The Canary From the Coal Mine

by BrokenEpiphany

Summary:

We all know the story of the Hunger Games, don't we? The brave volunteer? The star crossed lovers from District 12?
But what if Effie had moved her hand slightly to the left in the reaping? What would be different?

Experience the Hunger Games through the eyes of 16 year old Kestrel Eyrie as she is forced through the 74th and 75th Games.
She already has nothing to lose, so what happens when her unfortunate circumstances give her something to lose?

Chapter 1: The Reaping

POV: KESTREL

“Kestrel Eyrie? Where are you, dear? Come on up.”

I feel eyes on me from all directions. The people I knew, the ones I thought were my friends, or at least my allies, begin moving to form me a direct path to the stage. The shuffling of feet is deafening, and I feel exposed as they move away from me like I am diseased. I find myself staring back, as if the entirety of my District must be mistaken. As if they have all forgotten my name or deemed me as someone completely different. But they haven’t. And it’s me.

It takes me a few moments to make my body move, but eventually, I stumble my way out of the crowd, my entire body protesting with every single step, and the Peacekeepers are behind me in less than a second. They are so close that if I stepped back even an inch, I worry I would trip over them. I hear one of them adjust his grip on his gun as I falter in my step and it’s just enough to force my body to keep moving. I doubt they’d actually shoot me, but I am definitely not about to test that theory.

One of them places his gloved hand on the small of my back, and the contact sends a shiver up my spine. It feels almost painful, like he has singlehandedly managed to set my nervous system on fire. Now I have no choice but to keep moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how much it feels like I’m going against all my instincts.

I can feel everything. Every stone that crunches under my worn-in shoes. Every movement of my arms on the scratchy dress I borrowed from the kind lady next door. It’s a dark, forest green with a bow that ties around my back that now seems restricting despite the fact that the dress is far too big for me. I was always supposed to wear my older sister’s hand me downs for future reapings but… well…
I shouldn’t be focusing on the semantics of dresses right now, I know that, but it seems to be the only way I can keep myself going. Thinking about all the irrelevant details that once felt like the end of the world to me. The ones that now could not matter less.

I can feel every eye on me from the 8 thousand other lucky bastards that didn’t get pulled. Yet, at the same time, I feel nothing. It sounds cliché, I know it does. You hear it every single year with every single tribute, and I never understood it. How can you have no thoughts at a time like this? But my mind is completely blank, and it hasn’t even occurred to me yet that maybe I should be panicking. My heart is in my throat, but I feel like I don’t completely understand why. I’m almost positive that I’ll wake up in a moment, clutching the covers and crying out from yet another nightmare. But I don’t, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

I hear all the whispers as I walk past everyone and up onto the stage, the Peacekeepers close on my tail the entire way. I know what they’re all thinking. They’re all thinking ‘That poor girl’ and ‘Thank god I’m safe for another year.’

“My, aren’t you a pretty one?”

It takes me a moment to realise the presenter, Effie Trinket, as I recall her name to be, is talking to me, and it takes me by surprise. She is smiling down at me, and I give her as modest a smile as I can manage in return. She reaches out and places a finger underneath my chin, tilting my head up towards her to get a better look at my face. In any other situation, I would have batted her hand away, screamed at her not to touch me. But now, I let her, and hold her eye contact as she studies me for a moment. I wouldn't say I'm anything special. I have the same, dark hair as most others from my District. The only thing that really makes me stand out are my eyes. They're a bright green, a stark difference to the usual, dusty grey often seen in the Seam.

Remember the cameras. Always remember the cameras. I glance around and see them all. One, two, three, four, five cameras all around the square, all focused on me. And the ones I can’t see? Lord only knows where they are and what they’re capturing.

I know how this goes. I’ve seen it enough times to understand that the ones who cry are usually the first to go. The ones that make a scene are deemed weak and vulnerable. They are made to believe they have no chance, and the other tributes pick them off before they even have a chance to prove otherwise.

It sickens me to realise that it hasn’t even been a full minute since I was reaped and I’m already strategizing. Already playing straight into the hands of the Capitol.

I wonder if any of the other tributes in any of the other Districts have made a scene, and if I have been made to look stronger in comparison. It’s a morbid thought, but one that brings me some comfort. I wonder what the Capitol are saying about me right now. What comments are they making about the runt girl from District 12? Do they remember my name? Is it at all familiar to them?

My sister Nicole cried. And screamed and fought. When her name was called just a few years ago, I was sure she would scream her throat raw before the male name had even been called. From what I remember, they had to sedate her. Not fully, not to sleep, just enough to calm her down enough for the ceremony to continue. She had been the tribute at the centre of everyone’s mind after that display, and not for the better.

I remember I stepped forward then, moments away from offering myself up, for volunteering in her place, but my parents led me away before I had the chance. I was 12 then, it was my first reaping, and I didn’t understand fully what it all meant, but I knew enough.

It’s funny though, isn’t it? 4 years ago, I was willing to lay my life down. Now, I’m stood here trying to think of any way to keep it.

I don’t really tune into much, the noise in my brain suddenly a swarm as I hold my head high and take deep breaths to stop the trembling. Then suddenly I’m shaking hands with someone. A boy named Peeta. I’ve met him before, briefly, and he was nice enough. There are worse people I could think to be stuck with. Peeta has been in my class at school since we were 5, but we’re from different parts of the district. I’m from the Seam and he’s from the Town, so we never interacted much. A group project here or there maybe but no more than that. Still, most people I know don’t have a bad word to say against him and neither do I.

He stands tall, as I do, though the nerves are clear on his face. His hands are bunched into fists at his side and he is biting firmly on the inside of his cheek, but he seems to be holding his own. I’m glad he knows how to play this game too, or we both might be in for some serious trouble.

The presenter, Effie, continues to talk for a moment, some words here and there about bravery and sacrifice, when a man stumbles forward, clutching onto her sleeve like his life depends on it. I turn, stunned, wondering if he’s meant to be here. Peeta mirrors my expression, and we both step to the side, hoping to get out of his path.
He’s clearly drunk. Very drunk. But Effie doesn’t seem all that shocked and gently shows him back to his seat. She mumbles something to him that I can’t quite make out from where I’m stood, but I find myself trying to figure out the sort of relationship these two have. He gives her a sloppy kiss on the cheek which she quickly wipes away, before quickly turning and dismissing the crowd. He laughs at her, and he laughs at us, and for some reason I can’t take my eyes off him. Effie seems almost used to him, and she keeps a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated, and to my surprise, he doesn’t protest anymore. So that’s it?

The two of us are lead somewhere in the Justice Building before I can even digest what just happened. I’m still waiting to wake up. But still, I don’t. My ears are ringing, and my hands are shaking, though I clench them into tight fists to try and curb it. I am stood by the door as it slams shut behind us, only separating us further from the rest of the District. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite so isolated before, and that thought is enough to cause a painful tug at my chest.

“Are you alright?”

Peeta’s voice brings me back to reality and I stare at him for a moment. What kind of a stupid question is that? But his face is kind, and he means so well that I can’t bring myself to ask him that. He is smiling gently, a sort of genuine concern in his eyes that makes my body run cold. It’s a look I haven’t seen in a while that really brings home the severity of our situation. He continues to watch me, waiting for any sort of answer, and I have to think carefully to get my words in order. Am I alright?

“What do you think? We’ve just been handed a death sentence, Peeta, are you alright?”

He seems a little shocked at my tone but at the same time, he doesn’t seem at all upset. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and I can tell he’s trying to stop the shaking, just as I was. His gaze drops and he shifts a little, biting his lip. I can see now that they are raw and red, and he’s clearly a lot more anxious than he’s letting on. He’s holding himself together much better than I am.

“No, I’m not. None of this is alright, but we have to think rationally about this. Panicking won’t get us anywhere and it sure as hell won’t help us win.”

He has a good head on his shoulders, I’ll give him that. He must be in the same boat as me, strategizing, trying to figure this out ahead of time. Trying to make himself look stronger, to appeal to the Capitol. But there are no cameras here now, and I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped the act.

I have nothing of use to say to him, and though it feels wrong, I turn my back and for the first time, survey the room. It is by far the nicest room I have ever been in, with velvet couches and large wooden desks and bookshelves. There isn’t a lot else. No places to store things or hide things. Nothing to indicate that any real thought has gone into this room, and there was never meant to bring any sense of comfort to the tributes here.

A large portrait painting is hung up on the far wall, framed in a grand golden frame. I recognise the man immediately and can’t help the anger that begins to build at the sight of President Snow. The portrait is almost obnoxiously placed, in a position where it feels like his eyes can see every inch of this room. Where I couldn’t hide from his gaze even if I really wanted to. I know why it’s here. It’s a reminder. A solidification of who is really in control of this situation, and as much as I wish to believe it's me, it will never be me.

It's a tool to keep tributes from acting out. And it’s working.

Peeta doesn’t seem up to entertaining, and I am briefly aware of the sound of his retreating footsteps on the hard wooden floors. Then I am alone, and I don’t blame him for needing his space either.
I find myself pacing the room. What else am I meant to do? I know that this is the time that families are invited to visit the tributes to say their goodbyes. I’ve been here before, though not in this exact room. They must have redecorated since I was here. I remember it being a lot plainer. A lot dirtier and a whole lot more miserable.

I’m not expecting anyone, so this feels like a case of finding things to pass the time. It won’t be long, but the seconds drag and I’m sure I’m going to wear a dent into the floor if I continue, so I try to busy myself with studying the room a little.

The desk in the corner has a rough, scratched surface, with the imprint of years of desperate letters scribbled into it. I can tell that at one point in time, it was likely very expensive, based on the delicate twisting of the legs and the torn-up surface of the leftover varnish. There is a stack of paper and a pen, in case I have anything to say.

I don’t.

The pen is chained to the desk firmly, but based on the wear on the clasp, I have reason to believe people have attempted to remove it many times. I don’t know how much damage to a Peacekeeper or otherwise you could do with a ballpoint pen, but I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. I find myself giving it a small tug, just to test its strength. I’m relatively strong, but not ripping apart a chain strong, so I put it back in the holder.

It takes me a moment to realise there are words scratched into the surface, either with the pen or something else sharp. I trace my fingers across the letters, and this is the first time I am truly forced to think of previous tributes. Every single one for the last 73 years has been where I am right now. Only one has returned. That thought is not exactly a comforting one.

“May the odds be ever in your favour.”
“Good luck."
“Survive Survive Survive Survive.”

The words carved into the desk make me feel nauseous and I pull my hand away, cradling it to my chest, as if the contact alone may be toxic.

“Kestrel?”

The voice makes me jump. I didn’t hear the door open, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I don’t need to look to know exactly who it is. I would recognise that voice a mile away.
Katniss.

“You don’t have to be here.” I mumble, keeping my back turned to her. Could I face to look into her eyes right now?

“Kestrel you can hunt. I know you can, I taught you.” She is speaking with urgency, and I know she has limited time with me. I know how this goes. They don’t care about letting the families say goodbye, they’re just itching to get this show on the road.

“Katniss- “

“No, Kestrel don’t give me any sort of bullshit. You can hunt, you can come home.”

I’ve never heard such desperation in her voice, and I find myself turning to look at her. I immediately wish I hadn’t. Her expression reflects her voice and the tear tracks staining her otherwise pale cheeks suggests she may have been crying. I know that my own expression has softened, based on the small flash of relief, and possibly guilt that crosses her features.
Despite everything, I cannot shake the thought that she is beautiful. She is still in her reaping clothes, a beautiful blue dress clearly borrowed from her mother. It’s a type of dress you rarely see in the Seam. Exquisite and made from a type of material I know I could never save up the money to afford. The soft blue is a stunning contrast against her dark hair and the soft shades of honey in her eyes catch the light of the room in a way that almost distracts from her state. It was always the one perk of reaping day. Katniss always cleans herself up nicely for the occasion. I used to tease her about it. Today I tear my gaze away and look to the floor.

“Animals, Katniss. I hunt animals.”

“It can’t be that different. Bigger target, even. Look, you have a shot, you’re not going in completely blind or clueless.”

I take a deep breath and I can feel this beginning to escalate, though there is a harsh comfort in the fact that if this did turn into a fight, it could very well be our last. It sure as hell wouldn’t be our first. My eyes lift to meet hers again.

The room falls into a silence as we stare at each other. I can tell she wants to say something. She always had a tell. She fidgets when she’s anxious. She plays with her fingers and her hair when she’s restless.

“Why are you here?”

My tone is much harsher than I mean it to be, and Katniss flinches a little bit. Guilt strikes across my chest and I’m about to apologise when she speaks, her tone a lot flatter than it was only moments ago.

“Prim wanted me to see you. She said I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye.”

“When do you ever listen to Prim?”

“When she’s right, Kestrel.” Katniss snaps, and I feel the room turn cold. She raises an uncertain hand to tug at the lace around her neck. She’s agitated. She’s bothered and she’s emotional. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her like this. It is a harsh type of reassurance. To know that in some, desperate way, she still cares about me. Is it a selfish thought to take comfort from that?
It takes me by surprise, and I falter, unsure of how to respond.

“Thank you.”

It’s all I’ve got. What else can I say? Thank you for not leaving me to die? Thank you for being the best thing to ever happen to me? For risking your life to be with me? For giving me a reason to live? Or worse. Thank you for giving me a reason to die fighting?

Katniss and I used to be close. A lot closer than we are now. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Our parents were close, I think, so we saw a lot of each other growing up. And then Katniss’s father passed in a mining accident and my parents were there to help. My sister Nicole and I were there for Katniss and Prim. It was a hard time for everyone I think, but Katniss took most of it on her shoulders so I did what I could to support her.

We got closer and things moved further and further until we hit a wall, and society disapproved. The District shunned us and denounced us and damn near got the both of us killed. Neither of us coped well. It was messy and we became more and more distant until we wouldn’t even make eye contact when passing in the square.

“Where is Prim?” I blurted out, just to try and clear the air. I hadn’t expected her to come and see me. I hadn’t expected Katniss either, but I need to know she’s alright. It was Prim’s first reaping and I’ve always been close with her, even after everything with Katniss. She might as well be my own sister.

“She’s with Gale.”

So, we’re onto short sentences now. Right. It feels like Katniss is practically counting down the seconds until the Peacekeepers come to retrieve her. I don’t blame her one bit. This feels stoic and forced but I don’t remember it being all that different when I had to come and say goodbye to Nicole. People’s lives are changed in a matter of seconds, families forced to accept deaths before they’ve happened, and they expect us to all know what to say in a time frame.
I suppose that’s why they leave paper and a pen. In case the 3 minutes just isn’t enough to say everything, though I feel that we’ve about covered everything there is to say.
I have no family. Katniss and Prim were the closest I’ve had in a while, so I expected this would be short and sweet. And it’s been short, sure. But sweet? The bitter taste being left in my mouth says otherwise.

And then, finally, the Peacekeeper enters the room and forces Katniss to leave. She doesn’t look at me as she’s pulled away and those god forsaken words nearly slip from my lips, and as the door shuts, I wish they had. I stare at the closed door, willing it to open again. Willing her to come back just for one minute more. But the room is silent, and everything is so still that it makes me feel dizzy.
I turn back to the desk and grab a piece of paper, the sheet shaking in time with the tremble in my hands. I scrawl 3 words before I drop the pen and wait to be retrieved.

"I love you."

Chapter 2: The realisation

It isn’t long before a Peacekeeper returns to my room and leads me down a maze of corridors, his hand firmly on my back. That seems to be a pattern, a means of making sure I don’t try and escape. I’m not sure where I’d even go, though. If I managed to escape this one Peacekeeper, the district is still crawling with them, and they all know my face now. It’s definitely not worth the risk. I didn’t think they’d shoot me before, but an escape attempt might be means to push that boundary.

I must ask where we’re going a thousand times but receive no answers. Apparently small talk is not included in this whole thing, though it definitely would have helped to calm my nerves. I’ve never been on this side of it. After the goodbyes, I don’t know what comes next.

The hallways are dark, barely lit by a scattering of lamps that flicker daunting shadows onto the wall, and I watch the shapes that form in the firelight. Anything to distract myself, right? The floor below our feet eventually fades from hardwood into rough stone. Occasionally, a sharp one finds its way sticking up and into my feet, the souls of my shoes offering little protection. I get no time to recover from each spike though, as I am forcefully pushed through the labyrinth.

We end up outside, at some point, but I see no crowds and assume they have led me somewhere more private, so they can ship me off without interruption. It feels like we are walking for an eternity before I am able to make out where we are heading.

Eventually, we make it to an area that I quickly work out to be the train station and see that I am the last one there, with Effie, Peeta, and the drunk man from the reaping waiting on the platform. Why is he here?

As I glance around, I see a part of the district I have never seen before. I note the many supply trains, with “CAPITOL- COAL” plastered across the side. They are large, black containers and our only means of transporting our goods to and from the Capitol. I’ve seen those types of trains many times. They come further into the district often, so we can load up the coal.

I used to help when I had the free time. It was hard labour, and dirty work, but it brought in a little bit of extra money that hunting didn’t. I find myself thinking I used to take that for granted now.
However, in the middle of the station is a large, silver train that almost reminds me of a bullet. It is sleek and clearly very newly made. I’ve never seen a train like that before and I’m honestly a little intimidated.

“Ah! There she is! Right on time, come on come on we have to get going!” Effie sings, clapping her hands together.

Her upbeat tone makes me cringe as it rattles through my skull. I almost find myself resentful of the fact she is so happy, but I suppose this isn’t a big deal for her. Another round of tributes to escort. Another set of lambs to send to the slaughter.

I walk past her and enter the train without making eye contact with any of them, refusing to give them that sort of satisfaction, and immediately find myself in awe. I’ve never ridden a train since they are only used for transport between Districts and the Capitol, but I find it hard to believe they’re all like this.

The room I enter on is huge, much larger than it looks from the outside. There are large glass ornaments hanging from the ceiling, some emitting light, some not. The furniture looks grand and expensive, and I find myself nervous to touch anything in case I dirty it or break it. I reckon it would take my whole life’s work to replace even the smallest item here.

There is a large table in the centre of the room made out of a type of wood that has been made shiny with some type of varnish. Unlike the desk in the Justice Building, the surface is clean and clearly very well looked after. Covering it is a large, deep blue cloth that sits down the centre with a whole array of sweet looking treats stacked on glass dishes. I can see pastries of some types, little jelly like sweets and many things I definitely don’t recognise. This looks like enough food to feed half of District 12 for a month. If not longer.

I feel a rough, calloused hand on my shoulder and the smell of cheap whisky fills my nostrils. I tense as the unfamiliar man pushes me a little further into the room. I hadn’t even realised that I had paused in the doorway.

“Drink it all in, Sweetheart, this is all for you.” He slurs as he lets go and throws himself down on one of the expensive looking couches. I have never seen two things that look like such polar opposites. The velvet is not all that complimentary to his untucked shirt and un-ironed blazer, but I find myself surprised and somewhat grateful that there was any effort made at all.

Everyone else enters and the door to the train door shuts behind us with a hiss. My eyes stay locked on the strange man. Is he meant to be here? I look to Effie for reassurance, but her exasperated expression tells me that, unfortunately, he is.

“This lovely gentleman right here is Haymitch. He’s your Mentor.” She explains, and the name immediately rings a bell.

Haymitch? As in Haymitch Abernathy? District 12’s only Victor? I wasn’t even alive when he won his games, but his reputation definitely precedes him. And the reality is definitely a little disappointing.

Effie laughs at my expression, and she nods with an amused hum, as if she can’t believe it either, and I can tell she has to do the same explanation year in year out.

Peeta has already left the room, likely to go and explore, and I wish I had done so when I had the chance. Now I am stuck with Effie and Haymitch and a whole load of treats that it feels almost rude to touch. It is a stressful situation, and I feel my heart beating faster.

Haymitch seems to be watching me as carefully as I am him, and in his drunken gaze I can’t tell what exactly it is about me that is fascinating him so much.

“Eyrie, was it?” He speaks and I nod hesitantly. His eyes narrow and he takes a swig of his drink, before either deciding to drop it or forgetting altogether what his point was.

I can’t take it. The room seems to be getting gradually warmer, and I feel uneasy, tugging slightly on my dress to try and give myself some relief from the heat and the nerves.

“I’m gonna. I’m going to find my room, I think. Freshen up, you know?” I stumble over my words nearly as much as I do my own feet as I move to the connecting door. I find myself willing it to open much faster than it does, but as soon as it does, I’m moving through the train, trying to put as much distance between myself and those two as I can. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if it’s them or if it’s me, but I cannot be in there right now.

As I make it through the train carriages, it feels like my chest is becoming tighter and tighter. Every breath stings a little bit more. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe and oh god it hurts. My shoulder collides with a wall, and I don’t have the strength to pull myself up. My arms wrap around myself, trying to seek even an ounce of comfort. I grit my teeth, the pain in my lungs making my vision blurry. I can’t see and I can’t think, and I can’t breathe.

I don’t quite realise what is happening until I feel another pair of hands on my shoulders. I shake my head, thinking it might be Haymitch or Effie. I feel sick, my head is spinning and maybe it would all just stop if I could breathe- God why can’t I breathe? I unwrap my hands and try and push against the other person, but my attempts are weak and ultimately futile.

“Hey. You’re okay... You’re alright.” The voice whispers and I know that voice. I’m sure I do but I can’t bring myself to look. The room is spinning, and I fear if I open my eyes I might vomit or pass out or both.

“Kestrel, listen to me… you’re okay.”

The other person grips my wrists gently to stop me from further trying to rid of them, and I find myself leaning into the contact a little.

“Peeta- “My voice is choked, and it feels like it takes every last bit of air to get the word out. It feels like there is a constrictor around my lungs, squeezing a little bit more with every single exhale. My mouth and throat are so dry that it almost hurts to get the words out.

“Yeah, yeah I’m here.”

I feel him lowering me to the ground and I hadn’t even registered the fact that my legs had given way, or the fact they were weak to begin with. I am vaguely aware of the fact that my body is trembling, though I can’t feel it in my fingers or the tips of my toes, which is something I’m sure I should be concerned about. I don’t have the capacity to be concerned. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I’m sure if I don’t stop, I’ll end up choking on them. But I can’t stop, and I am choking.

The contact on my wrists disappear, but even as I open my eyes, I can’t see through the dizziness and tears, so I close them again and huddle myself into as small a ball as I can manage. I end up sitting against the wall with my knees to my chest, and my head on my knees. My arms are holding me in, so close that it feels that if I let go, I may fall apart.

I hear the hissing of a door and then some voices, but they’re all muffled. I can’t work out what they’re saying or even who is talking but I can tell I’m not alone anymore. I can hear my name, or at least I think I can hear my name. I feel like I’m underwater, like I’m drowning and still I can’t find that breath that I so desperately need.

They are calling out to me, but I can’t find the strength to respond.

They crowd around me, and I feel hands on me from all directions, pulling and tugging and leading me somewhere. One hand on the small of my back makes me feel safe though, and I am sure it is Peeta’s.

That familiar smell of whisky fills my nose again and it is the only indication I have that Haymitch is here. When did he get here? Did Peeta go and get him?

I still haven’t opened my eyes, and I don’t know if I even could. My heart is pounding in my ears and the nausea is crippling. My entire body is burning but numb all at the same time.
They’re laying me down somewhere, I think, and I feel my body sink into something soft. It wraps around me, and I can’t tell if it makes me feel better or worse. I find myself coughing and choking and I can’t tell if its from the crying or the lack of oxygen.

Someone brushes the hair from my face, and I feel something cold being pressed against my forehead. It is now that I open my eyes. My vision is blurred and foggy, but as I scan the room, I can now only see one person. It takes me a second to pinpoint exactly who I am looking at. It’s Haymitch, crouched beside me, his hand holding that damp cloth up. His expression is worried, and I still don’t quite understand what just happened. Or what is still happening.

