, cavernous hall, getting awarded with applause as the faces of the dead tributes flash on the screens. Thirteen children dead in less than twenty minutes. Eleven are left. Both from District Eight are still impossibly alive. 

   The camera cuts to the remaining tributes then. Merino is shown last, his face covered in the blood from the District Ten boy, whose body lays rotting on the hot red stone of the arena. He looks like a monster, just like the one Evin Mauve always knew he was. But now, without any tears falling down his face and a blank expression, Merino looks terrifying. And everyone, not just Evin Mauve, can see it. Inside, Evin Mauve feels a little glimmer of hope break through his terror. It’s more than he could hope for, honestly, that Merino would already be making such a poor showing. He worried so hard that Merino would present himself well enough for the people here in the Capitol to fall for his charm, yet here he is with only one or two sponsor gifts. Merino is making this incredibly easy on Evin Mauve. But the Hunger Games are never easy, so Evin Mauve still seeks out an Avox to get a drink. He doesn’t specify what kind, just that the strongest would be the most desirable.

   Still nauseous, he makes his way back to the couch. The audience has quieted due to the lull in bloodshed, and now Lepidus has taken over the role of entertainer. He rattles on about candies, occasionally interjecting with the numbers to call for sponsor gifts and setting bets on the tributes. It all begins to blur together after the Avox brings Evin Mauve his drink, a large glass of booze colored like a sunrise. He spends a long while looking at the undulating liquid as it swirls like the clouds, taking his attention enough that he misses the death of the girl tribute from District Ten, who when he looks up at the screen after the buzzer sounds, is missing her head. Suddenly the alcohol was a bad idea. Woof told him to not drink. Why did he insist on drinking? But he’s only one glass deep, so why is he so woozy? 

   “Another tribute down! Look at that, we’ve already made it to the final ten in just a few short minutes! Let's keep looking at the arena, else we might miss something important!” Lepidus trills. His voice hurts Evin Mauve’s ears. Everything hurts his ears. Is the screen that unfocused? The Capitol really needs to fix their cameras. It isn’t just the screen, his hands look blurry too. He’s dizzy now. Where’s Woof? He thinks. He was right next to me. I need to find Woof. Then he makes the mistake of standing up. The world spins for one second as his eyes lock onto a figure, and then darkness envelops him like a hug.

   “..... Mauve?”

Notes:

Hi!! Please feel free to comment your opinons! This is my first fic and I lowkey am very scared no one will like it. (also sorry for any spelling and grammar mistakes, it isn't my strong suite.) Thank you for reading!!!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Lost Birds of Panem