“You’re okay, Sweetheart, just gotta take some deep breaths for me, hm?”

This is not the man I saw only ten or so minutes ago, I am sure of it. Despite the smell, he bears no similarities whatsoever. I mean from what I can see with my hazy vision, his appearance is fine, but his demeanour is completely different. Before, he was acting drunk and disorderly. He was being arrogant and cocky. Now, his expression shows nothing but worry, and his touch is so careful and precise.
It's like he’s done this before.

My eyes flicker across his face, and I still can’t make him out when his expression softens. He brushes some hair from my face again and cups my cheek in his hand. His hand is surprisingly cold, which is oddly refreshing.

I realise now that I still haven’t been breathing when he shifts his position and pulls me up to sitting with his hand behind my back. He runs his thumb across my cheek, his eyes showing a level of concern I didn’t think would be possible from him.

“Come on, kid… In and out.” His voice is soft, and he takes my trembling hand and places it on his own chest. His heartbeat drums against my fingertips and his breathing causes a movement that allows for a calming rhythm. I try my best to mirror it, but every attempt causes a pinch in my lungs that causes me to wince.
He is patient though, and he doesn’t move as I close my eyes and focus.

It takes about 10 minutes for me to calm, and I know his knees must be killing him, but when I reopen my eyes, he is smiling softly at me, his eyes seeming to watch my face for any indication of uncertainty.

“There you go, Princess, welcome back.”

He releases my hand and I hold it tightly to my own chest, still shaken up. My body has been flooded with adrenaline and with it gone, I am exhausted. I am exhausted and confused and admittedly a little bit scared.

“What the hell was that…” I croak, my voice broken and shaky as I struggle to get the words out.

“A panic attack. Extremely normal in your situation, I promise. One or both of you get them every single year, you’re not the first and you sure as hell won’t be the last.”

Haymitch stands up with a slight groan from the effort and the ache in his legs and sits beside me on what I now note is a bed. Likely my bed. He rests a hand on my knee, running his thumb in a soothing circular motion.

“They’re scary though.” He says his eyes on mine. “And I think you handled it well.”

It’s a strange act of reassurance, but one that is completely welcome. I still haven’t exactly pieced together the timeline of what happened and who saw what. Where is Peeta now? Who else saw?
“Effie?” I question.

Haymitch lets out a bark of a laugh and pats my knee.

“She isn’t the best at these situations. Thought it was best left to me and Peeta. She’s not quite in touch with these..." He pauses, making a circular gesture with his hand, “Human emotions.”

I laugh, and while it causes an uncomfortable tug at my tired lungs, I find myself warming up a little bit to Haymitch. Not completely. But more than I did earlier.

“I’m going to go tell Effie and Peeta you’re okay. You should jump in a shower and prepare for supper, hm?” Haymitch says as he stands up, placing a hand on the top of my head. “The showers here are nice too, trust me.”

And with that, he takes his leave, and I’m left reeling with the events of the last half hour.

Chapter 3: The Adjustment

Haymitch was right though. As I step into the ensuite bathroom, I am instantly overwhelmed. I decide to follow his advice, thinking a cold shower might help me to gather my bearings and to calm a little. I know my nervous system is shot to bits and regulating it before supper doesn’t seem like a bad idea.

I undress almost hesitantly and step into the large glass closet which apparently is the shower. The glass door shuts automatically behind me, and for a moment, I feel almost trapped. I give it a gentle push and am relieved to find that it does in fact open with ease. The wall is covered with different buttons, and I can make them out roughly to be in control of things such as temperature, pressure and… scents? Scents of what?

I opt for a warm shower, instead of the cold one I had previously decided on. Hot water is a luxury in 12 so it feels almost wrong to have a truly hot shower, but I might as well make the use of some of it. It should still do a similar job of relaxing me enough to calm down.

The pressure feels extreme even on the lowest setting, feeling harsh and abrasive, so I turn it all the way down and step slightly to the side.

Now for scent. I see a lot of fruity options. Banana, watermelon, apple. Some more plant-based ones. Rose, vanilla, mint. And a lot of options I don’t quite recognise, so I decide to play it safe and choose apple. Can’t go wrong there, right?

I like apples a lot, actually. They’re one of the few fruits I’ve ever actually eaten. Being the furthest out, 12 doesn’t get a lot of fresh produce delivered in, but apples grow on the trees just outside of the fence. Katniss, Gale, and I used to collect them in the Spring and Summer to sell to the markets, but we usually kept some for ourselves too.

I found that even after I stopped hunting with Katniss and Gale, there were always a few apples left on the trees for me to pick. They quickly became one of my favourite foods, and I eagerly await the seasons they grow.

A small reason to keep going, I suppose.

Small dispensers emerge from the walls and when I hold my hand out, they squirt a small dollop of fruity liquid onto my palm. I use the first one to clean my body, and the second and third ones to clean my hair, as instructed on the dispensers.

I use a rough cloth to scrub the dirt away and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so clean. I’m sure I can practically feel my skin coming off, but it’s a feeling I can’t help but enjoy as I watch the dirt and grime wash away down the drain.

I more or less have to force myself from the shower. The steam flooding the room makes me feel like I can breathe again, and the water on my skin eventually becomes less intrusive and more calming as I adjust to it, but I know I’m on a time limit and have to leave eventually.

When I do finally step out of the shower, there is another small room to the side that indicates it is for drying, so I step in and hot air encases my body immediately, and I find I am dry in a matter of seconds. I don’t quite understand this technology as it’s completely foreign to me, and I end up simply marvelling it for a moment.

Eventually, I snap myself out of it and wrap a towel around myself for modesty. It is soft and fluffy and nothing like anything I ever owned back home. Do people really live like this here?

I pad my way to the wardrobe, and it is practically the same size as the bedroom, which is very possibly the size of my house back home. Haymitch said I was getting ready for supper, didn’t he? So, I should probably wear something nice.

But what is classed as nice?

I’m seeing a lot of options here. A lot of dresses in practically any colour or style I could possibly imagine. A whole array of trousers and shorts and shirts, both smart and comfortable. I am overwhelmed and I can feel my heartrate rising.

“Need some help, dear?”

I shoot around, tugging my towel around myself tighter as Effie seems to just appear behind me. She seems completely unbothered by my lack of clothing and walks further into the wardrobe. I find myself nodding sheepishly. It seems to be a recurring pattern today of not hearing people enter. I find myself noting that maybe I should work on that before the games.

She nods approvingly and starts rummaging immediately in some drawers, tossing some underwear my way.

“You girls are always so spoilt for choice; I know it can be a lot. And this is completely my department! So, hurry up, get that on so I can pick the perfect outfit!”

She turns her back to me and I know she means right here and right now. It feels uncomfortable, but I do as she wishes, and stand there in this new underwear. I feel beyond exposed.

Effie, however, turns around and lets out a hum, her eyes running over my body. My face flushes a deep red as she tilts her head. I feel like she is visualising me in outfits without even having to see me try them on. She definitely has more experience in this than I want to think about.

She studies me for a few minutes before clasping her hands together with an excited squeal. She gives a few little claps before heading to a specific section of the wardrobe and pulling out a yellow dress. Yellow is never normally my colour. My green eyes tend to clash with other bright colours, but I can’t deny the beauty of this dress.

The top is tight, with a low-cut chest and thin straps, but it cinches in at the waist and then flows into a series of ruffles of layers. The colour fades into a soft, near white shade. She holds it out to me, and I slip it over my head. It fits like a glove, and when I look in the mirror, tears spring to my eyes. I nearly don’t recognise myself.

Due to the dryer, my hair is sitting softly around my shoulders, the ends blown into an effortless curl. The colour of the dress contrasts with my dark hair and for possibly the first time in my life… I feel pretty.

Effie holds out some white flat shoes and I put them on.

They’re a little bit snug, and the backs are much much harder than I’m used to, though Effie assures me they do fit, and are meant to be tight so they don’t fall off. I have no choice but to believe her.

“Look at you. How do you feel?” Effie rests a hand on my shoulder as I look in the mirror.

“I look… wow…”

She laughs and gently pushes me to sit at a large desk with a lit-up mirror.

“Not yet just wait.”

She pulls out a bunch of items I don’t think I’ve ever seen before and begins poking and prodding me with different liquids and brushes. She puts dust on my eyes and paint on my lips and I don’t quite understand why until she turns me around and I am immediately breathless.

I actually have to double check that it is me I’m looking at by tilting my head and moving my hands, but the girl in the mirror mimics me perfectly and I have to conclude that that is me. It just doesn’t look or feel like me.

If I saw this girl anywhere else, I’d think she was breath-takingly stunning.

“Now, my dear, you look wow.”

And she’s right. I really do.

Effie seems to leave as suddenly as she arrived. I presume she has much more important things to do than sit and teach me how to dress myself. Before I know it, I’m again alone in my room, pacing in my dress. I don’t want to sit in case I crease anything or dirty anything, but I worry that pacing will damage the shoes, or at this rate, my feet.

Is it too early to head to the dining cart? I don’t want to be too early for sure, but I can’t stand my own company at this point, and I’m at my door before I can even convince myself otherwise. I’m still not used to the door technology, and it takes me a second to figure out how to work the sensors to open it, but when I do, the air in the hallway feels cold and refreshing against my exposed skin.

My shoes make a clicking noise on the floor that make me feel much older and much more sophisticated than I am, and I debate removing them altogether multiple times. I’m not sure the disapproval from Effie is at all worth it, so I keep them on.

As I make my way from carriage to carriage, the train feels much emptier than I recall it being earlier, though I wasn’t particularly paying attention then either. But as I walk, I see no signs of crew nor anyone I know.

Not until I reach the dining cart, at least.

When I hesitantly open that door, my eyes lock on a round table at the far end of the room. There sits Haymitch, with Effie to his left, and Peeta to her left. There are also a few members of what I assume are some types of staff transporting foods in and out of the room.

The smell almost overwhelms me, and I can’t quite place which exactly of the many food riddled tables is producing which aroma. It all smells new and honestly, I’m not seeing anything that looks particularly appetising.

I look over the many large, silver dishes all containing a different item. I see a lot of meats, fishes and birds, some still mostly whole, some in little sections. I see more variations of eggs and vegetables and potato types than I knew was even possible. A lot of the food is coated in seasonings and sauces I can’t place. I don’t like that I can’t see a viable option on any of the tables.

“Hey, Kestrel!” I hear Peeta’s voice, and my attention is drawn back in that direction. I offer him a small, humble smile as I walk over to them. I notice Haymitch’s eyes on me, and Effie’s smug face clearly proud of her work on my appearance.

I sit myself down at the chair just to Haymitch’s right, though I tell myself I’ll keep conversation with him to a minimum, in case earlier was a one off.

“Hey, Sweetheart, how you feeling?” He asks as I sit down, and the softness in his voice surprises me. Maybe it wasn’t a one off.

“I’m alright.” I reply with a small nod, and I can see his expression visibly relaxing. Was he really that concerned? He said it was a yearly occurrence, didn’t he?

He leans back a little in his chair, taking a long sip of whatever is in his glass, and I find myself frowning a little. Maybe he’s too sober. That’s why he’s being nice.

“My first and last, darling.” He states, raising his glass a little, and I drop my gaze, not realising he’d noticed my expression. “Well, first of the evening and last of the day.”

With that, he raises the glass to his lips, and finishes the remaining drink. It is somewhat comforting to know he won’t get any worse tonight, at least if he sticks to his word.

I say nothing and look down to where an empty plate is now being placed in front of me by some girl who doesn’t look much older than me. I thank her, and she nods, hurrying away. I look between the plates of Haymitch, Effie, and Peeta, and find that none of what they have is massively appealing to me. Even if it was, I think I’d be too scared to eat. I wouldn’t want to drop anything down this beautiful dress, which Effie quite clearly seems upset at that nobody has mentioned yet.

Haymitch seems to notice this too, and turns to me with a soft smile, tilting his head slightly as his eyes scan my face, hair, and clothes.

“You clean up well.”

I figure that’s the best level of compliment I’m going to get from him, and I almost hate the way it causes heat to raise to my cheeks. I’m not used to compliments at all, and it seems that that was enough to embarrass me.

“Well, Effie did the hard work.” I laugh, and I see her practically bloom at the praise and attention, and I’m just relieved to get it off of me for even a brief moment.

Luckily, that’s all it takes for Effie and Haymitch to start up a conversation, and I’m able to lean back in my chair and close my eyes for a brief moment, taking a small breath of air.
I’m definitely not used to being this consistently busy and it’s exhausting. Even back home, I’d hunt for a few hours a day, maybe, and then some of the meat I’d prepare myself, but it wasn’t anything like this. People back home aren’t so social, and I think that is the part exhausting me the most. I’m not used to the constant conversations and attention. All eyes are on me, and I find that it is tiring me out way more than I’d ever have expected.

The dragging of a chair brings my attention back and I open my eyes to see Peeta in the chair beside me, having come from sitting next to Effie.

“You should really eat something.” He says, and his words and tone are kind as he places his plate down. “The food here is good, trust me.”

I don’t. None of it smells or looks good at all. It all looks too perfect. Too put together and artificial. On his plate, I can see something which looks like fish, though none I’ve ever seen, and half a bread roll. He also seems to have picked up some sort of vegetable I don’t think I could name if I tried.

“I like to know what I’m eating.” I reply and he sighs, standing back up.

“Wait here.”

With that, he takes my plate from in front of me, and heads over to one of the tables by the door. He doesn’t seem to falter as he picks up some chunk of meat, and something else from a nearby serving bowl. I try to identify exactly what he’s putting on my plate, but from here I can’t.

It isn’t long before he’s coming back over, a cocky grin on his face.
Peeta places the plate down in front of me, and I glance over it, and then back at him. He doesn’t seem to have done anything groundbreaking here. It all looks as unappetising as the rest.

“Turkey,” He points to the white meat on the plate. “I know you’ve had turkey; you’ve sold it to my father before. We had it for my 14th birthday.”

I stare back at the plate. I can’t remember the last time I sold turkey, they’re extremely rare to come by. But he remembers?

“Cabbage.” He continues. “They used to serve us steamed cabbage in elementary, and you never liked it steamed, so they tried to boil it for you, and you liked that way more. This is boiled.”

I’m lost for words. He really paid that much attention?

“And a bread roll. It’s slightly different to our bread, it’s a softer texture, fluffier, but it’s really nice.”

And with that, he sits back down next to me. I stare at the plate, my jaw tense as I process this. The boy I’ve never really spoken to knows more about my food preferences than I do.
I mean I’ve never been a picky eater, in the Seam, food is food, and it keeps you alive, but he’s right that the steamed cabbage always left a weird taste on my tongue that the boiled cabbage didn’t.

The turkey appears to be coated in something, and I quickly scrape off, causing a small chuckle from Peeta. I can also feel Haymitch glancing over my shoulder from my left side.

“District 12 aren’t usually so food averse.” He hums, putting some of his own food in his mouth. His plate houses a whole selection of different dishes, but I suppose he’s used to it, and so can’t complain really.

“I’m not!” I protest and put some of the turkey in my mouth as if to prove it.

I don’t like it at all. It doesn’t taste like the turkey back home. It is bitter and saltier, and the flavours are all too much for such a delicate piece of meat. But at the same time, I realise just how hungry I am, and I finish my mouthful.

“See, not so bad, right?” Peeta comments, like he’s talking to a toddler, and I scowl at him.
“They’re lucky I’m starved.”

I put some of the cabbage in my mouth, and actually, that isn’t so bad. Again, it’s saltier than I might have liked, and doused in a type of butter, but it’s not bad.

I just don’t understand why they’re so desperate to add so much to things that don’t need it.
I do, however, finish my plate, and then lean back in my chair.

“Do you have a dessert you like?” Haymitch asks, and I turn my head towards him. Desserts? Surely, coming from 12 himself, he should know those are few and far between. I almost laugh at him, before humming and replying with the only answer that comes to my head. Maybe it’s an answer influenced by my shower thoughts, but an answer is an answer.

“Apples are nice.”

With that, he raises an arm and clicks his fingers above his head, pointing down at me. I follow his gaze and see the same girl from earlier heading my way. She places a steaming bowl and a small jug looking item in front of me. I can only stare at it.

It looks like… breadcrumbs covering some sort of… actually I can’t even make it out. I look to Haymitch warily, and he only nods at me.

I tip the jug slightly to see what’s in there, and am not expecting the thick, yellow liquid inside. It is almost the same colour as my dress with the consistency of mud.

Still, I’m almost certain that there must be apple in here somewhere, based on his response, so I put my spoon in, and first decide to try some without the weird sauce.

The second it touches my tongue; I know I like it. It is a sweet flavour, both tart and tangy and like nothing I’ve ever had before. It is hot, and I can taste the butter in the breadcrumbs, this time bringing a sugary taste. And, as promised, slices of baked apples. They are slightly soft and coated in a thick type of liquid, of almost jelly consistency.

What is this, and why have I never had it before?

“Apple crumble, pretty damn good, huh?”

I nod at Haymitch and go in for another mouthful eagerly. The heat in my mouth doesn’t even phase me. It is pretty damn good, and I think I should definitely make the most of this while I’m here. I do find myself wondering if they could make this back home, and just don’t know to. Apples, we have at certain time of year. Breadcrumbs I could definitely get hold of. Sugar? Unlikely. And I don’t even know what else is in here, so it’s a slim chance.

“Slow down, Sweetheart, you’ll make yourself sick.” Haymitch laughs, placing a hand on my shoulder, and as much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right. I’m not used to this type of food in this quantity, so neither is my body, and overeating is a sure way to make myself ill. I hadn’t even noticed I’d nearly eaten half of the fairly large bowl.

I slowly place my spoon down, wiping my mouth with a napkin as I finish my mouthful, and it suddenly hits me how full I am.

I have never in my life eaten that much in one sitting, and its an uncomfortable feeling, leaving me pushing the plate away as the lingering smell makes me feel a little uneasy.
I can barely focus on the surrounding conversations, my mind far too consumed by the discomfort of both the food and the rapidly decreasing of my social battery.

Is it rude to excuse myself? By the looks of it, nobody else has any intentions of heading off yet, all far too engrossed in this topic or that.

“Kestrel?”

Effie’s voice catches me off guard and I look up to find all three of them once again staring at me in concern. I can see this being a running theme.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said are you alright? You don’t look well at all.”

I shake my head. If nothing else can get me out of this room, maybe this can. I wrap some of my hair around my finger, looking back down to the table.

“I… I think, please, if I may, I’d like to go to bed.” The words sound unnatural coming from me, and I don’t know exactly what has caused me to become timid. Maybe I’m really not feeling all that well. Effie flashes me a sympathetic glance, and I can’t stand the pity being put on me.

“Of course, dear, if you need anything, just send an Avox our way, okay? They’ll know where to find us.”

That’s all I need to push myself away from the table, nodding slightly to Haymitch, and offering a small smile to Peeta, before making my way from the room, holding my breath as I walk past the laid-out food for the last time of the night.

I didn’t even look back as I left, sure they were already discussing me, and I wanted no part of that. They could say what they wanted when out of my earshot, I really couldn’t care less. There were no cameras here to document any weaknesses so what does it matter if my fellow tribute and supposed mentor think I’m weak? At least to them I can prove otherwise before I’m forced to fend for my survival.

I get to my room quickly, entering and locking the door behind me. I want no more socialising tonight. No more conversations with Effie or Peeta or Haymitch. No more entertaining people that I couldn’t care less about entertaining.

My room looks much different now that the sun has set. There is a faint purple light around the rim of the ceiling, illuminating the room just enough to see. It’s almost relaxing. A small light on the bedside table is projecting small, purple specks of what I think is meant to be the galaxy onto the ceiling and walls. The sight stops me in my tracks for a moment.

The window is shut, but I can see the faint outlines of trees rushing past. According to Effie, we should be reaching the Capitol around noon tomorrow, so we could be anywhere between District 5 and District 10 by now. Or maybe the train has gone a less direct route, and we’re somewhere in the wilderness.

There is a small, built in seat near the window, and I sit, but not before pushing the window up and open. The wind and fresh air immediately enters the room, and it feels like I can finally breathe in all the way for the first time since getting on this train.

I’m not used to being so confined all the time. The indoors has always made me feel a little claustrophobic, but this is on a whole different level.

As I feel the wind blowing through my hair, I rest my head on the wall just to my side. Despite everything, this moment is almost peaceful as I pull my knees to my chest and watch the world go by for just a moment.

The view from the window is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The vast expanse of open fields and forests stretching out before me, hidden away in the shadows of the night sky, is both breath-taking and heartbreaking. I know that this is a part of the world that very few have the privilege, or rather, the misfortune, of witnessing. The part of the world between the Districts. The clear sky above only added to the eerie tranquillity. It is beautiful, undeniably so, but part of me can’t help but feel that it is a world entirely out of my reach.

I just wish I could see the stars from here, but I think we’re still too close to the Districts and the pollution is blocking them out.

That’s okay.

I know I should get changed. I should get out of this dress, take my makeup off and tie my hair back. I should get a good night’s sleep and prepare for the onslaught of reaching the Capitol tomorrow, but that would mean giving this moment up.

This one, valuable moment of peace and tranquillity and a lack of unbearable anxiety. A moment where I can forget about the awful hand I have been given, and I can focus on the opportunities I have been granted.

The cool night air washes over my face, carrying with it a soft smell of grass and flowers. It’s a smell that reminds me of home. Not the home inside the fence, no. That is a smell of burning and smoke and desperation. No, it reminds me of the smell outside the fence. The smell of the trees and the fruit and the clean air that you can’t get anywhere else.

It reminds me of running through the forest with Katniss and Gale, climbing trees and laughing. Making fun of each other for missing a shot or falling from a branch or slipping into the stream and getting absolutely soaking wet. It reminds me of the last time I’m sure I was truly happy.

The sound of the train’s wheels on the tracks become a soothing background hum, mixing with the quiet stillness of the night. Despite the fact that I was, only mere moments ago craving isolation, I find now that I have never felt quite so alone. Though I’m not completely sure that that’s a bad thing.

I don’t know how long I sit there, just staring out at the sky and the passing world, but it is long enough that I begin to drift off, my head lulled against the wall. I never expected to fall into such an easy slumber. Not tonight, of all nights, but with the surroundings and the perfectly set mood, I can’t deny that I am calm.

I faintly hear the sound of the door hissing open as it half rouses me. In my hazy mind, I’m sure I remember locking that. The thought slips my mind as soon as it arrives, the tiredness tugging and pulling me back to a half aware sleep.

I feel a pair of hands pulling at me, then holding me so very carefully, and before I can be concerned, I am placed somewhere soft, and feel a heavy weight across my body. I feel the brush of a hand against my forehead, sweeping the hair out of my still closed eyes.
It lingers there for a moment, before I vaguely hear the sound of retreating footsteps. The door hisses again and closes and clicks locked.

And then I am asleep again.

Chapter 4: The Dispute

When I wake up, my mind is hazy, and it takes me a few moments to fully place where I am. The bed is softer, the sheets are heavier, and the air is cooler than I’m used to. It’s strange, waking up in a place you don’t immediately recognise. Definitely a sensation that could take some getting used to. Especially after living in the same place my whole life.

I sit up, and for some reason, my head is pounding, the soft purple lights of my room almost blinding. I groan as I force my legs round, my bare feet touching the hard wooden floors.
The window is open, and the gentle breeze coursing through the room helps, but I’m still slightly disoriented as I glance around, using any details to try and ground myself.

The train. Right, I’d nearly forgotten.

How it’s possible that I’d nearly forgotten that I am being transported to the Capitol as we speak is beyond me, but for a brief, peaceful moment, I had.

It takes all my effort and energy to force myself up, and though I remember it being beautiful the night before, the thought of taking a shower is one that makes my head spin. Maybe later, but right now I need time to wake up and adjust to my surroundings again.

I almost jump as I glance in the large mirror. I am still in last night’s makeup, though it is smudged and messy. My hair is tangled, no longer sitting nicely around my shoulders. I am still in the dress too, and how I slept in this, I have no idea. It is creased now, and bunched up in ways it definitely shouldn’t be. I suppose I should clean myself up before anyone sees me like this.

I remove my makeup, and as much as I’d like to, I don’t reapply it because I have no idea where I’d even start. I have to admit, its strange to brush my hair with an actual hairbrush, and it glides through the tangles as if they were never there to begin with. I tie my hair up messily in two small bunches either side of my head. It’s how my mother used to tie it up, and for some reason, I think I’m feeling sentimental today.

It's almost sad to change from the dress, but eventually I will myself to slip it off. I do, however, find a loose sleeveless top in a similar colour, and some comfortable yet almost smart casual black trousers. I’m not sure if it’s an outfit choice that Effie will approve of, but it’s the best I can do considering she hasn’t shown up again to offer to help. Not that I’d want her to.

I head to the bathroom and wearily brush my teeth. I’m still not used to how the toothbrush is electric and vibrates in my mouth. It is almost painfully aggressive and hurts my teeth, but I’m sure they’ve never been cleaner.

Splashing some cold water in my face seems to help wake me up a little, and it serves to help rid me of any remaining makeup that the wipes couldn’t quite reach.

I find myself staring at my reflection again. It’s a weird moment where I find myself looking familiar again now that I’m dressed down, yet things feel like they’ve changed so much that I almost don’t recognise myself.

I must stay there for a good few minutes, just staring into my own eyes until I manage to snap myself out of it, and know, despite everything, I need to go and find everyone else.

So I do, making my way through the train, just like I had the night before, but for some reason, something feels different and I can’t quite put my finger on it. The air feels stale and suffocating, and my arms are littered in goosebumps as I force myself to keep walking.

I make it to the dining cart, and the door slides open with that familiar sound of the air hissing.

“That’s a nice way to get yourself killed.”

It is Haymitch’s voice I hear first, and I note quickly he is talking to Peeta. They must be talking strategies, so I wander over and pull up a chair beside Haymitch.

“What’s a nice way to get yourself killed?”

I lean forward, resting an elbow on the placemat in front of me.

Haymitch turns to look at me, and I immediately know something is different. His gaze is hazy, and a small smile tugs at his lips that makes my insides churn. He swirls a glass in his hand, leaning towards me, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he talks.

“Nice of you to join us, Sweetheart. I was just sharing some lifesaving advice.”

He smirks and finishes whatever is in his glass, before reaching behind him for the original bottle. He takes the lid in his teeth, and I watch as he begins to pour the dark, almost orange liquid into his glass. I don’t know what comes over me, but I reach my hand out and grab onto his wrist, preventing him from pouring any more.

“What’s a nice way to get killed?” I ask again, my voice stern, and I’m not sure where this sudden courage has come from. I half regret it when his eyes widen and he pulls his hand from mine, the drink from the bottle spilling over the both of us. It soaks into my shirt, leaving a messy stain right down the front, and his eyes are on me. I know I’ve made a mistake. He spits the lid of the bottle to the table and it rolls for a moment, stopping just in front of me.

“I don’t remember your sister causing me so much hassle.” He grunts, pushing himself to standing. He lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a long sip. A small gasp comes from over to my left, and I hadn’t even realised Effie was sat on one of the couches until she stands up, her eyes on me immediately. Her voice comes quickly, and almost desperately.

“Kestrel- “

“What the hell do you know about my sister?” I snap, my focus now solely back on Haymitch. He snickers, leaning against a nearby counter. Effie has now made her way over, both of her hands wrapped around Haymitch’s arm, and I can tell that there is something they both know. Something I don’t.

“You look like her, don’t you?” He replies, and his response frustrates me. It didn’t answer my question. It just acted as a painful reminder.

We looked exactly alike, actually. Despite her being 5 years older than me, people assumed we were twins more often than they didn’t. We get our looks from our mother, and I am realising now as I can feel my insides heating up that I might get my temper from our father.
“You don’t get to talk about her. What gives you that right?” My voice is harsh and I’m not entirely sure where all this anger has come from. Haymitch only laughs again at my question, and I wish more than anything I could wipe that grin from his face.

“I wonder…” He mumbles, stepping forward towards me, despite Effie’s attempts to pull him back. His glassy eyes are darting across my features, and I see as Effie shakes her head. I don’t know if she’s trying to discourage him or me, but it’s definitely not working either way.

“It is a pity…” He continues. “What happened to her. She was a good kid…”

That is all it takes to get my blood well and truly boiling, and I go to step towards him, but a hand on my wrist prevents me. I turn to see Peeta watching me carefully as he holds me back. I hadn’t even realised he had stood up, but apparently, I don’t realise a lot of things.

Peeta looks up at Haymitch, his expression pleading. He is willing him not to say anything else, but he doesn’t seem to be in a state to heed the warning.

“Stop it.”

I practically growl at him. He has no right to speak about her like he knew her. Like he cared about her.

“Poor girl never stood a chance though, did she?” Haymitch chuckles, looking between Effie and Peeta. He wants backup. He wants confirmation. Neither give it as they try desperately to pull us in opposite directions. They know that this is going to escalate, and I don’t understand completely why until he speaks again.

“She was as good as dead the second her name was pulled.”

I find myself pulling against Peeta’s grasp before I can stop myself. I don’t have a plan for if I get my hands on Haymitch, but I’m going to get my hands on him if it kills me.

Except I can’t, because Peeta changes his grip to wrap his arms around my waist, holding me tightly to him so I can’t move.

“Ignore him...” He whispers to me, but I am still struggling against his grasp. I am on the verge of kicking and screaming and crying, and I don’t even understand why.

“He’s talking about Nicole.”

“I know… Just ignore him… He’s drunk.”

“I don’t care that he’s drunk, that’s my god damn sister!”

I am seething, pulling with all my strength against Peeta. But he is bigger than me and he is stronger than me and my efforts are futile. I give in, leaning against him breathlessly. His grip doesn’t falter at all.

Haymitch steps forward, and there is a fire in his eyes that makes me nervous. There is a mischievous glint that is focused on me, and I know he is set on causing trouble. For whatever messed up reason, he wants a fight. Maybe he’s bored, or maybe he is just a nasty man when he’s drunk. But that’s okay, because I never agreed to play nice either.

“What the hell do you mean she was as good as dead?”

“Your sister was weak.” He speaks almost immediately, like he had been waiting on the prompt. He had been waiting on me to bite. “And you look more than ready to follow in her footsteps, sweetheart.”

I grit my teeth, practically snarling at him as Effie tries again and fails again to pull him away. She does serve, however, to make him a little uneasy on his feet and he falters in his balance for a moment.

“Nicole wasn’t weak! She… she wasn’t!”

“Is that why she ended up dead?” He laughs, lifting the bottle to his lips again. “Because she was so strong?”

“She’s dead because of you! Clearly you gave up on her! Clearly, you’re more focused on your booze than you ever will be about any of us. You failed her- “

“Oh, here we go, the blame game. Because it is so much easier to lay the blame at my feet than to admit your sister never stood a chance.” He scoffs and steps forward towards me, the smell of whisky heavy on his breath. I feel Peeta tense, his arms holding me tighter.

“You are our mentor!” My voice is harsh, shrill and is filled with more emotion than I think it ever has been before. We are shouting at each other now. “It is your job to protect us! It was your job to protect her!”

“Protect her? Sweetheart, once you go into that arena, there is nothing I can do to save you. I can help you train, and I can prepare you, but your sister was a damn lost cause.”

“Nicole was not a lost cause.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes, his expression turning cold.

“Like hell she wasn’t. Your sister was weak. She was spineless, with zero survival skills or instincts. She wouldn’t know blade from handle if I set the knife in her hand myself. Do you honestly think she stood any real chance?”

“You were supposed to give her a chance! You were supposed to train her!”

“I tried- “

“Not hard enough!”

There is a brief moment of silence that makes the room feel suffocating, and it feels like I can’t breathe as Haymitch holds my eye contact. He is also letting out shaking breaths, and the glint in his eyes has been replaced with a darker emotion. He too, is angry.

“I could have given that girl all the training in the world. It wouldn’t have made a damn difference. Wake up, sweetheart, she was dead as soon as her name was read on that stage.”

I reach forward again, but instead of reaching for Haymitch, my fingers skim one of the small knives on the table just in front of me. I’d never stab him, not with so little reason, but maybe I could scare him or knock that awful drink from his hands. Maybe I could prove that I have more worth than he’s put on me. Maybe I can make him believe in me.

The metal is cold on my palm as I clutch the knife, and Haymitch’s eyes immediately turn concerned as I spin it between my fingers. It’s heavier than I’m used to, the handle holding more weight that might throw my aim off. I cannot risk making a mistake.

Effie takes in a sharp breath, and everyone in the room freezes, watching me, awaiting whatever it is that is running through my head.

It’s not worth it. I don’t need to prove myself to him. I know I’m worthy, and I know Nicole was too, but staying sober is too much of a chore, so Haymitch has already made his mind up. He made his mind up on her, and he’s made his mind up on me. I let go off the butter knife and it clatters to the floor. Everyone in the room lets out a collective breath, including myself.

Haymitch is the first to speak to break the silence.

“I’m sorry, darlin, but keep acting like that and you won’t last a minute in that arena. So, if you’d like to calm the hell down, maybe you won’t make history repeat itself, hm?”

Now I wish I had stabbed him. Now I wish I had done something to shut him up because he just doesn’t seem to understand when to drop it, does he?

Effie hisses something to him that I can’t quite hear, and he rolls his eyes, replying with something slurred and cold under his breath.

I hadn’t even realised I had put my hands on Peeta’s arms until I feel his thumb tracing over my fingers, in a desperate attempt to calm me down. I am trembling, I now notice, pure adrenaline and anger coursing through my veins as I grit my teeth and watch Haymitch and Effie.

Haymitch’s face is stern as he returns his attention to me.

“You think the games are all about heart and determination. You think being a good person is enough to save you. Your sister survived as long as she did on pure dumb luck. To survive out there you need strength. You need wit and you need skill. Let me tell you, sweetheart, your sister lacked it, and I fear you do too. I know how this story is going to end, and like your sister’s, it won’t be pretty.”

I take in a deep breath, trying with everything I have to control the temper that I fear is beginning to spiral. He is pushing all my buttons, and he knows exactly which ones to push.

“How dare you. You don’t know me, and you didn’t know Nicole. I know I might not be the strongest, but I will be DAMNED if I go out without a fight. And you…” I point my finger at him, trying to prevent the shaking. “Will not talk about my sister. She was strong and she was brave, and she was the only thing I had until YOU took her from me.”

“Oh, spare me the sentimentality.” He shook his head, swatting my finger away. “Nicole is gone, sweetheart, and no amount of shoving your blame onto me is going to bring her back. As for you… you’re naïve if you think this is JUST a game. This is life and death, kid, and if you don’t understand that, you’re as good as dead too.”

I grit my teeth so hard I’m sure they’re going to break.

“You are heartless, you know that? You don’t care about any of us, you never did. You talk about life and death, but you get to sit back and watch as we die, year after year. It doesn’t impact you. You get to live your life whether we live or die. You are a coward, Haymitch Abernathy. A coward.”

I take a deep breath, and I can feel the lump beginning to form in my throat. I’ve always cried when angry, and I hate how weak it makes me seem. I feel I have struck a nerve when his body relaxes slightly, and he stops fighting Effie’s grasp for a moment.

“You think I’m a coward?” He asks, and his voice sounds… surprised. Like he couldn’t possibly believe what I had said. I nod, and he lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.

I know it was a mistake when Effie’s eyes turn soft and Peeta’s hand grips my own tightly. Haymitch turns his back to me for a moment, before spinning quickly, hurling the bottle of alcohol roughly. It hits the wall just beside my head, shattering upon impact. Glass flies in all directions and Peeta and I both get coated in the foul-smelling liquid as one of his hands moves to shield my head. It’s a small act, probably one done on reflex, but I find myself leaning into the protection.

We stand in shock for a moment. Haymitch either has incredible aim, or he had meant to hit me and missed. I don’t know which is the scarier option. I bite the inside of my cheek, my heart racing in my chest as Peeta gently picks a shard of glass from my hair. His arm around my head stays for a few moments longer than it needs to, before he hesitantly lowers it, his eyes searching my face.

Effie grabs Haymitch roughly now, forcing him to look at her. She puts her hands either side of his face, making him look at her, but her expression is firm and stern as she scolds him under her breath. I hear a few snippets, including “she’s just a child.” And “that is enough.” But opt overall to ignore them. If I never have to talk to Haymitch again, it’ll be too soon.
I barely even notice as Peeta begins leading me from the room. His own hands are trembling now, but still he holds me tightly and doesn’t let go until he all but drags me back to my own room.

The door shuts behind us, and he lets us go, his arms now wrapping around himself. His breathing is shaky, and he has his fists balled tightly and now I am overcome with the terrible guilt of getting him caught in the crossfire.

“Peeta- “

He shakes his head and turns to face the door. Away from me. And it is beyond clear that he needs a moment, so I sit on the seat by the window while he calms himself down. I try to take my mind off everything by staring out the window, but it isn’t the same anymore. I can’t stop my mind from wandering to Nicole. She was a tribute, just like I am. How did she feel, when she was on this exact train, in this exact room. Was she scared? Did she know what was coming?

“Are you alright?”

Peeta’s question almost makes me laugh. It’s the same one he asked after the reaping just yesterday, and yet, my answer is completely different.

“Yeah… I’m fine, the glass didn’t get me.” I offer him a small smile and he comes to sit beside me, a thumb moving to wipe at the tears I didn’t even know I was crying. His eyes are soft as they move over my features.

“That isn’t what I was asking, and you know it.”

Now, I do laugh, and it brings a soft smile onto his face too. My laugh is laced with the emotions of the morning, but he doesn’t seem at all to mind.

“When is it your turn to cry?” I ask and he shakes his head softly, letting out a small chuckle, his hand still on my cheek.

“I’m sure my time will come.”

“Well, I hope so, cause now I just look weak.”

I am trying to make light of the situation, and I can tell by the way his expression softens that he can see that. He lets out a small hum as he gently pulls another shard of glass from my hair.

“I thought she was really brave you know. Your sister.” He watches me as he speaks, and his words make my chest burn. I bite my lip.

“I wasn’t allowed to watch her games.” I whisper, like it explains anything.

“I know.” He replies softly, tucking some hair behind my ear. “But she did really well, and you should be proud.”

“I would be proud no matter how she did…”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, before he takes his hand from my cheek.

“I know.”

The room falls quiet, but unlike earlier, it is comfortable, and I find myself watching the trees passing by again. Peeta closes his eyes, letting out a breath as he rests his head against the wall. He is overwhelmed, like I am, but I’m beginning to realise that his way of coping is to help others. To help me.

“You don’t have to stay with me.” I look to him, and he opens his eyes again to return the gaze.

“I know.” He replies, and there is a long pause before he speaks again. “I want to.”

I pull my feet up onto the chair, so my knees are to my chest, and close my eyes. I am exhausted. I can smell the alcohol staining our hair and clothes, but I don’t have it in me to change, and based on his lack of movement, neither does Peeta. We sit side by side for a while, just enjoying each other’s comfort and company after a hectic morning.

An hour or so must pass before Peeta sits up, jolting my shoulder, and I realise I had at some point moved to resting against him.

“There it is…”

I open my eyes, and he is looking out the window, his expression showing nothing but awe. I turn to look too and let out a soft gasp.

There it is indeed.

The buildings of the Capitol are tall and extravagant, shining in the sun, reflecting most of the light. There is water seemingly being used for decoration, and despite the impracticality of it and the wastefulness, I can’t deny it’s beauty.

I wanted to hate the look of the Capitol. To despise every element of it, but I am breathless as I look out as we approach.

Then, we are plunged into darkness.

Notes:

This chapter was so hard to write 3 but I wanted to get it done before I leave for holiday.

Chapter 5: The Preperation

It is only mere moments before the door to my room slides open, and Effie rushes in. She looks frantic, looking between myself and Peeta, like we are meant to be doing something already. I know we are meant to be ready by now. We are meant to have been prettied up and polished ready for our first viewing at the Capitol, but with all that happened, we are the furthest possible thing from ready.

I assume that Effie must have busied herself with dealing with Haymitch and lost track of time, since it does not seem to be like her to fall behind any sort of schedule, especially one as important as this.

“Peeta. Your room, now. Haymitch will help you get ready.” Effie says, her voice desperate, and as much as I can see the protest in his eyes, Peeta knows fighting is not in his best interest. He stands silently and obediently heads to his room, leaving just myself and Effie in the dim purple lights of mine.

We must be going through the large mountains that encase the Capitol, hence the darkness. I know I’ve been taught about them before, how they led to the Capitol’s triumph in the war, but I never paid much attention to Panem’s history in school. I almost find myself wishing now that I had.

Effie clearly knows she has no more than minutes to get me looking presentable and considering right now I look and smell like a minibar, it’s definitely a large task.

Before I know it, my crumpled dress from last night is landing in my lap, and I look up, to meet her pleading eyes.

“Just…put it on… it can’t be that bad.” Effie seems to be reassuring herself more than me, but I do as she says and change quickly. It is creased in all the wrong places and sits awkwardly on me, looking nothing like how it did last night, and Effie seems about ready to pull her own hair out. If it weren’t for her wig, I’m sure she would have by now. Maybe if I had hung the dress up, instead of sleeping in it and then dumping it on the floor, it would have looked much nicer. But hindsight is a fine thing, and I choose not to tell her it is my fault the dress is such a state.

Effie’s hands are on me instantly, trying to smooth it out roughly, pulling and tugging to try and get it to sit how it is meant to, and she somehow does manage to get it looking decent enough. She assures me I won’t be in it long. Just long enough to get me to a stylist. That makes me feel significantly better.

She works on my hair next, pulling it down and brushing it out. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with it as she fiddles with bows and bands, and she ends up deciding to just leave it down. I know this isn’t what she envisioned for my entrance to the Capitol, and I can feel the stress radiating from her. I wonder how Haymitch and Peeta are doing in the next room over.

I don’t get long to ponder, however, as Effie practically assaults me with makeup and deodorants and just about every spray she can get her hands on. I suppose an underage tribute making a grand appearance smelling like liquor doesn’t make for a good look. I wonder if Haymitch has considered this, or if alcohol is such a familiar scent to him that it has slipped his drunken mind to try to erase it from Peeta.

I all but choke on the mist and she shoots me an apologetic glance, then steps back to assess her work. She must be decently satisfied as she doesn’t come at me again with anything else, and instead hands me the same white shoes from the day before.

My old friends.

Still, without argument, I put them on and stand. Effie pushes me towards the doors, clipping bracelets and necklaces onto me as we walk, and I am shoved into the main living cart just as we pull into the Capitol station. Peeta appears beside me, wearing a simple brown suit and waistcoat. I can still smell the whisky on him, but not as strongly as before, which is a relief.

They couldn’t have cut it any closer if they tried.

Out the window, I see hundreds, if not thousands of brightly coloured and strange looking people waving at us, and step closer to get a better look.

If I thought Effie’s appearance was odd, this is next level. I make eye contact with individuals with unnaturally coloured skin, luminescent hair and modifications I can only describe as nightmarish. I see women with large lips and shiny eyes, expensive jewels implanted into their skin. I see children wearing feathers and fine satins and diamonds. Men with makeup and altered expressions. All wave at me, like I am a sight to behold. How ironic.

I find myself, however, waving back. I know the cameras will be focused on me as we pull in, and first impressions do wonders in a place like this. I push the window open and stick my head out, hoping any friendliness can distract from my less-than-ideal appearance.

I hear Haymitch mumble something to Effie and turn just as she swats him with one of her gloves, though the hint of a smile on her face shows that what he had said was nothing malicious, so I turn my attention back to the crowd.

Peeta makes his way to my side, and waves too, clearly thinking the same as I am. Our job right now is to play our cards right. If we do that, we stand a much better chance in this whole thing.

The crowds chant our names, screaming and shouting and whistling and it is a feeling I don’t think I could ever explain if I tried. I know they only know my name because they were reminded of it. Maybe it is on a screen somewhere just out of my view, but my heart is in my throat, and I feel like crying and I find that I don’t really care how they know my name. Just that they do.

The next moments are a blur. We are transported off the train and into a large vehicle surrounded by Peacekeepers. They are there to keep the crowds at bay, though they do their best to grab at us and get our attention. I smile at a young girl as I pass, and the smile in return warms my entire body.

A hand pushes against the small of my back, guiding me and keeping me close, and at first, I think it might be Peeta, or a Peacekeeper, but when I turn and see Haymitch stood close behind me, I am hit with that nauseating anger, and make a point to walk faster and away from his touch.

The journey from the station to our next destination is long. Not terribly so, but much longer than I might have liked considering the atmosphere. Haymitch and Effie sit opposite me and Peeta, and we all drop our gazes. It is awkward and uncomfortable, and I have never been so relieved when the car comes to a stop, and I am able to get out to breathe air that doesn’t threaten to suffocate me.

I don’t really pay much attention to exactly where we are being led, I just follow Effie through the labyrinth of corridors until we enter a large room, laid out like some sort of infirmary. The lights are a deep blue, casting a harsh glare over the medical instruments that sit beside large metal tables. I wander closer and see scissors and razors and a whole array of other tools.

“Kestrel Eyrie, bay 23. Peeta Mellark, bay 24.”

A woman with sickly green hair and a wide grin is sat behind a counter, just next to where we entered. I hadn’t even noticed she was there, but she is looking at me with a smile that sends shivers down my spine. It feels just that little bit too artificial for my liking.

Effie escorts me and Peeta to our bays and I notice now that Haymitch is no longer with us. I’m not entirely sure where or when we lost him, but I can’t say that I mind all that much.

Effie tells us that she can’t stay with us for this bit, that she has other important matters to tend to, and I can’t help but feel that one of those may be finding Haymitch. She assures us, however, that she will find us after the tribute parade. With that, she turns and struts from the room, and I am alone behind the now closed curtain of my bay.

I know Peeta is just beside me, hidden only by the flimsy material, but I feel isolated. My heart is pounding as I circle the metal table, not sure whether I am meant to be sitting or lying. Not sure what exactly I am to expect in the time between now and the tribute parade.

Tributes always look different, I’ve noticed that. The tributes from my District always look newer and shinier than they did when we send them off. Like they have been scrapped and replaced with something more recent and much cleaner. It is almost impressive how they are able to scrape years of dirt and grime from them, and I always wondered how they did it. Now I know I am about to find out. I can only hope it isn’t painful.

The curtain to my bay is ripped open violently, and three people enter. I use the term loosely, because as they babble excitedly and flock around me, I can only stare back, trying my best to take in their appearances. Like everyone else, their hair and makeup is freakish, their skin surgically altered to give an unnatural hue. It is hard to consider them people at all.

They tug at my clothes, all while talking rapidly between themselves, and I try to protest, but before I know it, I am naked and lying flat on the table. It is offensively cold against my bare skin, and I clamp my eyes shut, thinking maybe if I can’t see them, it will make this whole ordeal much less embarrassing. The least Effie could have done is warn me about this, but I suppose there wasn’t a lot of time, and she probably doesn’t see it as highly unusual.

Their fingers trace over my body, and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. I feel hands against my legs and hips and arms, and I am at least thankful they seem to have the decency to leave the more sensitive areas alone.

A warm, almost hot substance is placed on my leg, and I open my eyes and sit up. They are dousing me in a sticky, orange liquid, and just as I am about to ask about it, one of them places a strip of paper on top and rips it off in one swift movement. I have to hold back a yelp, chewing on my lips as they do it again and again and again with very little remorse.

They occasionally murmur a soft apology, or an assurance it’ll be over soon, but I know they don’t mean it, and it is just to stop me from putting up a fight. So, I lay back flat, and I take shaky breaths in and out, since it is all I can do, and I let them rip the hair from my body like I am nothing more than a cosmetic toy. Because protests and fights don’t sit well with the Capitol.

It isn’t just my legs. Just about every inch of my body is smothered in the hot concoction and stripped from any hair that may have been there. By the time they are done, my entire body is tingling, and I feel raw.

They wash me down and scrub me with rough brushes, working hard to rid me of the build-up of coal dust and dirt, but it takes multiple attempts until I am clean to their liking. Deep breaths, in and out. It’ll be over soon; they keep telling me. It’s nearly over.

One pair of hands coats my skin with a thick, creamy gel, which immediately takes any sting from my body, and I relax for the first time since they arrived. They rub it in, and the fresh smell of strawberries fills the air. Is that me that smells that good?

Just as I think they must be finished, they all encircle my head, sitting on stools just beside me. I don’t dare open my eyes, not when they are this close. Deep breaths, in and out. One of them begins to smear another substance on my cheeks and chin and forehead, as another begins to shape my eyebrows, pulling the hairs out excruciatingly one by one. I’m not entirely sure what the other is doing, but I can feel a harsh light shining down on my face, and it is almost uncomfortably hot.

They keep telling me to relax, that my muscles are far too tense, that I’m scrunching my face up, but I’m not sure how they expect me to relax. How am I meant to be calm when I can feel every single hair being ripped from my face, every hot goo they rub into my skin, every touch of their fingers on my exposed body.

I will relax when it is over.

As suddenly as it started, it feels like it is over, and they all step back at once. It amazes me that they have been talking nonstop for however long this has taken, but they all know, wordlessly, when I am done. Without so much as a word between them, they have decided that I am finished, that their work is done. That I am clean and shiny and-

“Perfect…” One of them breathes, and I open my eyes to try and find the source of the voice. It is the one with the green tinted skin. She told me her name, right at the beginning, but I’ve never been good with names, and they were all speaking and working so fast that it must have slipped my mind. I’ll have to ask again later, if I ever see her again. I might not, though I try to shove that thought away with all my might. If there is a time for pessimism, it isn’t right now.

They get me to stand up, and after so long of lying, my legs feel a little shaky and I am a little unsteady in my footing, but they quickly stabilise me, and then proceed to encircle me. It makes me a little dizzy as they walk slowly around me, trying to find any remaining hair or dirt that might still be plaguing me. To my relief, they find nothing, and I am being handed a soft white robe to cover myself with.
I slip it on with no hesitation, wrapping it around me, as though it has only just come back to my attention that I am, in fact, naked in a room with people I don’t know. I tug it to shield my chest, as I feel the heat raise to my cheeks. They could at least try to find a more… dignifying way to do this, though considering half of the tributes each year go through the parade naked, I guess they have to be as thorough as possible.

That though hadn’t crossed my mind until now, and I am immediately filled with a deep, unmovable dread. It is very difficult to glamourise my district. We aren’t like District 1, who they can coat with diamonds, or 7 who they can make pretty with leaves and nature. No. Stylists hate being given District 12, because we are the coal District. There is nothing glamourous about coal. So, most years, to try and make an impact, our tributes are stripped completely naked and coated in a black dust meant to represent soot. Sometimes they are given a head torch or a lantern, but usually not much more. The problem is, it is so overdone that it is no longer anything shocking, so our tributes are naked and overlooked. Every single year like clockwork. I know I am to follow the same fate.

They must get some enjoyment out of it. District 12 is seen as a joke now, so there must be some thrill in stripping us down to nothing and shoving us in front of a crowd. Some wicked sense of humour that we don’t follow. Some joke that we aren’t part of. I feel almost unwell at what is to come tonight, and I wonder if Peeta has come to the same conclusion yet.

Actually, I wonder how Peeta is doing at all. I had all but forgotten that he is just in the next bay over, but I didn’t hear any sounds of waxing coming from his side. No endless chatter or hisses of pain, like I’m sure he’s heard from mine. It is likely they just washed him down and plucked any facial hair. They would have let him keep his leg and arm hair, because for some reason, being smooth as a newborn baby is only a beauty standard for the women in the Capitol. It’s something I’ve never understood the very few times I’ve seen clips from the Capitol. The women are all small, looking underfed despite the vast availability of food. They always looked like children to some degree to me. Small and vulnerable, while the men gorge themselves and look how they want. The richest pay for the surgeries to make themselves smaller, I’ve heard, but most of the men don’t mind all that much.

Back home, being anything above starved is an achievement. Why you would pay to look like us, I never understood, but Capitol standards bewilder the best of us, I think.

“Just sit here, dear, Cinna will be here to retrieve you in just a moment.”

The voice drags me harshly from my thoughts and I can only nod as the trio leave my bay, and I breathe an unstable sigh of relief.

Cinna isn’t a name I’ve heard before. Not that I’m massively up to date with Capitol stylists, but like Effie, their names ring bells when they are said, because, like Effie, they have been a constant. Year after year their names are spoken and praised as they make the tributes look pretty. Our usual stylists are a woman named Portia… and a man I can’t quite recall the name of, but I know Cinna wasn’t it.
Are they new? I hope they know what they’ve signed up for. Being new usually means being dumped with District 12, and you make your way up the ladder to District 1, 2 or 4. Everybody who wants to be somebody starts with District 12. Most don’t move much, and give up, since it is hard to make an impact when handed the runt district.

The curtain reopens and a man steps in. His appearance shocks me. Not because he is dyed bright blue or his hair is neon yellow, or because he is surgically altered in any way. Because it’s not. And he is near enough as normal as I am, aside from the hints of gold that litter his eyelids.

His skin is a rich brown, like that of District 7, his clothes a simple black turtleneck and white smart trousers. I must pull some sort of face, because he lets out a honeyed chuckle, running a hand through his curly black hair, which is perfectly styled on his head.

“Kestrel, my name is Cinna. Should we go somewhere more private?” He asks, his voice smooth, and gentle. I can’t help but push the feeling that he is treating me like a cornered animal, like I might lash out. Though the promise of some privacy is nice enough to somewhat tempt me. I must look afraid, because he holds a steady hand in my direction, beckoning me towards him. I stand, suddenly overly aware of my bare feet on the metal tiles, and wrap my gown further around myself, stepping towards him.

He smiles, and it’s a friendly smile. Most that I’ve seen in the Capitol are one of two types. Predatory, or pitying. They either enjoy the fact that they know you are about to die or are extremely remorseful. The sort of look you give to someone diagnosed with a terminal illness. It is a look I see a lot back home. Neither sit well with me at all. But this is different, and there is kindness in his eyes as he leads me from the sterile setting to a side room just off one of the corridors that led me here.

He holds the door open for me, and I enter into a room that is painted in a bright white, but not surgically so. It feels fresh. Professional. It’ll be where I am changed for the tribute parade, and the room is so bright, so every tiny detail is amplified and made clear enough for the stylist.

Cinna sits on a couch, and I sit tentatively on the one opposite him. It is soft, and I all but sink into it, shifting to make sure my gown is covering me properly and I am not exposed. I know he likely doesn’t care, but I do, and I’d like to hold on to what dignity I have left.

“Now, Kestrel. Let me ask you a question.” He begins, crossing one of his legs over the other, leaning back with a gleam in his eyes I can only describe as excitement. “What do you know about the coal mine canaries?”

Notes:

Aaah just some Capitol rambles for you all, I actually enjoyed writing this way more than I thought I would. Charlie this one is for you <3

Chapter 6: The Parade

The question catches me off guard. Whatever I was expecting, whatever question about nudity or glitter or coal dust that I was anticipating, it wasn’t that. I was expecting something about how far I’m willing to go, how much skin I’m willing to have exposed, not that I’d have much say in the matter either way, but it’s always good manners to ask.

Cinna watches me patiently as I digest his question, his words spiralling in my mind for a moment before I can bring myself to even think about it.

“Well… they’re used back in my District to detect harmful gasses in the mines, aren’t they?” I reply, though I don’t even know why I’m asking. I probably know way more than he does. The research he has done can’t possibly live up to experiencing it firsthand.

He gives a small hum, now shifting to cross his legs the other way, moving from right over left to left over right. He is prompting me to continue. So, I do.

“I don’t know exactly what gas it is… maybe carbon monoxide? I don’t know, but when it gets like, dangerously high, the birds stop singing, cause y’know, they’re songbirds, always singing. Then they die, and the miners know to leave.”

It’s an unfortunate fact, though one that is true. My district is responsible for both keeping the canary population alive and killing them off simultaneously. A cruel fate for the poor birds.

My voice is more uncertain than I would like, rambling, as if I’m scared that I might say the wrong thing to him, though I’m not even sure there is a wrong answer. He’s asking me what I know, not for any sort of facts.

I hadn’t even noticed until now, but I’m fiddling with the cord of my robe, twirling it and wrapping it around my fingers like it’s some sort of lifeline. I can’t look at him, not properly, because it feels like he is sizing me up as I talk, figuring out what to do with me. His eyes, though they show a genuine kindness, are sharp and critical. The eyes of a stylist.

I don’t like it.

“Right.” He says, his voice level, and he sits up straighter. I can’t help but look at him now. “And they’re beautiful birds, aren’t they?”

I nod, wondering where he is going with this. They are beautiful birds, it’s hard to deny. They breed them up in my District, and their stunning yellow coats always stand out against the darkness and dreariness of the rest of 12. They’re very hard to miss, and they always catch my eye as I walk past their cages and-

Oh.

I let out a small breath as I realise now where he might be going with this.

He nods, with a small smile tugging at his lips, his eyebrows slightly raised. He folds his hands in his lap, uncrossing his legs altogether now, sitting so his full body is facing me.

“I want to make a statement.” He continues, “That you are not something to be taken lightly. You are not something to be overlooked. Canary birds are small, but they are omens of danger. When the canary bird stops singing, people listen.”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask before I can stop myself, leaning forward towards him.

“I haven’t entirely got it all down, but… you looked stunning coming off the train in that dress. Certainly turned a few heads. I’m thinking feathers, loud colours, in your face designs. District 12 will not be overlooked tonight.”

---

And my goodness was he right.

I stand on a small podium in the middle of the room, as Cinna and his team work quickly and precisely. They encircle me, much like the stylists before, but this feels much less threatening. Much less invasive. I am almost continuously wrapped in tape measures and material. They occasionally prick me with a pin here or there, but they are always very apologetic, and I repetitively assure them that it’s nothing compared to the waxing.

I wasn’t entirely convinced before, but now Cinna’s vision is screaming, and I can’t quite quell the giddiness that rises in my chest.

The dress is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The chest plate is corset-like, hugging me tightly in all the right places. It gives me curves that years of starvation have stolen from me. A figure that the girls back home have only ever seen on screen. It is a deep brown, almost black, but intricate yellow details swirl in the material, leading the eyes on a path and giving a whole lot more to look at. A matching layer of ruffles surrounds the top, with the occasional hint of off green.

The skirt is the impressive bit though. A large, lacy thing, puffing out from my waist to make it look like it cinches much more than it actually does. It sits just below my knees, made entirely of feathers that I can only hope aren’t real. They are yellow, almost golden, aside from the occasional green streak and the dusting of black across the surface to look like residual coal dust.

I am in what I consider to be dangerously high heels in matching black, green and yellow, though Cinna assures me I won’t have to do any walking, and I can take them off the second the tribute parade ends. As long as he helps me to the chariot, I’m fine with that, since I don’t think I can walk in these unassisted.

He said they make my legs look longer, and I can’t deny the truth behind his words. I’ve never been tall. I’m not short either, somewhere in the middle, but my height isn’t likely to give me any advantages or disadvantages in the arena. In these shoes, however, I look almost threatening. I look sophisticated and powerful. Of course, until they see me try to walk.

My hair has been layered with streaky yellow extensions, giving it way more volume than normal, so they have been able to separate it into two layers. A large chunk of it sits down and around my shoulders, but an equally large section is tied up high. Golden feathers decorate the dark black strands.

Coming from the straps on my shoulders are thin sections of pale-yellow material, which Cinna says on the chariot, should flow out behind me and give the impression of wings. I’ll take his word on that one.

My wrists are decorated with tight bands and more feathers, and my entire body has been doused in a golden glitter which should sparkle under the lights in the parade.

My makeup is relatively basic, a strong black wing with some golden glitter, much like Cinna’s, that points down towards my nose from my inner eye, and out towards my temples on the other side. He has, however, got me in large, excessive lashes that curl up and almost touch my hair, reminding me of feathers in themselves. The ends are rounded, with small yellow and green balls. My upper lip has been painted black, and my lower lip left completely alone.

It is a strange outfit, but one that I cannot deny the beauty of. And at the end of the day, at least I am not naked. And at least I have a shot at getting some attention tonight, since they will likely be expecting the same old from District 12. Not this. Definitely not this.

“So… why have I never heard your name before?” I ask Cinna as he attaches some more feathers to my arms and legs.

“It’s my first year.” He replies, simply enough, as if that doesn’t open up a world of questions in itself. Where is our previous stylist? Why did Cinna take his place?

“So, you got stuck with me?”

“I asked for you.”

I take in a sharp breath at this, looking to meet his eyes that are already looking my way. He laughs softly, standing up straight to be on my level. Or, as close to my level as he can get, considering the shoes and the podium.

“I can tell there is something about you, Kestrel.” His voice is serious now, and a shiver runs down my spine. “When they called your name, you walked up onto that stage like you were being called to receive an award. Or like you were being showcased. I don’t see that a lot, so I wanted to work with you. See what I could do for you.”

He looks at me with a curious glint in his expression, his eyes slightly narrowed, like he is expecting me to spill all my tactics, or why I responded the way I did. Instead, I give him a toothless smile and shrug.

In reality, he hasn’t seen behind the scenes. He hasn’t seen the screaming and crying and the panic attacks. He hasn’t seen how badly I am trying to appear like this is all beneath me, like I am proud to rise to the fame and attention of being a tribute.

Well, maybe that bit isn’t completely put on, though I know I should be wary of how much I enjoy it, because it won’t last. But hey, gotta enjoy it while it does, right?

“I think you’re done, little bird.” Cinna steps back, his head tilted slightly as he looks at me. I wonder when, or even if, I’ll get used to being looked at like that. Like I am an art piece. Like I am a project that will never be quite complete because of the pressing time limits.

The nickname catches me off guard. There is a sincerity behind it, the gentle tone a stark contrast to everything I have experienced thus far. Though I can’t deny that it makes me think a little of Haymitch, and I try to ignore the burning in my chest at the thought of him.

I can tell by the way Cinnia is holding his hands, the way his fingers fidget with themselves that he wants to add more, to do more, but he can’t. He has reached time, and I think, sometimes, less is more. Too many feathers or too much glitter would overwhelm and take away from the overall impression. Not that I know anything about fashion, so if Cinna said I needed more feathers, then I wouldn’t argue.

He extends a hand my way, and I take it and hesitantly step from the small podium. I feel immediately as my ankle twists to the side, the heel under my foot faltering under my weight. Cinna grabs me immediately before I can fall, one hand firmly on my arm, the other wrapping instinctively around my waist, but the scare has my heart pounding.

He laughs that sickly sweet laugh and helps to straighten me up, making sure I have my footing before he lets go of my waist. I am grateful that he keeps a firm grip on my arm, or I’d be demanding to take these shoes off.

“Woah, easy there…” He chuckles, once he’s sure I’m okay, and I find myself laughing too. There is a sort of novelty behind all this, after all. Two days ago, I was knee deep in coal dust and rabbit blood. Today, I am being dressed in ridiculous outfits by Panem’s best stylists, being made to wear shoes I can’t even walk it. How quickly the world can change.

Though of course, the world hasn’t changed. This is the way things have been for the last 74 years. Children ripped from their normalities to be prime entertainment to the Capitol. It’s just that this year, it’s my turn. It is my world that has changed. The Earth as it stands will keep rotating as it always has. So, is it really all that different in the grand scheme of things?

Before I know it, I am walking, with Cinna on my right, and one of his assistants on my left. They both have a firm grasp on my upper arm, holding me upright, and their free hand on my back, keeping me steady. Cinna is mumbling something about pretending I’m not even wearing heels, to walk how I always walk, but that is much easier said than done when I am at least 10 inches taller than I usually am.

I can feel myself trembling beneath their hold, and I’m not entirely sure if it is nerves or excitement. I feel almost guilty at the idea that I could possibly be excited. There is nothing to be excited about, but the rush I had on the train when they were all screaming for me? I’m almost craving it. If I’m going to die within the next two weeks, I want them to know my name.

I want to leave a bitter taste in their mouths.

We make it down to the chariot hold without too much hassle. My ankles twist a few times trying to get down a flight of stairs, but nothing too serious, and I get down relatively unscathed. The hold is huge, much larger than I would have ever imagined. They don’t show this part, so I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the large, intricately detailed arched ceilings were not it. The room is so empty, aside from the 12 chariots, and 24 tributes, that I’m nervous to even speak in case it echoes.

I am beyond relieved when I see Peeta standing beside our chariot, wearing an equally as ridiculous outfit.

He is in a full yellow suit, which has been embroidered with tiny black swirls of details. A polar opposite of the designs on my corset top. Around his waist sits a short, skirt like shape, layered on top of his trousers, with the front section cut out. It, like my own skirt, is made entirely of feathers, but his are black. It reminds me a little of the tail feathers of a bird, and I can’t help but wonder if that is what they were going for. I figure they must have been trying to contrast his light hair, since all the feathers in his hair are pitch black with only small flecks of gold.

His makeup is identical to mine, just without the lashes, and it is definitely refreshing to know we have been dressed in such nicely matching outfits, despite them being so different.

Peeta’s eyes run down my figure, stopping at my shoes for a moment, before lifting back up to my face. I can tell he is trying to hide the hint of surprise that flickers across his expression, and to his credit, he does a pretty good job.

“Are you ready?” He asks, tilting his head a little as he raises his hand to run his fingers through the mane of the horse closest to him. To be honest, I’d barely even noticed the horses, much too focused on literally everything else.

District 12 always get these beautiful, pitch-black horses, and this year is no different, with two of them being stationed and attached to the front of the chariot. I think they try to match the horses to the district for aesthetic purposes. District 1 always get these stunning pure white horses, and district 11 get brown ones with these super silky tails and manes that are usually braided. I’ve never paid much attention to the other districts since their horses are usually combinations of colour to match their specialty. I think they must breed them up specially for the occasion.

“Yeah… I think so.”

I find myself looking around, trying to get whatever glimpses I can of the outfits being worn by other districts. I immediately spot what must be the tributes from 2, wearing full golden armour, with matching headpieces. They make up half of the career pack, and though I can’t spot the other half, they are likely in something equally as menacing. I try to size them up, and while the male tribute from here seems tall and sturdy, like most male careers, the female seems a lot smaller than normal. She is, from what I can tell, shorter than average, and not hugely muscly. She also, unlike most of district 2, has dark skin, and thick hair which has been braided back and weaved with gold, like mine. I make a note to keep an eye on her.

Peeta purses his lips at my answer, clearly not entirely believing me. I’m not sure I believe me either. I offer him the best smile I can muster, and though it’s shaky, it seems to do the trick, and he lets me off the hook. Maybe he can just tell that arguing with me right now is futile. Either way, I appreciate it. He climbs into the chariot with little effort and offers me his hand.
I take it, and he tugs me up, with the help of Cinna and the assistant behind pushing on my back. His hand is slightly clammy, the nerves practically seeping through his pores, and I can’t help but think mine must be the same.

These heels are ridiculous, and I find myself vowing to never wear anything like them again. How Effie walks around in shoes like this, I’ll never understand. I can see Peeta trying to hold back a laugh at my expression as it takes 3 people to steady me and get me in position. I shake my head at him, warning him not to say anything, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender, feigning a look of offence that I’d even accuse him of such.

I feel a little better once in the chariot. I have something to hold onto, and I know I just have to get through this and then the shoes and the outfit come off. Plus, with Peeta beside me, I’ll have someone to grab onto should I start feeling unsteady.

Cinna says something to the both of us, but by now, my head is swarming with anticipation. I’m nervous now, of that I know for sure, and I clench my fists to try and keep myself together. I feel Peeta’s gaze on me from the side, but I keep my head forward, not sure I could deal with seeing the concern that I know is in his eyes.

My entire body feels numb as I watch the district 1 chariot pull off, way in front of us. My heart is in my throat, a soft tingling radiating through my veins. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears and it blocks out the distant chatter around me. Right here, in this moment, it’s just me, and the adrenaline that is making my head spin. Has a tribute ever thrown up during the parade? I haven’t heard of it happening, but it must have, right? I cannot have the legacy of being the first.

The chariot begins moving with a slight jolt, and my hands move to clutch at the surface in front of me. In no more than a minute, I will be in front of the whole of Panem. I will be showcased, and I will be shown off. I need to impress the sponsors, I know that, but how do I do that when I feel moments away from collapsing?

I force myself to breathe, in and out, just like I did at the reaping. Just like I did on the train, and the medical bay that prepared me for this moment. I made it through all of those, I can make it through this. Or so I keep telling myself and will keep telling myself until I am blue in the lips.

The lights almost blind me as we exit the hold, and I hold my head as high as I can manage, taking a moment to cast my gaze to Peeta, who looks just as nervous as I feel. He is trembling slightly, though doing well at concealing it, and I now notice my own shaky hands.

The road is bumpy, jostling to chariot, and I’m sure I’m about to fall, just as Peeta wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me slightly closer to him, his eyes displaying a hint of urgency that tells me I was definitely about to fall. He whispers something to me, and I can only nod, though I don’t quite catch what he says over the sound of the crowd.

It’s deafening. If I thought it was loud coming off the train, this is a whole different level. Shouts blur together, muddling into a sort of static that my brain can’t quite comprehend. It’s surreal, and part of me feels like I’m dreaming, like I’ll wake up back in my bed at home. My brain holds a sort of blurry feeling I can’t explain, and my legs feel like jelly. If it weren’t for Peeta holding me close, I’m sure I would have fallen by now.

I hear my name, and at first it catches me off guard, but when I look into the crowd, I hear it being chanted, over and over and over again, and my chest feels light, and I feel that fluttering in my stomach that reminds me why I need to do this. That is the kick I needed to jumpstart me to play my part. It had all been so overwhelming that until now, I had forgotten.

I raise my arm and begin waving, though my body suddenly feels like lead, grinning as wide as I can, and I feel Peeta beginning to do the same. With one arm still firmly around my waist, he waves and blows kisses and plays to the crowd exactly how he needs to. For whatever reason, this drives them wild, and the noise only amplifies, though I can’t hear it to its full extent past the ringing in my ears.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sight of the glitter on my arms reflecting the light, encasing us both in a seal of gold. The thin material flutters behind us, and in one of the large screens, I see us for the first time, and it feels like I can’t breathe. Back in the hold, our costumes, though beautiful, felt silly, and I didn’t entirely understand it. But now, we are a sight to behold. We are literally shining, our makeshift wings stretched out behind us as the wind catches them just right. I stand up straighter, leaning myself forward as I continue to pander to the crowds.

Peeta chuckles beside me, and I find myself laughing too. This is nothing like how I thought it would be, and I lean into him a little, the sudden rush making me a little dizzy. It is a high I hadn’t realised until now that I was missing out on. One that I can only hope to feel again.

It doesn’t take long before we are pulling in in front of the President’s palace, the chariots forming a half loop around his podium. I find that even when we stop, I am still leaning into Peeta, still feeling lightheaded and a little giddy.

The smile on my face is no longer fake or forced, and I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder, wrapping both of my arms around one of his to keep myself upright. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.

From here, I can get a much better view of the other outfits, and I have to admit, I feel a sense of relief of having Cinna as a stylist now. Compared to most, our costumes are undeniably stunning, and I feel a rushing sense that all eyes will be on us tonight.

I get the feeling that most of the other stylists were trying to make an impression tonight, and I can’t help but feel like most missed the mark. I spot two tributes with large, moonlike shapes encircling their heads. They are a bright, sparkling silver, glittery and shining, with matching dresses and suits. It takes me a moment to pinpoint them down to be District 5. Power and Electricity. It’s definitely… something.

District 7 aren’t much better off. They are in full white, which in a place where glitter and gems are all the rage, is definitely a bold choice. Their outfits are completely plain, with a simple white headpiece made to look like folded paper. District 7 usually do something more… foresty, being the district known for lumber. I’ve seen trees, and lumberjacks or even beautiful dresses embroidered with nature. I think they were trying to show off their job of making paper, but I believe they may have fallen a little flat.

I force myself to stop sizing up the competition and turn my attention back to President Snow as he steps onto his podium. I don’t listen to his speech. It’s the same as every year, thanking the tributes for their bravery and sacrifice and welcoming them to the Capitol. As if we came here by choice. As if we wanted this.

It always made me angry, even back in the safety of 12, so it enrages me now, but I keep that smile on my face, knowing not only are cameras on me, but so are the eyes of thousands of potential sponsors. The importance of this moment for my survival cannot be overstated. I know that. That knowledge is the only thing keeping me sane. That and Peeta, still holding me close so I don’t collapse.

I do notice now though, that all the other tributes are stood about as far apart on their chariots as they can be. Even the careers. It sinks in now that they see each other as unfortunate competition, and the thought of Peeta as my competition hadn’t even crossed my mind. Through this whole thing, he’s been my friend. My support. I tell myself now, if it happens to get down to the two of us, I’ll figure that out when it comes, and I won’t push Peeta away out of fear.

If he decides to turn on me, I think I’m okay with that. If it helps him get back home to his family, then that’s the will of the game, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s a weakness, that I don’t fear him. I’m not worried he’ll turn on me. And that just might be the death of me, but as I stand here now, tucked into his side for stability, I find that I don’t care.

We start moving again before I can find any sort of desire to care, and I stand up again as we make our way past the crowds once more and back to the hold. I try and smile at everyone who makes eye contact, but I am growing quickly exhausted, and my ability to keep this up is running thin.

It is an overwhelming relief when we make it back to the hold, and it is a blur as I am pulled from the chariot and sat down immediately. I am swarmed as they remove my shoes and fan me, which makes me think I was closer to passing out than I thought.

My only thought is that hopefully it didn’t show on camera.

Notes:

This is a slightly longer than normal chapter, but I just wanted to squeeze it all into one!

Chapter 7: The Comedown

I hear the excited squeal before I actually see Effie, but suddenly she is in my face, chatting away about just about everything under the sun. I’m almost thankful that she isn’t letting me get a word in edgeways, because I really don’t feel up to entertaining her right now. Maybe once I’m out of these clothes, showered and fed, but it is only just coming to my attention that I haven’t actually eaten today, and have been on my feet nonstop since I woke up. Instead, I give her a weary smile to show that I am listening, to the best of my ability, however limited that may be.

I’m used to being hungry, of course I am, but the large meal last night was a shock to my system, I think. They always say if you’re starved, don’t overindulge because it only makes you hungrier, but I never believed them all that much. I was never able to test that theory out before but now I think there might be some truth behind those words. It would explain the sudden dizziness. That and the adrenaline worked against each other until I had nothing left to give. I still have nothing left to give.

“Come on kid, up and at ‘em.”

The voice grabs my attention immediately, as two separate pairs of hands pull me to my feet. The voice is Haymitch, I have no doubt in that, but he’s definitely not the one pulling at me. No, he’s stood in front of me, watching me carefully, a look in his eyes that I can’t quite read, but I think he actually might be sober.

Well, as sober as he can be after this morning.

There is still a hint of uncontained anger that rises in my chest at his presence, but I am far too tired and far too overwhelmed to really do anything about it right now.

The feeling of my bare feet on the cold concrete makes me shiver, but it has a cooling effect that seems to bring me back to the present a little more. Why I’m so out of it now, I have no idea, but I suppose every high has its comedown.

I am briefly aware of Effie explaining the living situation, something about each District getting its own floor, and us getting some sort of special treatment as we’re from 12. Lowest district gets the highest floor, I guess, leaving us with the penthouse. I’m beyond relieved that Peeta seems to be more open to bouncing off of Effie’s energy, as it allows me to stay silent and just decompress for a moment.

Haymitch’s eyes are on me. I’m aware of it as we make our way to the elevator, and as we ride all the way up to the top floor. I don’t make eye contact, instead fiddling with the tight band of feathers around my wrist to give my hands something, anything, to do.

I am still vaguely aware of the two pairs of hands holding my upper arms tightly, and I now recognise they belong to Cinna and the same assistant from earlier. Do I really look that unstable? I wish I could protest that, but I fear that if they let go, I’d end up on the floor, so I let them stay where they are.

As soon as we reach the penthouse, I am led away, down some corridor and into a bedroom, similar to the one on the train, just larger and brighter. Cinna and the assistant bypass the bedroom, however, and move into the huge bathroom attached onto the side. They set me down on the closed toilet seat lid, and Cinna kneels in front of me, one hand still on my shoulder.

“You did good, little bird, now come on, let’s get you comfortable.” He hums and begins plucking feathers from my hair. The action is so gentle, so caring, and I can’t help but be reminded of Peeta, just this morning, picking the tiny shards of glass from my bunches. I find myself closing my eyes and leaning into his touch, to which he laughs, but says nothing.

I’m not entirely sure how long I sit there, letting him undress me, but somewhere along the way, I am offered a cookie and a juice box. He says it should help my blood sugars but be light enough on my stomach to not make me feel sick, so I sip the juice and nibble the cookie with little protest. It’s a small sugar cookie, with flecks of chocolate in. I’ve never had chocolate since it’s extremely rare and extremely expensive in 12. I’ve only seen it or smelt it when passing the bakeries, so I try to savour every bite.

I have to admit, it does help me perk up a little. The blurriness in my mind subsides a little, making my surroundings that tiny bit clearer, but it’s enough to help me focus. I study Cinna’s face as he carefully wraps his arms around my middle to untie the corset. Once it’s undone, I feel like I can finally breathe. I hadn’t realised it was restricting my breathing so much, but now it is like my lungs have opened again and are able to fully expand. The immediate relief is immense.

He pulls me to standing and helps me out of the skirt. I know I should be arguing, trying to fight for my independence, but I’m so exhausted, and he has already seen me at my most exposed, so I have nothing left to fight for. Then, I am naked, and he assists me over to the shower.

I had expected he would make me do this bit myself, that this would be crossing some sort of line even for him, but he guides me to sitting and turns the water on, being sure to check the temperature before letting it touch my skin. I look up at him as he rinses my hair and body, ridding me of glitter and makeup and hairspray. His touch is light and delicate, almost loving as he threads his fingers through my hair. He offers me a gentle smile. It makes me think of how one might bathe an infant, or someone with some sort of handicap, and both options make my stomach sink a little. I wonder if Peeta is receiving the same treatment, or if he is allowed to shower himself, like the capable person he is.

Even with the rough sponge, Cinna’s touch is soft as he scrubs at me. His clothes are getting wet as the water fills the bottom of the shower, but if it bothers him, he doesn’t show it. He lifts my chin back with one finger, and massages my hair with some sort of shampoo, and I let out a shaky breath at how nice it feels. I don’t think I’ve ever been this well taken care of in my life, and that thought brings some conflicting emotions into my mind.

Cinna doesn’t have to do this. I know that. His job is to make me look pretty. What happens after that is not his responsibility, but here he is, taking care of me like a wounded dog. I know deep down that he wants me alive, that is the job of the stylist. To get me sponsors to increase my chances of survival, but he is still Capitol, and he is still getting paid to do it. He makes his living from the games. He will make his living from my death.

I force the thought away.

I am clean before I know it, and all traces of gold have been erased from my skin. I almost miss the way I sparkle as he pulls me up and back into the light, but it is admittedly nice to feel fresh again. I’m already feeling better, and the rush of the last half a day is already starting to come back. I want to talk about it, I want to ask Effie and Cinna and hell, even Haymitch, what they thought and how we looked. But I need to get dried and dressed first. And fed. I desperately need some food.

Cinna’s assistant, who I’m now realising I should really learn the name of, appears with some pyjamas. It is a simple oversized white t-shirt and a pair of black shorts, and I am relieved that even in a place like this, they understand the need for simple comforts.

Once I am dried and dressed, Cinna ties my hair up loosely, just to get it out of my face, and I am beginning to feel like myself again. He slips some shoes on my feet, though he says they are shoes specifically for use indoors as they are fluffy and warm, and don’t need socks underneath, and together we return to the main area of the penthouse.

This time, I actually get a good look at it. It’s bigger than any singular room I think I have ever seen, with high ceilings and windows that span entire lengths of the walls. It is split into levelled sections, with platforms and dips in the floor, but the entire place is in one room, with no walls. It seems that the bedrooms are the only rooms that get their own privacy.

The dining table is on a raised platform to my left, with the couches and a large screen in some sort of pit to my right. The kitchen is straight ahead, divided off only by a small counter with bar stools than are set on the outside. It is magnificent.

The smell of something warm and homely fills my nose and my stomach growls immediately, making me feel a little nauseous. It is then, and only then that I notice Effie, Peeta, Haymitch and the other stylists sat around the dining table with food laid out around them. It doesn’t seem like they have started yet though, likely waiting for me. I offer an apologetic smile as I sit opposite Haymitch, and Cinna joins me to my right.

“Oh! There she is! Our little superstar!” Effie clasps her hands together, and I laugh as I notice Haymitch rolling his eyes, though he is smiling. That is all it takes for the table to start chatting, and this time, the energy is radiating. My chest feels light, and my whole body seems to tingle as I am praised and complimented and gushed about. I must have done better than I thought, and it seems that the last moments of feeling faint weren’t all that noticeable.

“You two are all everybody is talking about.” Peeta’s stylist, Portia, comments, raising her glass of blood red wine to her lips. “District 12 don’t usually make such an impression, you know.”

Of course I know. Everyone knows. It’s enthralling to know that the whole of Panem will be talking about me and Peeta. I wish I could know what the people back home think of us now. I wish I could know what my parents would think. What Nicole would have thought.

Haymitch seems to notice that I am too lost in thought, too caught up in the moment to have gotten myself any food. Everyone else now has their plates piled high, but somehow, eating has dropped from the top of my priority list to the very bottom. He scoops some things onto my plate, holding a conversation simultaneously with Portia, seemingly to not draw much attention to his actions.

I’m still mad at him, of course I am, but he seems to be trying to redeem himself. He gave me space when I needed it, he sobered up, and now he’s taking care of me, in his own way. I mouth a soft ‘thank you’ to him, and he nods, lifting a glass to his mouth. At first it makes me tense, that all familiar bitterness beginning to creep in, but then I notice it isn’t his normal sickly orange liquor. It doesn’t look like Portia’s and Cinna’s wine, or Effie’s sparkling champagne. I’m not entirely sure what he’s drinking, but it isn’t until I look down at my own glass that I see it is the same as what I’ve been served, and the chance of that being alcoholic is near to nothing.

He's sober.

Or at the very least, he isn’t actively drinking, but based on his actions and his ability to hold a conversation, it feels safe to say he probably hasn’t had a drink in at least a few hours.

I’m really struggling to pinpoint exactly how I feel about this man. I know I owe him nothing, but at the same time, he’s looked after me the most, alongside Cinna, since the reaping. He helped me through the panic attack that might have just killed me if he hadn’t been there. But he insulted my sister to my face. So why do I feel like I owe him something?

It seems that I’m far too hungry to actually care what is on my plate, but I notice Haymitch didn’t dish me up anything too out there. It seems like some sort of stew; some rice and some green beans. All things we have back home. The smell actually makes me feel a little homesick for the first time since we arrived here.

My father used to make stew once a month, right at the end. I used to get my extra tessera near the end of each month, on the 23rd. I signed up for it on my 12th birthday, and then every year that followed, and it was delivered monthly on the 23rd. Tessera is the system in which children can enter their names for the reaping more times for a supply of grains and rices and things that is said to last a year. It never does. But you can do it once for each family member, and my parents always told Nicole not to. They never told me not to, so my name was put in an extra 4 times every year. And since it’s cumulative, this year, at only 16 years old, my name was in there close to 40 times.

Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter much when father made his stew. I would buy the ingredients from the markets, using all the money I had saved over the month. The meat was always sold to me as beef, but I have reasons to believe it may have been wild dog or rabbit. Likely the ones Katniss sold, or possibly my own being sold back to me. It didn’t matter much to me. I would run the ingredients home every single month, clutching them tightly in my bag as if I may lose them, and spread them out on the kitchen table.

I never did see their faces light up quite us much as those times. It was the few times I saw them all actually happy, and it was the reason I kept up hunting and transporting coal as hard as I did. For those few moments of joy that some real meals could bring.

I wipe at my face now, trying to push away the intrusive memories, but luckily nobody is paying any attention to me now anyway. I have about half cleared my plate when I realise Peeta has gone into some spiel about the bakery back home, and how he used to decorate the cakes for display, and it makes me curious on if the food has made him nostalgic too.

I don’t get long to wonder though, as a loud bang fills the sky, and the entire penthouse is doused in bright pink lights. Then orange. Then blue. I stand up and move to the window, just as the sky turns green in an explosion of light. It’s beautiful, and I hear soft ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the table behind me.

“What is it?” Peeta asks as I watch the sky light up pink again, the bits of light trickling across the night like the spitting of a dying flame.

“Fireworks.” Effie replies, her voice sounding full of wonder and pride. “They’re for you, you know. They’re a celebration.”

“They’re beautiful.” I say, and turn back to the table, looking immediately to Haymitch. I don’t have the chance to question why its him I turn to, because he is sat with his head down, his hair falling into his face. His grip on his knife is so tight, his knuckles have turned white, and still, I can see the slight tremble in his fist.

His eyes are closed, squeezed almost desperately shut, and he is chewing down on his lip. I watch him for a moment, before stepping closer.

“Haymitch-?”

He ignores me and pushes back from the table, leaving before I can get a good look at his face. I look to Effie. Is anyone going to go after him? He seemed like he was in a good mood just a moment ago, what happened?

“He’s fine. He just doesn’t like fireworks, never has, so he’ll go busy himself elsewhere. He always does.” She explains with a sigh, and the whole table knows what that means. He’ll go drink himself into a stupor until the fireworks are the least of his worries.

There is a silence that falls over everyone, disturbed only by the rhythmic explosions in the background. I look to Haymitch’s now empty seat and know now that I have to talk to him. I owe him, don’t I? So, I hurry down, and follow after him, ignoring Effie’s pleas to come back for some dessert.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which room is Haymitch’s. The putrid smell of whisky is practically radiating from behind one door, just down the hall from my room. I raise a fist and hesitantly wrap my knuckles against the metal. The sound rings out in the empty hallway, and at first, I receive no answer from the other side of the door. So, I knock again.

“Oh, fuck off, Effie.”

This time, the response is instant, and it actually makes me step away from the door. It barely even sounds like Haymitch, his voice unstable and thick. I take a shaky breath and step a little closer.
“It’s… It’s not Effie, it’s Kestrel.” I say, my own voice reflecting my uncertainty of the situation. I hear nothing, so I clear my throat. “Can I come in?”

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, wrapping it around my fingers so tightly it makes the tips numb, and I chew on my lower lip as I await his response. Eventually, it comes, though much quieter this time.

“Whatever…”

Part of me wishes he had told me to leave too. I hadn’t prepared this far, and I have no idea what I’ll even say to him. Is he upset? Annoyed? Sick? I have no idea what I’m walking into here, but still, I push the door open slowly, and it creaks, making me wince.

The smell hits me instantly, and I have to use all my concentration not to react. It is clear that whatever has gone bad in here has been going bad for a while, maybe even years. It is a smell of alcohol, though I can’t exactly pinpoint what type, and sour vomit. It leaves me fighting to keep my own food down. I gently kick aside empty bottles as I step into the room, though I can barely see where I am going. It is pitch black, the curtains drawn completely shut and the lights out. From what I can see through the haze, the lightbulb is smashed, and there has likely never been an attempt to fix it. I make a mental note to watch for any glass that may still be on the floor.

I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting from Haymitch, but this has truly surpassed any of my expectations. I can only stand for a moment, as my senses are bombarded, though I am quickly drawn back to the task at hand when I hear the soft sigh from the corner of the room.

My head turns instinctively, and with my eyes now adjusting to the darkness, I spot Haymitch sat in an armchair, his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. Both the chair and the table seem worn, with fabric and wood fraying and stained. I step closer, releasing my fingers from my shirt.

“I- “

“I don’t want to hear it, kid.” He cuts me off, lifting a hand my way. His other hand holds a large glass bottle, and he lifts it to his mouth, taking the lid in his teeth. He spits it out and it clatters to the floor, making me flinch. How it didn’t shatter on the wooden floors, I have no idea.

“What is wrong with you?” I say before I can stop myself, and in the dim light, I can see him stiffen a little. Well, since we’re having this conversation apparently, I know I need to see his face and make my way to the curtains. Something crunches under my feet as I walk, and I grimace. He huffs as I tug the curtains open, and the dust that coats my hand suggests they have not opened in a very, very long time.

Light floods the room and as I turn, I can finally get a good look at the state of it. I find myself wishing I had left myself in ignorant bliss. More bottles than I think I could count line the carpet, most empty, but some leaving dark sticky patches in the wood. I was right about the smell of vomit, as I notice mounds of clothes in all the corners, all stained in what can only be described as marinated throw up. Plates with half eaten food sit in piles around the edges, with flies and mould encasing them.

Somehow though, all the disgust fades to sympathy as I too see Haymitch properly. His expression is hard to read, but the dark patches under his eyes and the red streaks down his cheeks makes my chest burn. He lifts the bottle to his lips, turning his face from me, and for a brief moment, I swear I see a hint of shame flash across his features.

“Are you okay?” I find myself asking, but even as the question leaves my lips, I know it is ridiculous, and half regret it.

“Just peachy, sweetheart.” He replies, still not looking in my direction as I awkwardly take a step towards him. Another firework lights up the room, and I see the jolt that courses through his body at the sound, and it is now that I make the connection that makes me feel stupid.

He’s afraid of them.

Why would a man like him be scared of something so beautiful…? I scan his features, as if that will give me any type of answer, though of course it doesn’t. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek, returning my fingers to my shirt hem.

“I’m… having a really rough time figuring you out, you know.” I comment, and this seems to be enough to get him to face me, though he says nothing, so I continue. “I mean… you’re so nice to me when you haven’t been drinking, and I know we’ve only known each other, what, two days? But then other times you act like you can’t stand me. So, which is it?”

My voice shakes, and at first, he only retaliates by taking a long, deliberate swig from the bottle, closing his eyes as if trying to savour it. He lets out a deep breath, and then runs his fingers around the rim of the bottle as he talks.

“Believe it or not, not everything here is about you. Most things, sure. But what I choose to do with my time is up to me.”

Well, that didn’t answer my question, and he must think I’m entirely commenting on his drinking, which maybe a little bit, but not entirely.

“I’m going to die soon.” I say, and he tenses, his eyes immediately on my face. “And I don’t want to spend my last few days trying to figure out how my supposed mentor feels about me. If you don’t like me, fine. But you still have a job to do.”

He sits up a little straighter, taking his feet off the table with a small groan of effort. His elbows come to rest on his knees as he looks at me, his grey eyes cold.

“Look, sweetheart. I don’t exactly want to watch your parents become childless either, but once you go into that arena, you know there is nothing I can do for you, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that should be your motivation for keeping me alive.”

“Yeah, well, I try not to get too caught up with personal motivations.”

His reply makes me pause, and he leans back like he has won. He hasn’t won.

“I’m an orphan, you know?” I retaliate, and I see as his face drops instantly, his eyes widening and the revelation.

“What?”

“I’m an orphan. You know what that means, don’t you? I have no parents.”

“No. Your sister talked about your parents all the time.” He raises his eyebrows like he has caught me out in a lie.

“Yeah. She wasn’t an orphan. I am.”

“How the hell does that even work?”

I can’t help but chuckle, shaking my head at him. I’ve backed him into a corner I didn’t even know I wanted him in. Why I’m desperate to put him in his place now is beyond me, maybe it’s because of earlier, maybe it’s just my nature. But I am desperate to put him in his place.

“Died after she did, I guess. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Both of them?”

“Oh yeah. At the same time.”

I know I shouldn’t be speaking about it so nonchalantly, but I have no sympathy for the deaths of my parents. I hold no grievances, and I will sing them no requiem. They made their choice, and hell will I make mine.

“Jesus, kid…” Haymitch sighs, putting his bottle down, and it is beyond rewarding to know I may have broken through to some part of him. “Freak accident?”

I shake my head, folding my arms across my chest. This bit, admittedly, hurts to say aloud.

“Suicide.”

I try to keep my voice as steady as I can, trying to act like I don’t care at all, but of course I care a little bit, and the waver in my voice betrays that. Haymitch’s eyes immediately soften as he looks me up and down.

“Shit, Kestrel… I had no idea.”

“Yeah well, if you want motivation to keep me alive, don’t let it be the things I have back home. There isn’t anything there I’m desperate to return to.”

The room falls into a silence, though this one is not necessarily uncomfortable. I perch myself on the edge of his bed as he picks up his bottle again, filling the quiet with alcohol. He takes a long drink, before talking, though I’m not convinced it is me he’s talking to.

“Do you know how many kids like you I’ve seen pass through here?”

His voice is rough, like he’s having a hard time keeping himself contained. I can see the flickers of emotion in his expression. The agony that fades into anger, then guilt, then regret. He looks at me and I shake my head.

“46.” He says, “46 kids, that all sat here and begged me to save them. That told me about their families and their friends and the things that make them want to stay alive. The things that should make me want to keep them alive.”

His voice cracks, and his grip on the bottle is so tight that I’m amazed it hasn’t broken. It is now that I feel a real sense of sympathy for this man. Year in, year out, he gets to know children, only to watch them die horrific, painful deaths. That would mess anyone up. He then points at me with his free hand.

“You haven’t done that. You are the first kid I’ve seen come through here that doesn’t think the world owes them something. Everyone thinks that they will be the one to come back alive, but you don’t seem all that bothered about living or dying. Do you?”

I stare at him. At his finger that is aimed at my chest, and I can only stare as he continues.

“So, sweetheart, my motivation is going to be finding you a reason to want to come back alive.”

Notes:

Another longer chapter, just some filler, but I had a super fun time writing this one!

Chapter 8: The Contemplation

My throat is filled with bile as I trapse back to my room, my feet seeming impossibly heavier with each step. I head straight back, not daring to make a pitstop to the main room to say goodnight. I don’t know what my face looks like right now, but I feel shaky and nauseous, and I know my expression betrays that. Being bombarded with questions from Effie and Cinna and Portia seems like my own type of personal hell right now, so I opt to do my best to avoid it. They might follow me anyway, but there is a much lower chance of interaction in the sanctuary of my room, so to my room I go.

The door shuts heavily behind me, and it is only then that I allow myself to process the previous conversation. I had gone in to try and work Haymitch out. To try and get him to do his job, or to figure out why he wasn’t, but instead he has me questioning my own motives.

I’m not suicidal, I know that. The idea of death is always one that has terrified me. Even when my family was whole, I would wake up in the night screaming over horrific dreams of losing the ones I loved. It only got worse after the death of Katniss’ father, when I would only sleep when my body gave in on me.

Now I have nobody left to lose, the dreams have mostly subsided, though some still slip through the cracks if I’m particularly stressed or anxious.

So why did his statement bother me so much? He was right, wasn’t he? I’m not all that bothered about living or dying. Nobody wants to die, at least not in the way the Games will provide, but I can’t say that making it back is something spurring me to keep going. If I do happen to die out there, then I can only hope I go quickly. I’d hope for painlessly too, but I wouldn’t dare count myself so lucky.

I pace my room, trying to calm my racing mind. With this idea now planted in my head, I know I am in for a restless night. I all but make tracks in my carpet and know that this is counterproductive. Kicking the indoor shoes off, I feel the lush carpet under my feet. It is a pale blue, almost the same shade as Katniss’ reaping dress, and for some reason, that small familiarity brings a lump to my throat that is hard to swallow.

I wouldn’t say that Katniss and Gale are things to return to. Not anymore. I’m almost positive that they have both written me off as dead already. They have probably convinced Prim to forget all about me and emptied my weapon stashes in the woods out of respect. If they even had that much respect left to spare. Maybe they decided to leave them there, to rot away. To become one with the forest. It wouldn’t surprise me.

I realise now with an aching heart that I should have told Katniss where I kept my money and tessera hidden. At least she would have been able to put them to good use, to feed Prim and her mother. The thought of Prim starving because of me is nearly enough to make me lose my dinner.

Maybe I had been living on some constant high until now, but Haymitch has really drilled in the inevitability of my death, and it is safe to say I am terrified. 46 children have been in this room before me since Haymitch won. None returned. Not one child since Haymitch has been able to defeat the odds, so why the hell should I think I have a chance? Why the hell should I think I’m something special? I’m not. I’m just another girl from District 12 forced to be something much bigger than I am.

Finally, I stop pacing and curl into the bed. The sheets are velvety, encasing me in a cocoon of warmth, but it isn’t enough to ease the pounding of blood in my ears as my heart races. So, I curl up as tightly as I can manage, wrapping my arms around myself, like a child after a nightmare. It must work, because eventually, I drift off into an uneasy slumber.

My sleep is disturbed and restless, and I wake up consistently throughout the night, fighting against my covers, coated in sweat. At one point, I’m sure I wake up choking, and it takes a full half hour to get my breathing settled enough to go back to sleep.

The next time I wake up, sun is streaming through my windows, and I hear a rhythmic tapping at my door, and Effie announcing it is time to get up because we have a “big, big, big day ahead of us!” I decide immediately that she has far too much energy for this time of the morning.

Still, she tells me, and I hear her repeat to Peeta across the hall, not to shower or get dressed, and just to come to breakfast, where all will be explained. So begrudgingly, I pull myself to my feet, rubbing at my face to try and wake myself up. It doesn’t do an awful lot, other than serving to make my otherwise pale cheeks red.

I don’t shower, as instructed, but I do wander into the bathroom and splash some cold water onto my cheeks, which helps ease some of the grogginess. Anything here is an improvement, so I dry off and get ready to face the day. It isn’t until I am halfway to the main room that I realise I am barefoot, but the cold tiles feel refreshing, so I decide not to go back for the indoor shoes and continue on instead.

As usual, I am the last one at the table, but everyone seems just as exhausted as I am, besides Effie, of course. Peeta is leaning against his hand, his eyes half shut. His face is pale, which is unlike him, and his eyes are sporting the same heavy bags I know mine are.

Haymitch, sat at the head of the table, is either far too drunk, or far too sober for this time in the morning, and as I approach the table, I can’t tell which. He is repeatedly pushing a piece of toast around his plate with his knife, seemingly transfixed on it. His brows are furrowed as he stares down at it, only lifting his head when I sit down beside him.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He mumbles, and though his voice is raspy, it isn’t slurred, so I’ll take what I can get. I offer him a quiet reply, before reaching and grabbing a piece of toast from the pile for myself and biting into it. I know by now how these things go. If I don’t eat straight away, I might get distracted or pulled away and spend the rest of the day hungry. After yesterday, that isn’t something I’m eager to repeat.

Peeta begins dishing himself up some eggs and some sort of meat, but even he doesn’t seem to have a massive appetite this morning either as he picks at it. I doubt he’s bothered by the early morning, since I know most of the bakers are up with the sun in 12, so there must be something else bothering him. If I get a chance later, I’ll ask him.

“Look, I’ll get right to the point.” Haymitch says, drawing both of our attention. We both put down the things in our hands and look at him as he continues. “Do either of you have any skills I can work with? Literally anything?”

I glance at Peeta, and he is looking at me, as if expecting me to go first.

“I mean, I can hunt? Kinda?” I reply, turning my attention back to Haymitch. At this, he gives a small hum, raising his eyebrow.

“More than kinda, Kestrel, come on.” Peeta chimes in, and I give him a questioning look, but he is focused on Haymitch now. “My father buys her game. There’s her and this one other girl, and they both hit them through the eye, every single time. But I know which ones are hers because there’s only one puncture wound instead of two.”

He’s talking about Katniss. When she hunts, her arrows go in one side and out the other. My game doesn’t share this feature. I lean back in my chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable now. Just how much does this boy know about my life? More than I do, apparently.

“Not every time…” I mutter, but neither of them seem all that interested anymore, and Haymitch asks his next question right over the top of me.

“Weapon of choice?”

“Knives.” I say, though realising that sounds too vague, I continue, “Throwing knives. They’re lighter and the weight distribution is different. But they’re long range.”

He nods, his bottom lip stuck slightly out like he’s impressed.

“And you’re good?”

Before I can even answer, Peeta is standing up, reaching for an apple from the bowl in the middle. I stare at him, begging him not to do what I think he’s going to do, but when Haymitch slips a sharp steak knife into my hand, I know where this is going.

Fortunately, Effie puts her foot down.

“Absolutely not!” She gasps, putting a hand on Peeta’s arm. “Sit back down! Have some manners!”

Unfortunately, he ignores her, looking to Haymitch, who nods, and gives me a nudge. So, almost on autopilot, I stand, weighing the knife in my hand. Admittedly, this one is more like the ones I use. The handle is lighter, with more weight in the blade itself. I spin it around a few times, just to be sure. If I wasn’t fully convinced I could do this, I’d put a stop to it here and now, but I know I need to show Haymitch something he can work with. I need to give him some faith in me.

Peeta stands against the far wall, placing the apple on his head as he stands up straighter, and I stand a fair distance from him. This is risky, of course it is, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t think Peeta was completely insane for this.

I hear Effie mumbling to Haymitch desperately, trying to get her point across, but he is shushing her, telling her she’ll ruin my concentration, and she huffs and folds her arms in defeat.

I turn my full focus to Peeta, who nods softly. There is no hint of fear or doubt in his eyes, which scares me way more than it should. Should he really have this much trust in me just from buying my game? What if I miss? What if I hurt him?

No.

I know my own abilities, and the longer I put this off, the more I’ll spiral, and then the more likely I am to hurt him, so with a shaky breath to steady myself, I launch the knife towards him.

I hear Effie squeal before I hear the crunch, and for a split second, I think I’ve missed and my stomach drops, but then Peeta steps away from the wall with a huge grin plastering his face. In his place, stuck to the wall, is the apple. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.

He approaches me, and wraps an arm round my shoulder, and I find I am smiling too, despite how much I’m trembling. That adrenaline rush was all I needed to wake me, and it seems that the same has gone for Peeta.

“See! Told you she was good!” He grins, but it is only Haymitch who listens. Effie is already on her feet, yanking the knife and the apple from the wall, trying to smooth out the hole that it left behind, mumbling to herself about the lack of manners and decency in the pair of us. About how all she wanted was a nice breakfast, but no, that’s too much to ask.

“Yeah, well, he’s strong. Look at these muscles!” I retaliate, half playfully, squeezing the muscles on the arm that Peeta has wrapped around my shoulder. As if to get me back, Peeta scoops me up into his arms, which I instantly try to fight, to little avail. He then makes a point of lifting me, curling me like you would a set of weights, until I push away from him. We are both giggling though, and my chest feels light. Lighter than it has in a long time. I’m almost reminded what it is like to have friends again.

“That’s enough you two.” Haymitch says, but he too is laughing. “Come sit down and get some food into you.”

We both listen, and return to the table, where Effie is now sitting too, her expression pouty. It’s clear she isn’t used to being ignored, or not getting her own way, and I have to hold back a laugh. I bite into my toast to muffle anything that happens to escape. Peeta is wearing the same look I am, like two naughty children who have just been scolded.

I glance at Haymitch, who is sipping a mug of black coffee, the smell lingering in the air, but he too is clearly trying to stifle his reaction to Effie. This clearly is an exchange between the pair of them that happens commonly enough that he has learnt how to ignore it, or at least not escalate it.

He quickly manages to change the subject, by explaining the timeline between now and the arena. He tells us that we have a week, or just less than, before we are put in. He explains that we have 3 days of group training, leaning new skills and making allies with the other tributes, should we choose to. Then one day of individual assessment, where we will perform our chosen skills to the Gamemakers. That night, a score will be televised to the entirety of Panem, of what the Gamemakers rated us on a scale of 1 to 12. He says this helps the sponsors know who to root for, so we need to try our hardest to get a good score, though it isn’t the end of the world if we don’t.

Effie then chimes in, explaining that the next day is fully interview preparation. Her and Haymitch will take turns teaching us how to behave in front of the crowds. What to say, what not to say, how to sit and stand and react. Things like that. The interviews will be that night.

Then, the next morning we are launched into the arena.

Thinking about the schedule makes my head hurt. They really don’t want to give us a moment to rest and conserve energy, do they? It is one thing after the other, for the entertainment of the Capitol.
“Today is your first day of group training.” Haymitch explains, biting into his own toast finally. “And I know how tempting it’ll be to show off. But don’t.”

I raise my eyebrow at this. Why wouldn’t we want to show off? Surely, we want the other tributes to know our strengths and our abilities, so they don’t kill us off immediately. Seeing my confusion, Haymitch continues.

“Take this time to learn new skills. How to start fires, how to tie knots, what berries and nuts you can eat without killing yourself. Leave the showing off until the fourth day.”

“It’s the Career’s one downfall.” Effie adds, clearly over whatever tantrum she had been throwing. “They are talented with their weapons, but they’re arrogant. They never believe they’ll get killed off by dehydration or the cold. If you can keep yourselves alive that way, you’re one step ahead of them.”

“Plus, the other tributes not knowing your weapon choices gives you an advantage. You’ll see the Careers running to their weapons, so you’ll know instantly if they’re long or short range. Leave them guessing.” Haymitch says, raising his mug as if toasting to the advice. Effie nods in agreement.

I guess it makes sense. If they see me with a handful of knives, should I happen to get hold of some, they’ll likely assume my weapons are short range. They’ll assume they need to get close for me to do any damage, and staying at a distance will keep them safe. In reality, it is the other way around. The closer they are, the harder it is to get a decent hit. If they see me training with them, they’ll know that.

“So, we have to make ourselves… look vulnerable?” Peeta asks and the room falls quiet for a moment. Haymitch is the first to speak up with a soft sigh.

“Not exactly. There is nothing vulnerable about survival skills. If you want to try your hand out at different weapons, you’re welcome to. Pick up a bow and arrow, do some axe throwing, but save your strengths.”

The conversation dies off quickly enough and we are now ushered to go and shower and get ready. I try to make my shower as quick as possible, wanting to give myself some time to mentally prepare for this, but I had almost forgotten how nice the showers are here, so I take slightly longer than I intend to.

When I return to my bedroom, dried and wrapped in a towel, there is an outfit laid out neatly on my bed. I step closer, ringing out the bit of my hair that the dryer seemed to miss in my haste.

It’s nothing special, just a shirt and some trousers. The main section of the shirt is black, with some red and silver detailing in the sleeves and collar. The number 12 is patched onto the left sleeve in white, as well as on the back, just underneath the neck. To keep track of who is from which District, I guess.

The trousers are also black, though they are a tight, flexible material that seems made for activity. As I slip the outfit on, I note that it is extremely comfortable, and therefore likely extremely expensive. The material is soft against my skin, not scratchy like most of the clothes back home. It fits me like a glove, and I wonder how they have managed to get my sizing so right thus far without taking any real measurements. Besides the ones taken for my parade outfit, but even the dress on the train fit me like it was made for me. I haven’t had well fitting clothes in a while, and it’s a luxury I didn’t know I was missing out on.

Underneath the outfit on the bed is a pair of red socks, so I slip those on, and then the black, red and silver trainers that were left by the foot of the bed. Again, I am shocked by the softness of the shoes. My feet sink into a spongey material within, and it feels like I am walking on springs. The things I would do for a pair of these back home.

I tie my hair up and out of my face, in simple bunches like I had in yesterday morning, and dare to take a look at myself in the mirror. I can’t deny that I look exhausted, and I tug at the clothes a little, trying to make myself look any more familiar. It doesn’t work.

It seems that before I have even entered the arena, they have managed to strip me from my sense of self. Though isn’t that the point of all this? Its’s their goal to turn me into something I’m not. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

It’s been less than three days since I was back home, and yet I feel like I can barely remember what being back in 12 feels like anymore. It seems absurd to me that 3 days ago I was fighting to survive. Now I’m living in a temporary luxury. Of course, I’ll be back to fighting to survive soon enough, just not in the way I’m used to.

I am forced from my thought by a rapid knocking at the door.

“Kestrel, come on, you have to go!” Effie calls, and it is clear that we are running behind schedule. I doubt we are actually running behind, but it must be behind her schedule for her to be getting in such a state. She’d never actually allow me to be late, she’s made that clear enough so far. I reckon she’d drag me down to the training centre half naked if it meant getting me there on time.

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming…” I mutter, tightening my bunches once more and heading for the door, having to tear my eyes from my reflection in the process.

I am all but swept off my feet as Effie pushes me to the elevator, and I can only manage a last second wave to Haymitch before the doors shut. Peeta looks at me, biting down on the inside of his cheek, but that grin is still creeping onto his lips. I give him a look, and he looks away, playing innocent, his eyes moving to the ceiling to avoid mine.

Effie seems more than proud that she managed to round us both up so efficiently, and when the doors hiss open, we are face to face with the training centre. It seems that most of the other tributes are already there, loitering around, but sticking to their pairs, or even on their own.

There is a harsh push on my back, and both Peeta and I are shoved into the room. I turn back to Effie, who simply gives a sickly smile and a small wave.

“Remember our advice!” She chirps, and then the elevator doors shut, leaving us alone.

It doesn’t feel at all dramatic to say it feels like being thrown into a lion’s den. I look to Peeta, and he seems as anxious as I am. Our competition are immediately sizing us up, and I know for a fact that every pair of eyes in the room are on us.

Some snickers catch my ear, and I whip my head round, to see a group of four huddled near the far wall. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what District they’re from. It’s the Careers from 1 and 2. Two tall, intimidating looking boys, one slim, stunningly beautiful blonde girl, and the small dark-skinned girl. I had originally thought she was younger, based on her height and build, which didn’t make sense to me, but now I can see her clearer than I could at the parade, and I’m more convinced she’s around my age. I had thought all Careers were 18. They are trained up and volunteer in their last year of the reaping, but there is no way this girl is 18. Maybe in a lower District, where starvation can stunt growth, but not in a Career District.

Did no other Careers step up and take her place? It doesn’t make sense to me at all.

It isn’t long before the other Districts arrive, their escorts pushing them out the elevator as harshly as Effie did us, and then all 24 of us are here. How they can make us all train together a week before we’ll be murdering each other is beyond me. It strikes me as a cruel idea.

It is exactly 10am when the head trainer, who introduces herself as Atala, enters and rounds us up. She explains we will be in here for most of the day for the next 3 days. We will eat lunch as a group, with all 24 tributes sharing one space. Again, the idea makes me uneasy.

She, like Haymitch and Effie, explains the importance of not overlooking the survival skills. She says most of us will likely die from natural causes, rather than other tributes. At this, the Careers all laugh, and I understand now why Effie called them arrogant.

According to Atala, we aren’t actually allowed to train with any other tributes, including the ones from our District, unless we are working on survival skills. Any sparring must be done with one of the Capitol trainers. To avoid any injuries before the arena, I guess.

We are then allowed to disperse, and like Haymitch said they would, I watch as the careers run to their weapons. One of the boys, the district 2 boy, I think, grabs a large sword, immediately swinging it around. The district 1 boy grabs a spear and spins it in his hands. The blonde girl loiters for a moment, before too opting for a spear. My attention, however, is on the other girl. The smaller girl, who heads straight to the bow and arrows.

I find myself watching her for a moment, as she weighs out the different options, testing their weights and their sizes, before landing on the smallest of the bows. It seems to be the lightest, based on how she picks it up. It’s a modern, sleek, silver weapon, clearly designed to be carried long term.

Peeta tugs on my arm, grabbing my attention back. I must have been watching the Careers a little too closely for his liking.

“How much do you know about edible plants?” He asks, and it takes me a moment to respond. There is a look in his eyes that suggests that he wants us as far away from the Careers as we can get, and for now, I decide to humour him.

“I know some. One of my old friends had a dad that was really into foraging, but doesn’t hurt to revise it, right?”

He nods, and together, we head over to that station. The trainer seems excited to have someone to teach, and actually, over the course of the next hour or so, I feel like we both learn a decent amount.
The trainer teaches us which plants are edible raw, if we’re starving and need some short-term energy, like berries and flowers. He shows us which plants can be cooked to provide long term energy, like leaves and barks. Most importantly, he shows us which plants to avoid. There are some that are only harmful if eaten, but there are some that are harmful even if touched.

To really drill this in, he spreads a large handful of cards out onto a table. There must be at least 50. We are told to sort them into 3 piles of edible raw, edible cooked, and not edible. Working together, Peeta and I finish with a score of 48 out of the 52, only dropping the four points by forgetting that a handful of leaves are edible raw, but the trainer says it is better safe than sorry, so it’s not a bad score at all, and he feels confident we know enough to survive, as long as we remember it.

It is now that I notice properly that a large handful of tributes haven’t even looked at any of the survival skills stations, much too fascinated with sparring and weapons. Is doing this giving us an advantage or a disadvantage?

Peeta and I decide that our next stop is going to be a first aid station. One that has also been severely neglected by other tributes over the last couple of hours. Here, we learn how to do stitches, and bandage wounds and administer medicines, both man-made and natural ones we could find in the arena. I get to practice typing a bandage on Peeta’s leg, and he learns how to massage mine to get rid of cramps. My favourite part is practicing the stitches on the little chunks of fake flesh though, and by the end of the next hour, we’re both able to perform emergency first aid. Peeta is much better at it than I am, my hands far too shaky to get the stitches nearly as neatly as he did, but the instructor reassures me that in a life-or-death situation, knowing how to stitch at all can save your life, and this cheers me up.

I think we both find that the survival skills are way more fun than we both thought they’d be, and it feels extremely productive too. A lot of the others have spent the day swinging the same weapon around, and while for some, it will help, the Careers clearly know what they’re doing and are trying to show off. They aren’t learning anything new, and therefore wasting their time.

This is definitely giving us an advantage.

To my surprise, Peeta says he wants to keep the bandage on his leg that I gave him. He says it is so he can show Effie and Haymitch when we return to the penthouse. I don’t try to stop him. It’s his choice after all.

Lunch comes and goes pretty uneventfully. They don’t give us a lot of options, mostly breads and different types of meats and sauces and vegetables. I guess eating too much would make us sick if we then continued to train after a heavy meal. It makes sense. I’m not hugely hungry, but I’ve learnt my lesson about missing meals here, so I grab a bread roll and a slice of what I think is ham. Knowing this place, it could really be anything though.

Thankfully, when I take a bite, I find that it definitely is ham, though nothing like any ham I’ve ever had. It tastes almost smoky, like it’s been cooked over a fire. It also has a sweet aftertaste, which, despite being odd initially, I don’t hate.

Peeta is a little more adventurous, going with some sort of fish, I think, and some rice. The rice is sticky and coated in something neither of us can actually place, but he says it’s good. I try to take his word on that, but I know I won’t be trying it.

I notice that we are the only tributes sat even slightly close to each other, besides the careers, who are huddled in a small circle, whispering to one another between mouthfuls from their loaded plates. The others are sat almost as far from each other as they can manage. Peeta and I are more or less shoulder to shoulder, talking and laughing and whatnot. It is a stark contrast to everyone else that makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

Fortunately, it’s over quickly enough, and we are ushered back to the training room. Peeta and I decide to go our separate ways now, focusing on the skills we both individually need to work on. He wants to practice climbing, he says, and I want to practice snares. I already know how to make a few, but I’ve never been as good at it as Gale or Katniss, so I know there is room for improvement. Being able to catch a rabbit or two that way might be the difference between life and death.

By the time we are dismissed from the room to return to our apartments, my fingers are burning, rubbed completely raw by the rope and metal wires I had wrapped around them time and time again to try and perfect my technique. I blow on them, thinking it might help ease some of the heat, but it doesn’t do a whole lot, and I know this is something I’ll have to wait out.

Peeta isn’t in much better shape, his hands blistered, the skin painfully exposed after so long of harsh friction against the rock wall. He has them clasped together when he approaches me, as if hoping I won’t notice, but I do. I take his hands in mine, feeling the heat that radiates from them, though he assures me he’s naturally that warm.

I frown, pulling myself off my aching knees to standing, giving my latest snare a gentle nudge with my toe. It snaps down, causing Peeta to flinch, but he laughs immediately after, his face showing that he’s impressed.

“You’ll have to teach me that.” He says, his eyes scanning the small contraption, taking in each detail.

“I will.” I reply, kicking it harder to break it so that no other tribute can copy my design. “Tomorrow, okay? We should get out of here.”

And get out of there we do. It is almost a breath of fresh air returning to the elevator, where it is just the two of us. Being around the other tributes had been suffocating. Coming from a lower District, it is just an understood, unspoken agreement that we are among the weakest. Likely to be among the first picked off.

District 12 hardly ever have anyone to root for past the second or third day, because there is an unspoken rule that we are weak. And most of the time, it’s true. We aren’t raised to have survival instincts. We are starved and exhausted and broken. The other tributes know that, and therefore we are an easy target.

That also means that there is always at least one other pair of eyes on us at all times. Other tributes watch us, to figure out what we do and don’t know. I did my best to make it look like I knew nothing, by messing up my snares when I knew someone was watching. By struggling to tie a bandage when I could feel someone’s eyes on me.

Playing weak was never a strategy I wanted to take up, but it seems to be the one I’ve got. It worked for a girl a few years ago. Johanna Mason, I think her name was, from District 7. She cried in all her interviews. Scored unbelievably low in her individual assessment, and then went into the arena stronger than anyone expected. They mostly left her alone at first, because they thought she wasn’t a threat, but then she won, because as it turned out, she was ruthless.

Maybe if it worked for her, it can work for me.

Though, I’m not the type to turn on the waterworks for some pity points, so I’ll have to figure out an alternative for that one.

Whatever keeps me alive the longest.

Notes:

This chapter actually caused me so much trouble for some reason, I just could not figure out where I wanted to take it, so enjoy what I managed to scrounge together!

Chapter 9: The Girl

“You’re really not going to give us anything?”

I shake my head at the question and look up to Haymitch as I take a bite of mashed potatoes and gravy. It definitely isn’t my favourite meal, but it’s plain enough to stomach and I’m hungry after training, so it’ll do. He is looking at me with those glassy, hazed eyes, and I refuse to entertain it. While there is more sympathy to give him now, it doesn’t mean I have to be okay with him like this, because I’m not. The sight of him like this makes something in me burn.

“There’s nothing to give. I trained. In the training centre. What else is there to say?” I reply, and as I drop my gaze, I briefly catch the way his eyes narrow. He picks his glass up and takes a sip of whisky, the ice clinking against the edge of the glass, and I can’t help but feel it is deliberate. He’s trying to get under my skin. It’s working.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Something to help me keep you alive, maybe?” He says with a sigh, leaning back in his chair.

The bitterness in the petname makes my stomach sink, and I refuse to look at him. I won’t. Luckily, Peeta chimes in, so I don’t have to.

“The careers seem strong.” He mumbles, pushing his own food around his plate for a moment before lifting his fork to his mouth. “A spear, a sword, a bow and… I actually don’t know about the other girl… she kinda flitted between weapons, didn’t she?”

He looks at me, as if trying to see if I have any input. I don’t. It is true that the District 1 girl couldn’t seem to settle on a weapon of choice, which definitely struck me as odd. Haymitch also seems interested by this and leans forward.

“A multi-wielder? Those are rare… and incredibly dangerous. Was she good?”

“Missed a couple shots but killed more than she missed.” I say with a shrug, putting another spoonful in my mouth. I shouldn’t be so casual about this. I know that, of course I do, but getting upset about the careers won’t get me anywhere. If I get impaled by her spear, or beheaded by her axe, that’s the way it’s going to be. Worrying about it won’t prevent it.

Haymitch scoffs, lifting his glass to his lips again, like he’s frustrated with me. He swallows heavily, near emptying the glass, before putting it down with a clatter. I hear Effie huff from the other end of the table, but like the rest of us, she says nothing.

“And what about the girl from 2?” Haymitch asks, leaning his elbows on the table, much to Effie’s distaste. “The… little one?”

So, he’d noticed her too. I can’t tell if it is a good or a bad thing. If Haymitch had noticed her, then likely so had all the other mentors. And likely so had the sponsors. Maybe that’s why they threw her in this year. To make a change. To be a surprise.

“She’s good. Bow user.” I mumble, now daring to raise my gaze. I regret it near instantly, as Haymitch is watching me intently.

“It’s a dangerous mix.” He sighs, “But no more dangerous than normal.”

“You say as if they don’t win every year.” I say, pushing my plate away from me. I am no longer hungry, the conversation topic sapping my appetite.

“Almost every year.” Effie inputs, like that helps anything at all. She reaches forward and gently pushes my plate back towards me.

“Real reassuring.” I mutter.

It isn’t too long at all before Effie dismisses us from the table, telling us to wash up and rest up. She promises with everything she has that tomorrow will be a better day, and that the first day is always hard, but I’m finding it hard to believe her. I truly believe she just wants to keep us in good spirits and good shape for the public eye.

--

For day 2, I am up early I am showered and in the main room before Effie even has a chance to do her rounds. When I enter, dressed in the same attire as yesterday, she is sat at the dining table, surrounded by paper and books, a mug of… something… in her hand.

“Good morning.” I say, and she jumps, her head snapping to me. She puts a smile on and waves me over.

“Oh, Kestrel, you scared the life out of me! It’s a little early for you to be up, isn’t it?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I respond with a shrug, which earns me a sympathetic pout.

I approach her, and take a seat opposite her, immediately picking up one of the sheets of paper. Across it are countless hand sketched drawings of dresses and shoes and hair pieces. I now notice the pencils and charcoal crayons scattering the table. Effie made these.

My eyes fix on the sheet in my hand, displaying a dress seemingly made entirely of butterflies. It poofs out at the waist, though more stiffly than any other dress I’ve seen before, like it’s being held up with wires. Butterflies litter the sleeves, and some are attached off to the side with small pieces of wire, like they’re in flight.

All around the sketch, are small notes written in the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen. Small and cursive and exactly what I’d expect from Effie. It explains the dress will be orange and gold and mimic something called a… monarch butterfly.

“It’s beautiful.” I say, glancing up at Effie who has been watching me silently since the moment I sat down. She lets out a small breath and smiles, reaching for the paper in my hand. I hand it over, and she runs her fingers across the sheet.

“Thank you, dear… This is my idea for next year’s reaping dress. You have to plan it so far in advance these days… To make sure everything is just right.”

Something about the small comment makes me uneasy, though at first, I can’t tell what. Then it hits me. She’s already planning outfits for this time next year. She knows, without a single doubt in her head, that she will be alive this time next year. I’ve been desperately trying to survive day by day and she’s planning years ahead?

It’s a luxury I have never known and will never know.

I don’t want to dampen her mood or her creativity though, and smile and nod as best I can. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to pick up that she may have said something unfortunate and continues to talk in the way I know I can depend on her to.

“I just made myself a fruit tea, would you like one?”

“Yes please… That sounds great.”

The words are foreign in my mouth, but I find myself wanting to understand Effie a little more, and if drinking her weird teas is the way to do so, then drink her weird teas I will.

She claps her hands together and hurries off to the kitchen. In her absence, I find myself looking out the window opposite me. The sun is just beginning to rise, coating the entire penthouse in a golden hue. Even the harshest of white paints are softened and transformed into something dreamy and comforting. I’ve never quite understood morning people, but I can’t deny the beauty of this moment.

I lean my chin into my hand, watching the way the clouds seem to dance across the sky in the streaming light. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen in 12, not with all the smog. As the sun raises to just the right level, my face is doused in pure rays of sun, heating up my skin as I continue to watch out. It is peaceful and I find myself thinking I could stay here forever, if circumstances would allow. But of course, they don’t, and my thoughts are cut short by Effie placing a mug down in front of me.

I look down into the cup, and while I’m not sure what I was expecting, the deep crimson liquid is not it. I look back up at her, like I’m waiting for her to confirm that this is definitely what she intended to serve me.

“It’s made of fresh berries, love.” Effie says with a laugh, clearly having seen my face. She sits back opposite me, lifting her own mug back to her lips. “Though I added some honey, since it can be a… bitter taste… the first few times. Try it.”

I am still trying to find the courage to do so when Haymitch stumbles into the room, in stained pyjama bottoms and a dirty vest top. He leans his shoulder into the wall, and Effie takes this as a cue to tidy up all her papers and place them neatly back into the box from which they came. I do not blame her one bit.

Still, her voice is cheerful as she addresses him.

“Good morning, Haymitch! Sleep well?”

He instantly raises a hand with a sigh, his eyes closed as he seems to take a moment to compose himself.

“Give me a damn minute to wake up, Eff.” He slurs, and the almost affectionate nickname for her takes me by surprise. Both Effie and I can clearly tell he has been up for a while. Nobody can get that intoxicated that quickly, but neither of us call him out on it.

I watch as he all but trips into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of something definitely alcoholic. He looks up at us for the first time, and his eyes land on me immediately. I feel that shiver down my spine, bracing myself for whatever he might have to say, but nothing comes, and instead, he comes to sit down at the head of the table.

“Ready for day two?” He asks, and I have to take a moment to lower my guards enough to answer him. I decide now is the time to take a sip of the tea, which, to Effie’s credit, isn’t as awful as I was expecting. It’s bitter, like she said it might be, but the honey helps, and I can taste the sweetness swirling and mixing with the tartness of the berries.

“As ready as I can be.” I reply finally. It’s the only answer I have, and it seems to satisfy him, as he finishes his glass.

Effie glances at the delicate watch around her wrist, a beautiful golden band decorated in gems I can only assume are diamonds or something else equally as expensive.

“I’m going to go wake Peeta, you should get some breakfast. Both of you.”

She says the last bit with a pointed and almost exasperated look to Haymitch, who waves a dismissive hand in her direction, and lifts his glass. It sickens me to know he is implying that the alcohol is his breakfast, and he needs nothing else. All sympathy I may have had for this man has severely lessened in the last 5 minutes alone.

I decide I don’t want to be alone in the room with him while Effie is gone, so I take it upon myself to go to the kitchen to let the Avox’s that we are ready for breakfast. I haven’t actually been in this part of the kitchen, but the Avox stood in the corner silently makes me jump, and I have to take a second to remind myself to breathe.

She is stood, just out of view from the dining table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She has beautiful red hair that falls around her shoulders, but her blue eyes are dull and empty. I wonder how someone so pretty could end up like this. Her eyes fall on me, and she tilts her head to the side. Their way of asking if I need anything.

They can’t talk, Avox’s. I know that but seeing it in person is nothing like I had expected. We are taught in school that those who betray or rebel against the Capitol are taken in, and reduced to near nothing, before having their tongues cut out and being made into Capitol slaves. A small part of me was always suspicious, never quite believing it. I thought it might have been a tool to scare us. To keep us in line. But I can see the horrors in this poor girl’s eyes, and I know now for certain that it is not just a fear tactic, but a very real punishment.

She tilts her head the other way now, her eyes studying me, and it takes all I have to stop staring at her.

“We’re ready for breakfast.” I choke out, to which she nods, turning on her feet and hurrying off somewhere. Her movements are so precise, so robotic, and I wonder just how they got her like this. What did they put her through? How long has she been here, waiting hand and foot on the wealthy? I think I would rather be dead than be an Avox.

I shake my head, trying to shake the thoughts from my mind, before returning and sitting back at the table, taking my mug of fruit tea in my hands. Haymitch isn’t even paying attention to me, his glass now refilled as he leans on his elbows over it. The smell of whisky radiating from him makes me cringe, and I sip my tea again, hoping the smell of that will overpower the smell of him.

Effie returns shortly, followed by Peeta, who both sit just as the Avox’s begin to bring out breakfast.

“You two have about an hour before we need to get you back down to the training centre, so get some food in you!” She says, reaching straight for a bowl and some oatmeal.

I can’t stand the texture of oatmeal, so I decide to dish myself up some toast and eggs. I actually find that I’m surprisingly hungry this morning, so once I’m done with that, I try some of the new meats I haven’t tried before.

I try a sausage, which Haymitch proudly tells me is just the stuff butchers can’t sell to anyone else, ground up and put in a casing. I think he’s trying to put me off, but when I retaliate by telling him I’ve eaten bird entrails to survive, he shuts up and puts his head down.

Effie then politely asks us not to talk about entrails at the dining table, which earns a snicker from Peeta, who also puts his head down. She sighs, running a hand down her face, before taking a breath and putting the smile back onto her lips.

“Come on you two, eat up, we have to go soon.”

I have to give her credit; the woman is in control of her emotions. It’s an admirable trait.

I just finish off my next slice of toast when Effie checks her watch, and jumps from the table, motioning for us to do the same. The routine is much the same as yesterday, and we are both pushed into and out of the elevator on either side. Then we are in the lion’s den again.

Like the end of yesterday, Peeta and I decide to go separate ways, at least until lunch, where we will decide again if we want to pair back up or continue individual training.

I want to try fire starting. I know how to start fires, in theory, but I’ve never been very good at it, and I know in the arena, having this skill under my belt might just keep me alive. I head over, and the Capitol instructor smiles at me, and motions me over to a small, already prepped station of kindling and two sticks. All the essential things to start a fire. In theory.

I kneel down and take the two sticks in my hands, one in each. Science says I just need to rub these together hard enough and long enough to create friction, and then place it into the kindling. I’ve seen Katniss do it so many times, but every time I’ve ever tried, I can’t get my hands to move fast enough, and my arms tire too quickly to keep it up.

Still, I place one stick down, the larger one, and begin twisting the other one between my palms as fast as I can manage on top of it. I keep it up until my arms are burning and my palms are painful, and still nothing happens. Not even a hint of smoke or anything to suggest this is actually working. But I push on, because pushing on is the thing that will keep me alive, so if there is a time to start, it’s now.

Someone kneels beside me, and when I look up, I see the instructor. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder and offers me a gentle smile.

“You’re too tense.” He says, placing a hand on my upper arm. “All of your strength is going here.” He moves a hand to my wrist now, making me stop the movement. “Instead of here.”

“So, what, I just… relax? I’m sure that’ll help in a life and death situation.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying if you can’t do it in a controlled environment, you have no hope out there.”

I place the sticks down, leaning back with a long breath out at his phrasing. He continues.

“So, relax in here, in this controlled environment, to give yourself the confidence that you need to do it in the arena.”

That… actually makes sense, at least a little bit, and I nod, causing him to stand back up and move away from me.

I need to relax. How the hell am I meant to relax in a place like this, in circumstances like this? Then an idea hits me and it’s one that I hate but… it might just work. I take the sticks back in my hands, letting out a breath to try and relax my muscles. I close my eyes, and under my breath, recite the only thing I have ever known to calm me.

The song Katniss used to sing to Prim, and to herself in moments of need.

“Deep in the Meadow,

Under the Willow,

A bed of grass,

A soft, green pillow-“

My voice is shaky, since I’m not much of a singer, and no more than a whisper, but I feel my brain and body relax as I am swarmed with the mental images of Katniss and Gale and Prim. The things I would do to be back with them now.

I feel the heat first, curling around my fingertips in a celebratory dance, and open my eyes to smoke, and then flame as I place it into the kindling. I did it! The sight is beautiful, and I watch the fire for a moment, marvelling the sight. My hands hover above it, cherishing its warmth. I did this. I made this. I turn to try and find the instructor but am drawn immediately back to my small bundle of success.

The sneaker comes down harshly, extinguishing the flame immediately. It twists, crunching the sticks into shards, leaving nothing but a blackened mess of ash and soot and sorrow. I look up, even though every one of my instincts is telling me not to.

“Nice singing, songbird.” The boy retorts, and I recognise him immediately as Cato, the District 2 boy. Behind him, like an army, are the other three careers, all stood with their arms crossed.

“Is that your chosen skill?” The blonde girl laughs, and suddenly my flight or fight is activated, and I feel like darting. I know they can’t hurt me in here, but it is a matter of days before they can. An awful feeling settles in my stomach.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I reply through gritted teeth. I know now for sure that they see me as weak. I am nothing but prey to a predator. In this moment, I can’t help but feel for the rabbits and the squirrels that I hunt. Do they see me and feel fear, like I do right now?

It only now occurs to me where the name “Songbird” came from, and hence this entire conversation. The canary motif from the tribute parade. It obviously pissed them off enough to need to put me in my place, and I don’t want to let them, but my body refuses to move as they all stare down at me. I feel cornered. Trapped.

The gym has fallen silent, with every pair of eyes on the five of us. If I want to make an impression, now is a hell of a time to do it.

“She isn’t worth our time.” The smaller girl says, looking up to Cato. Her voice is nothing like I expected. I had expected something sweet. Young and innocent. But her voice is roughed, strong and experienced. “She’ll likely just end up drowning herself or something anyway. We won’t even get the chance.”

Before I can even think it’s a bad idea, I lunge at her, my hands making direct contact with her shoulders, knocking her to the floor. She lets out a surprised breath as her back collides with the marbel. She’s smaller than me, sure, but not enough so that I feel guilty about this.

I straddle her waist, my arms pinning her down as she kicks and fights back. Her legs come up and around me, pulling me down so that she can twist, now winding up on top of me. It’s amazing how fast I went from having the upper hand to being the underdog again.

“Get her Brennan!” I hear Cato call, and this only spurs me on. She has a wicked look on her face as she moves to sit on my chest, restricting my breathing. My lungs are suddenly tight, and with each breath out, I struggle to take an equal one in. I am losing oxygen rapidly, and she knows it. I try anything to get her away, using my nails to try and scratch at her. I make contact with her cheek, drawing a crimson streak just below her eye. She yelps and both her hands come to my throat. Her fingers curl around my windpipe, making me gasp, and I fight desperately against her, but she is surprisingly strong.

It is now she is yanked away from me as a Peacekeeper pulls her back harshly, his arms around her waist. She fights them initially, but then gives up. I too am pulled to my feet, and to the other side of the room.

I cough as my hands come to my throat, still feeling where her fingers had been. It was a brief interaction, but it was enough to shake me up. I have to concentrate to fill my lungs back up, and my entire body is burning and shaking.

Peeta is at my side in a moment, one arm on my now trembling forearm. I am ready for him to scold me, to ask what the hell I was thinking, but his eyes are scanning my face, wide and deep and worried.

“Are you okay…?” He asks, moving his hand to shift mine from my throat, so he can have a look. He brushes his thumb over where I can only imagine the ugly marks are.

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. My eyes aren’t even on him, they’re on the girl on the other side of the room, surrounded back by the careers. She is watching me through a gap in their shoulders, her eyes intense and passionate. I know without a doubt now that I have made an enemy. I have made myself a target.

“We’re sticking together for the rest of today.” Peeta says firmly, and I can hear by the tone of his voice that there is no room for negotiation. There is no room for protest.

I wouldn’t have been able to anyway, since we are all called for some compulsory exercises. Some climbing, some self defence and a few other things.

I actually really enjoy the climbing. They have a long ladder set up, from one end of the gym to the other, about 10 feet off the floor. We go in District order, and surprisingly, the careers aren’t great at it. The ladder is only secured at the ends, and made entirely of rope, so it twists easily, and all four careers fall within a few seconds of being on it.

A few others make it to the other side, including the District 6 boy and the District 10 girl, but it is the District 11 girl that catches my attention. A small thing, obviously young. She looks around Prim’s age, so I’d put my bets on 12 or 13. She clambers across the rope ladder like it is completely stable, making it across with a level of agility I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. Her footsteps are precise, and calculated, and she makes it look unbearably easy as she makes it to the other side without struggle.

The whole gym are watching her, most looking impressed, some looking pissed that someone so little could show them up so much.

Then it is Peeta’s turn. Unfortunately, unlike the girl from 11, his movements are heavy, and clumsy and his strength is not enough to help him here. He makes it about halfway, before he steps too heavily, and the ladder twists, sending him to the floor with a thud. He’s lucky they bothered to put mats down. The careers snicker, but now it is my turn, and I am determined.

I try to take a lesson from the District 11 girl, and step lightly. I know all eyes are on me, and I will not make myself look weaker than I already do.

I think the tactic here is to move quickly. Hesitation will lead to the ladder twisting, and I will fall. So I take a deep breath, and begin climbing, trying to place my hands and feet as evenly as possible. While I’m not nearly as agile as the other girl, I do make it to the top with little troubles, surprising even myself.

I sit at the top, taking a second to process that I actually did it, when I spot Peeta down below, looking up at me with an impressed look on his face, before turning away when I look at him. He’s just embarrassed I showed him up, I’d bet.

I had almost forgotten the incident with Brennan, until I return to the penthouse that evening, and both Haymitch and Effie are waiting by the door, disappointment plastering their expressions. Well, Effie’s is disappointment. Haymitch is looking at me with a drunken anger that makes me take a step back. His face is contorted, a red tint on his cheeks that tells me he has had far too much to drink. Peeta’s hand instinctively wraps around my arm, and I don’t know if he’s trying to comfort me or hold me back.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Haymitch snaps, taking an unsteady step towards me, a glass bottle clasped so tightly in his fist that his hand is trembling. The image of him launching the bottle at me in the train comes to the forefront of my mind, and I take another step back.

Saying nothing seems to anger him more.

“All we’ve done for you.” He hisses, “And this is how you repay us? How the fuck are we meant to keep you alive when you go and pick fights with Careers?”

“She didn’t-“

Haymitch cuts Peeta off immediately, holding his free hand up.

“This doesn’t involve you. Go to your room.”

“But-“

“Now.”

Peeta’s hand lets go of my arm, and he slinks away, leaving me alone with Haymitch and Effie. I only now notice Effie is crying, lifting a gloved hand to cover at her mouth. Was it really that big a deal?

“You’ve just signed for your own death, kid.” Haymitch says harshly.

“I didn’t start it! They approached me!”

“I don’t care who did what. You get approached by a career? You ignore them. You get approached by all 4? You run. What do you think is going to happen when that girl gets hold of a weapon? She’s coming for your head.”

His words are heavy, and they hang in the air, the impact still strong despite the way he is swaying and slurring.

“You don’t know that.” I whisper, clutching onto something, anything that may calm him down. “Nobody else outside of the tributes know-“

“The sponsors may not know she got taken down by a girl from 12, but she will. And she will not stop thinking about that until you are dead. Get it through your skull, girl. You are already dead.”

I have nothing to say to this, and at his words, Effie turns her back to us, wiping at her cheeks.

“Guess you can put all your focus on Peeta then, can’t you? Maybe you can get one of us home.”

I push past him, bumping against his shoulder, and past Effie, heading to my room. Maybe he’s right, maybe I am already dead. But wasn’t I already dead the second they pulled my name? I think I’d have been kidding myself if I believed truly for a second that I had a chance at winning this. All this training and all of this work is just delaying the inevitable, isn’t it?

I must only be in my room for a few minutes before the door open, and Peeta enters. His face is tear streaked, but I know better than to comment on it. He comes to sit beside me on the window seat, checking me over.

“Did he hurt you?” He asks, his voice almost breathy. There is a hint of urgency in it.

“No, no I’m fine.”

I don’t believe that Haymitch actually has it in him to hurt me, and maybe I’m stupid for believing that. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think if he wanted to hurt me for my stupidity, then he would have done so already.

Peeta visibly relaxes at this, and upon seeing no types of marks or other injuries, he settles, falling into a silence as he looks at me.

“What did she say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

I turn my head away from him, not entirely sure I’d be able to cope with seeing that look in his eyes. The one where he looks at me like I’m wounded. The one every single person I’ve met so far has given me at least once.

“She said I’m weak.” I say after a moment, and he stays silent, knowing that there is more. “Said I’d probably drown or something before they could get to me.”

I hear as he takes a sharp intake of breath, his body going rigid. He is completely still for a moment, before he pushes himself up to standing, not looking me in the eyes.

“I need to go talk to Haymitch, you just stay here, okay?”

“Peeta-?”

“Stay here, Kestrel.” He says, his tone of voice sharp. A tone I haven’t heard from him before, and I find myself pushing my back up against the wall, watching as he walks away. How one person can change up so quickly, I have no idea. Did I say something to upset him?

The door shuts heavily, and again, I am alone.

Notes:

Soo I moved to Uni like a week ago and the stress and change of routine from that has kinda sapped my energy and motivation, but with some brute force and too many hours on character ai to get the angst flowing back in my soul, I am back with a new chapter!

Chapter 10: The Morning After

Again, I find myself up at the crack of dawn. Despite the comfort of the bed, my muscles are achy and tired, my mind far too overworked to actually expect a decent lie in.

Light streams through the gap in the curtains, though it is a soft, warm orange, rather than the harsh yellow of a midday sun, leading me to believe the sun has not yet risen. I probably have time to go back to sleep, if I really want to. I don’t. As it goes, my mind is awake, and therefore I am awake.

I force myself out of the bed, stretching my arms above my head to rid of the stiffness left over from training yesterday. My shoulder gives a satisfying crack, and immediately feels better. It’s definitely one way to get the tension out, though something tells me Effie would disapprove.

Still in my pyjama t-shirt and shorts, I make my way to the main room, my bare feet echoing on the freezing cold tiles beneath them, the rest of the penthouse in an unusual silence.

Out the window, the sun is just beginning to creep over the horizon, the rest of the sky a beautiful gradient to black. It must be earlier than I had originally thought, but I still thought at least Effie would be up by now.

The penthouse feels different empty. I feel like I am intruding, like I’m not meant to be here, and goosebumps litter my skin, sending a chill through my body. It’s almost creepy. It’s cold. Way colder than usual, and I assume nobody, not even an Avox has had the chance to mess with the temperature of the building yet. I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to force some warmth back into my body, and I regret already getting out of bed.

It gets cold back home, colder than this, but the thick layer of pollution in the air creates a blanket of humidity that makes it hard to ever feel truly frostbitten. Even in the harshest winters, when snow is thick and your bones feel numb, you’ll find the sweat beading on your forehead to help keep you warm. Plus, I’ve always thought slightly cold was worse than frozen. Frozen brings an element of numbness that allows you to ignore the shivering and the gnawing of the winter.

This is an uncomfortable temperature and I have to clench my jaw to stop the chattering in my teeth,

I pad across the flood, towards the kitchen, but that too is completely empty. Not even the red-haired girl is stood at her station. A faint clicking sound is the only noise, and it takes me a moment to realise that it is coming from the machine that washes our plates for us. It is the only thing other than me that is active in this whole penthouse.

I am just heading back to my room when another door opens, and out steps a woman I don’t immediately recognise.

She is dressed in a fluffy pink robe, wrapped tightly around her, with matching indoor shoes. She looks exhausted. Her face is pale, her eyebags heavy as she runs a hand wearily through her choppy, short blonde hair. She glances up and jumps at my presence, and I truly believe she may be another servant until she speaks.

“Kestrel- good heavens, what on earth are you doing up?”

I know that voice anywhere. It’s Effie.

I feel almost guilty for not recognise her, but I don’t really think I’m to blame. She looks nothing right now like how I usually see her. She looks… human. Without her makeup and her wigs, I can’t help the thought that crosses my mind that, despite the tiredness plastered across her face, she’s almost pretty.

No. She is pretty.

Her skin has a natural glow despite its paleness that makes her look alive, her bright blue eyes a focus without all the eccentric makeup.

I forget she asked me a question until she raises an eyebrow at me, tugging on her robe for some modesty.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I shrug, and while it’s not a lie, it feels like an insufficient answer. I feel like I have invaded on her personal time, like I’m in the way of her getting ready.

“Well… unfortunately I can’t entertain right now, I have a lot to get done.” She replies with a slight sigh, walking past me with a stride in her step that I definitely should have recognised immediately when she came out of her room.

Her movements are precise as she makes herself a cup of sweet-smelling tea, then moves past me again in the direction of her room, all while I am still stood in the exact same spot, having not moved an inch.

After a moment, just on the threshold between the main room and the corridor leading to the bedrooms, he sighs again, and turns to face me, a pitying expression on her face as she looks me up and down. Her head cocks in the direction of the bedroom.

“Oh, come on then.”

It takes me by surprise, and I falter for a moment, not expecting the invitation, if it even is an invitation. Maybe she’s making me go back to bed. I can’t tell. Luckily, when I make no attempt to move, she speaks again so I don’t have to figure it out.

“Well, are you coming with me or not? I don’t have all day, and neither do you.”

I nod immediately and follow after her, not sure if this is an opportunity I want to pass up. She leads me to her room, and I pause upon entering. If I needed any further confirmation on just how polar opposite Effie and Haymitch are, this is it.

Her room is pink. There is no other way to describe it. I feel almost assaulted by the colour as I enter, but it doesn’t seem to bother her at all. It takes me a moment to take it all in. Unlike Haymitch’s room, this room is bright. The curtains are open, but that is not where the majority of the light is coming from. No, it’s coming from the large hanging ornament in the middle, speckled with hundreds, possibly thousands of tiny lightbulbs.

The bed is perfectly remade, like she never even slept in it, and is hasn’t even occurred to me until now that maybe that is something we are meant to be doing, considering mine always seems to be made whenever I return to my own room, and not thanks to my doing.

The cover is thick, thicker than mine, I think, and I have to count the number of pillows up by the headboard. Why does one person need so many pillows? Some are normal, like the ones they have given me to use, while others are fluffy or smaller and covered in design. Each one is meticulously placed.

Effie sits at the desk in the corner, looking at herself in the large, illuminated mirror. She pulls at her face a little bit, pinching her cheeks and pulling at her eyebags with a frown. She catches my gaze in the reflection, however, and smiles.

“Well, make yourself comfortable, dear. This isn’t a quick process.”

There is a small armchair in the corner, in the shape of a seashell, and it is now I notice the various images of the ocean on the walls as I sit down. I’ve never seen the ocean before, not in person. They do teach about it in school, however. Or they did, until a few years ago, when learning of the other Districts in too much detail became forbidden.

District 4 still has oceans, as far as I’m aware. They’re really the only District, other than maybe 1 and 2 that still have continuous access to clean water. All of our original supplies have long dried up, and we have to make do with collecting what we can when it rains.

I wonder if Effie has ever seen an ocean.

I allow my gaze to wander across the soft pink walls, looking at all the deliberately placed decorations that she has covering the room. There are a lot of motivational signs and pictures, I notice, with one above her mirror reading “Better an ‘oops’ than a ‘what if’.” Each to their own, I suppose.

I notice now that the room seems to be emitting its own scent, much like Haymitch’s but significantly more pleasant. It is something flowery, like the daffodils that grow outside of the fence, but much more artificial. It is a nice smell, and it has immediately made my visit here much nicer than my visit to Haymitch.

Effie then moves into action, and I watch with great curiosity as she layers liquids and powders and more liquids and more powders onto her face. I watch as that natural glow is steadily covered by her pasty pale makeup. She is immediately much more recognisable, and that is a fact that makes me a little sad on her behalf.

She places powder on her eyelids, like she did to mine, but hers is bright. Today she seems to be going for blue, and she layers it on like it is going out of style. She again catches me eye in the mirror and scrunches her nose up at me, making me smile, before getting back to work.

She is being surprisingly nice to me after last night, and I wonder if it because she knows, as I do, that I will not have the same luck with Haymitch. I won’t even try to be optimistic about him, because chances are, he’s already up getting a head start on a bottle of white liquor to ready himself for breakfast.

Effie smothers her lips in a deep blue shade, similar to the colour used on her eyes, and she puckers her lips, pulling them this way and that. To make sure she’s fully covered, I suppose.

It seems to be a very delicate, time-consuming process, and I wonder how she gets herself up every morning to do it. I know for a fact I wouldn’t be able to, and despite being up early, will probably still go to breakfast in my pyjamas.

My eyes are caught when she runs her hand through her hair again, and it is now that I get a proper look at it. It is light, almost white blonde, though that is clearly her natural colour, told by the lack of dark roots and the consistent colour throughout. I’ve seen in my time in the Capitol that some people do use substances to change their hair colours, but I don’t believe Effie has. That or she’s very, very good at maintaining it, though that seems pointless just to cover it all day every day.

It's a beautiful colour. There is no denying it. Back in 12, having any hair colour other than black or very dark brown is extremely uncommon. Prim is one of very few people I know, other than her mother, who has lighter hair, and even then, hers is dirty blonde at best, if not a very light brunette. I have never seen hair this naturally light.

It makes me wonder why you’d cut it all off. If I had hair like that, I’d never let anyone near it with a pair of scissors. But Effie’s is unevenly cut, with some sections significantly longer than others, especially around the back. Like she cut it herself. Her, or someone very, very drunk.

She notices me staring as she’s pushing it back, slicking back some of the longer sections with some sort of gel and raises her eyebrow at me.

“Why’d you cut it?” I ask quickly, hoping it’s not an offensive question, or personal. I stand and come closer, watching her reaction in the mirror. Luckily, she simply smiles.

“It’s easier to manage.” She explains, digging in a drawer and pulling out… some sort of net?

“How?”

“Well… If it’s shorter, I don’t have to worry about it coming undone under my wigs. And I don’t have to worry about fixing it afterwards.”

She pulls the net between her fingers, and fixes it onto her head, flattening her hair underneath it. I can’t help but frown.

“Why do you need to wear a wig with hair like that?”

She laughs at my question and swivels around in her chair.

“Because, my dear, it’s what is expected here. Either dye your hair some eccentric colour, or wear something eccentric. I don’t think I could commit to one colour, what if it clashed with my outfits?”

She gasped, like it would be the world’s biggest tragedy.

“I think your hair is pretty.” I say, and she smiles at me, tilting her head softly, leaning a little towards me. Her voice drops a little, and it is the calmest I have ever heard her talk.

“Thank you, darling, but unfortunately, your idea of pretty doesn’t quite cut it here. All it takes where you’re from is bright eyes, or the right shaped nose.”

She smiles at me as her finger taps the end of my nose, making me lean back. Is she trying to tell me she thinks I’m pretty? It is one of the first things she said to me at the reaping. The compliment renders me silent, and she stands up, heading into her closet.

She returns after a few minutes, and there, stood in front of me, is the Effie I know. She is in a tight-fitting blue dress, which hugs her in at the waist like a corset, and puffs out at the sleeves, with matching high heels.

And, of course, the star of the show, her large baby blue tinted wig, made entirely of curls. A few blue flowers stick out of it, with the same ones attached sparingly on her arms and legs. She grins at me, as if wanting approval. Her arms are out, and she does a small twirl, giving me a full view of her outfit.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I prefer her without it all. And so, I give her the most encouraging smile I can manage. It seems to satisfy her, even if it is definitely a little forced.

The next question to come out her mouth surprises me a little.

“Would you like me to do your hair?”

I nod without thinking about it. I don’t need to think about it. She was so gentle when doing my makeup before, and the feeling of having my hair done by Cinna and his assistants was almost blissful.

She ushers me over to the chair in front of the mirror, where I sit quickly, looking at both myself and her in the reflection. Her fingers work quickly to pull my tangled hair from the band I had roughly tied it with.

She smooths it out first with delicate fingers, running her nails through the stands to try and get the knots out, before using her own brush to detangle it, starting from the bottom and working her way up.

I have to force away the painful reminder of my mother as she does so.

She tests out a few styles, before pinning it up in a bun behind my head. She leaves some of my hair out at the front, allowing it to frame my face, but the rest is tight and every pin she uses to stabilise it is very intentionally placed.

She tells me it will help it stay out of my way today in training, but I don’t really need an explanation. Any hairstyle she’d want to do on me is okay, if it means she gets to do my hair.

Unfortunately, it’s over as soon as it begun, and she’s ushering me out of her room, towards the dining room. She follows me, shutting and locking her bedroom door behind her. That’s odd, I didn’t know we could lock these doors from the outside. I wonder who she’s trying to keep out, since she clearly doesn’t mind me being in there.

“Do you have any plans for today?” She asks as we both sit at the table. She places her mug down and an Avox immediately runs to retrieve it, taking it into the kitchen.

“In training, you mean?” I ask, and the way she looks at me tells me that it was a stupid question, so I keep talking. “I don’t know. I’ve kind of exhausted the survival skills…”

“Have you tried a new weapon?”

“No.” I say honestly enough. “You told us not to show our skills.”

An Avox returns into the room, the same red-haired girl, I notice, and places a new steaming cup of tea in front of Effie. She picks it up and holds it between her palms without so much as a thank you or a look in their direction.

“Yes, we told you not to show off what you’re good at. No harm in playing around, seeing if anything else catches your fancy.”

I don’t get a chance to respond, because a door down the hall opens, and I know without a doubt that it is Haymitch. Peeta doesn’t come out of his room until Effie retrieves him. A pit of dread settles in my stomach, making my head spin, and all the memories of last night come flooding back with a force that almost winds me.

“Is there a rule against going down to train before time?” I ask Effie, and she thinks for a moment. A moment too long in my opinion, as I push myself from the table.

“I don’t think so… I’m not sure anything will be available to use, but I think you can go down to wait, but it’s still a while until 10 o’clock.”

I don’t care. I tuck my chair in and take the brief moment in which Haymitch is handing his empty glass to the red-haired girl for a refill to dart past, to my room. I wish now I had changed before going to see Effie, but hindsight is a fine thing.

Haymitch turns his head towards me, but I don’t return the gaze. I swear I hear the start of my name spoken in that god awful hazy tone, just as my door shuts. The sigh of relief that escapes me sends a pang of something guilt ridden through my chest, but I push it away.

As I get changed, I’m ever so careful not to mess up my hair, treating it as though it is something precious, for reasons that are beyond me. Taking extra precautions as I slip on my fresh shirt, I change as quickly as I can manage, before hurrying back out towards the elevator, where Effie is waiting. Of course she is.

Her face is one of pure worry, and I realise now she is not here to escort me, but to try and talk me out of leaving so early. Her hands are crossed neatly in her lap, but she is fiddling with one of the small silver rings around her pinky finger.

“You don’t want breakfast?” She asks me, her eyes scanning me up and down as I press the elevator button with my thumb.

I look up, and my eyes immediately meet Haymitch’s as he finishes his new glass of whatever he’s chosen this morning. He is half leant over the table, his hair hanging limp and damp in his face. His jaw is tense as his eyes narrow, boring into my own.

“Not really.” I reply, trying to keep the bitterness from my tone. “I’ll eat later.”

“What about Peeta-?”

“He can meet me down there.”

The elevator dings as I move to step inside, but Effie blocks my path.

“Kestrel, come on, if this is about last night, we can talk about it.” There is a hint of desperation in her voice that does, admittedly, make me pause. The reminder of last night is like a punch in the gut. I don’t want to be reminded of Haymitch’s words, or Effie’s tears, or Peeta’s defensiveness. I don’t want to be reminded of anything, and so I shake my head.

“It’s not about last night. I just want to look around a bit beforehand. Last day and all, right?”

I’m lying through my teeth, and she knows it. The way her eyes narrow slightly tells me that she knows. The way her eyebrows knit together, and she is so clearly debating whether to stop me or just let me leave.

After a moment, she sighs in defeat, and steps back.

“Try not to get into any more fights.” She says, just as the elevator doors shut.

Notes:

So I finally started my university lectures this week after so so long! And while it's been super fun, it's left me exhausted with no time to write, so I'm giving you this shorter filler chapter for now until I can figure out where the next chapter is going! We are slowly creeping towards the exciting stuff though!

Chapter 11: The fault line

The doors reopen after a few moments down in the training centre. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to just how fast and how smooth the elevator actually is. We have one at home. It’s in the Justice building, though I’ve never ridden it. Very few people have, but I hear it’s extremely unstable, and slow. I’m pretty sure it’s made entirely of wood, and uses a pully system, rather than any fancy electricity they have here. Most people would rather struggle up the stairs for their own safety, I think.

I expect to be alone. It’s barely sunrise, and most tributes will have barely even woken up. Peeta will probably still be asleep, or only just getting to the breakfast table.

I’m not alone. I realise that very quickly. Over the back of one of the weapons stands I see the very top of a head, before it disappears again. I think I must be seeing things. That a lack of sleep and overtraining has finally caught up to me. Maybe I should go back up to Haymitch and Effie and ask for a little more time to rest. They probably wouldn’t give it, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. Right? My body automatically begins heading to the elevator, before I have to forcefully stop myself.

No. I didn’t want to be with them, I remind myself. More specifically, I didn’t want to be with Haymitch. So instead, I wander over to the weapons area. If there is a time to embarrass myself by trying out a new weapon, it’s now, in front of one other person, instead of 23.

I pass the bows. I’m not even going to entertain the idea of a bow. I tried to use one, once. It’s the first weapon Katniss tried to teach me to use, actually. I wasn’t much of a shot, and at first, she said it was because I was a beginner, but after I hit a rock and subsequently, nearly Gale, she took it away from me and suggested we try something else. It was a fair call.

My eyes skim the options. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a variety of weapons. There are weapons here that I didn’t even know existed and couldn’t put a name to if I tried. My eyes linger on the knives, specifically, the throwing ones, but I remember almost bitterly the advice to avoid them, so I do, though it takes all my strength to do so.

My fingers skim the different weapons, feeling the curves of spikes and blades and intricate twists and turns of expensive design. They sure put a lot of effort into making these things pretty, don’t they? It’s morbid, when you really think about it.

I’m not really drawn to any of them, not the same way I am to my throwing knives, but I know I have to try something. The chances of me getting my hands on decent blades in the arena are near to none, not unless I go headfirst into the bloodbath, but I’m not sure I have the guts for that. Being familiar with at least one other weapon might just save my life.

Eventually, I settle on a long, thin blade, with serrated teeth on one side. It’s a melee weapon, for sure, different enough to my specialty to learn something, but not a whole different area of weapons altogether, it’s not completely foreign, I’d argue.

“You know how to use that?” A voice taunts, and it makes me jump. I had completely forgotten that I wasn’t alone here. Turning my head to the side, I see the District 2 girl, Brennan, leant against a display case, her arms crossed smugly against her chest. It had to be her. Of all people, it had to be her.

I do, however, notice the large bandage covering a good portion of her cheek, right where I scratched her yesterday. I feel like she wouldn’t sacrifice her pride for something like that unless it was necessary, so maybe it was at a real risk of getting infected. Or maybe my nails are sharper than I thought.

“What’s it to you?” I reply, trying to hold myself as tall as I can manage. I clutch the blade in my fist, trying to act like I have any idea of how to wield this thing. I’m not afraid of her, no matter how much Haymitch thinks I should be. I’m not. And she needs to know that.

“Just want to know what I’m up against.” She hums, pushing herself off the case and taking a few steps towards me. “But it’s nice to know your weapon of choice.”

So, this is exactly what Haymitch and Effie were talking about. She thinks I’m drawn to this, above everything else, which means she thinks I’m way more comfortable with close range fights. Our scrap yesterday probably only solidifies this in her mind.

“Well, you’re a bow user so you’d take me out way before I could even get close.” I shrug, acting like this fact doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It doesn’t, not really, because I know it’s not the full truth. At this, she grins proudly and nods, taking one more step towards me.

“Yeah, and it would do you some good to remember that, songbird.”

She pokes her finger harshly into my chest, all but spitting her words, and it takes all of my willpower not to shove her away. I’m not about to start any more fights, if not for my own sake, then for Effie’s. But I don’t get a chance to react, because she turns and heads back for the elevators, without so much as glancing back at me.

Before I know it, she is gone, and this time I truly am alone, besides the Peacekeepers who now have their full focus’ on me.

Now is as good a time as ever to actually practice with this thing, so I step up on the podium, and watch as some training dummies are sent my way.

After a few rounds, I decide that actually, this thing isn’t half bad, and I’m actually surprisingly decent at it. I’m sure that using it on actual people will be much different than training dummies, considering they can think and act and fight back, but having some basic confidence with this might just come in handy.

I allow myself to get into the flow of it, wielding it progressively effortlessly for who even knows how long. I think, after a short while, I actually find myself enjoying it. Probably more than I should, and when I finally re-wrack the weapon, there is an undeniable smile on my face. All the stress of the last few days somewhat melted away. That short session is the closest thing to home I have felt since we left 12, and there is a relaxed feeling in my muscles that feels unfamiliar to me now.

It doesn’t last though. As I hop off the podium, my eyes meet another pair and my smile fades immediately. All sense of calm is now gone as Peeta shakes his head softly and turns his back to me, his expression unreadable.

“Peeta-!” I call, chasing after him as he walks to a secluded corner of the room. When I get close enough, I raise my hand to his shoulder, and he turns to face me.

I freeze. His eyes are harsh, filled with such a sense of betrayal that it makes my stomach drop.

“I thought we were a team.” He says, the confusion and shaking of his voice nauseating. It takes me a moment to process what he actually said, and I let out a shocked laugh.

“What?”

“I thought we were a team, Kestrel.” He says again, more firmly this time. He is watching me intently, his eyes scanning my face, as if he’s looking for something.

I don’t understand. Maybe I missed something, maybe something was said at breakfast, but clearly, I’m being kept out of the loop on something. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, allowing Peeta to continue.

“I was worried about you, you know? When you weren’t at breakfast. But then I find out you’re down here?”

His voice is bitter. He is undeniably hurt, but he keeps going before I can get a word in.

“What is it? You’ve realised only one of us is getting out of here?”

“Stop-“ I interrupt him, hoping to be able to calm him down, but he shakes his head, clenching his jaw. I take a small step back. He blinks a few times and his voice is thick, though I can’t tell if it’s anger or something else.

“We were supposed to be a Team.” He growls, and I am shocked into a stunned silence. This is a side to him I have never seen, and never expected to see.

“We are!” I protest, but my words fall on deaf ears.

“Are we? Because training weapons without me doesn’t strike me as very team-ly.”

“I needed a distraction!”

“From what? From me? From us?”

“From Haymitch!”

He takes in a sharp breath, his eyes scanning my features, and I am sure he is looking for any sign I might be lying. I’m not. His mouth is open slightly, like he is searching for something to say. But it seems his search is futile, because he remains sickeningly silent, and I know I have to continue.

“I can’t stand him being drunk.” I whisper, and my voice is much shakier than I hoped it would be. I sound weak. I hate sounding weak.

“Is that really what this is about?” He replies, but his voice is much softer now, the previous anger seemingly melted away.

I nod with a soft sigh and drop my gaze to my feet as I feel him watching me.

“It just… reminds me of home, okay?” I mutter, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course…” Peeta mumbles, and I feel his hand on my shoulder.

It was a much quicker resolution than I had expected, but I guess that is just the kind of person Peeta is. He is kind and loving and forgiving.

He is everything that I am not.

As I lift my eyes to look at him now, I see nothing but concern and comfort and understanding, though I’m sure I deserve none of those things. He was angry at me mere moments ago, now he’s ready to protect me from a side of my past he has no knowledge or connection to.

“Today is our last day of training.” He says, pulling me from my self-deprecation. “Is there anything else you wanted to do?”

There isn’t and so, for the rest of the day, I follow him around, trying desperately to prove with every ounce of effort that I have that we are still a team. I cannot lose my only ally before the games even begin.

So, I show him how to start fires, and we learn how to make snares, and we refresh our memory of the poisonous foods, just to be safe.

Throughout the day, I notice that his eyes keep falling onto me, watching me. He’s just worried, I tell myself. I told him something worrying and then brushed it off like it was nothing. It’s a natural reaction for him to have.

But there is something else in his gaze that I can’t label. At first, I thought it might be distrust. Maybe the resolution had come quickly out of his desire not to fight, and he wasn’t fully convinced. But no, it’s softer than that. He trusts me again, I know that, even if whether he should is still up for debate.

My eyes catch his as we practice knot tying. Our hands are all but intertwined as we try to figure it out. We can’t, and it is frustrating me. I’m not sure in what situations we’d need such complex designs, but Peeta seems determined, and by association, so am I.

His hand lingers on mine for a moment, before he takes it away, and gently, ever so gently, pushes mine to the side. I let him.

He finishes the knot, the concentration in his expression almost endearing. I’m sure there are much better ways to be spending our time, but if this is what he wants to do, I’m okay with that.

“Finally…” Peeta mumbles, leaning back and giving the rope a tug to make sure it is tight and correct. A smile forms on his face, and he looks at me triumphantly.

I’d ask him to show me how he did it, but in all honesty, I’m bored and craving some sort of stimulation. It may come back to bite me, but that’s fine. I’m sure many things are coming back to bite me at this point, and knowing this particular knot is very unlikely to save me.

After lunch, we decide it might be helpful to step back and observe everyone else, which is something we haven’t really seen anyone else do.

We figure knowing some strengths and weaknesses of our fellow tributes is useful. No point climbing a tree to get away from an avid climber, after all.

At first, we don’t notice a whole lot, until Peeta puts a hand on my shoulder to capture my attention, then subtly points up, above our heads.

It takes me by surprise to see the tiny District 11 girl, Rue, hanging in the rafters, her body held up by metal beams. How on Earth did she even get up there?

She is holding a blade tightly in her hand, running her fingers across the sharp edge, and I wonder what she could possibly be up to, since we aren’t allowed to hurt each other yet, until a fight breaks out to our left.

It is the District 1 boy, Marvel, screaming at the District 6 boy, accusing him of stealing. Though, at first, of what I’m not sure.

“His knife.” Peeta whispers, and I know he is right when I look back up to Rue, and see the smugness in her expression.

Little, but deadly, we both decide. She is not one to be overlooked, and we definitely need to be wary of her.

The Peacekeepers have to separate the fight, and then it is time to return to the apartments, of which I have no protests. Though as we are in the elevator back up, I am flooded with the overwhelming sense that I am not ready. I should have done more, I should have learnt more. I should have prepared better instead of getting into fights and watching Peeta.

An ugly thought crosses my mind. A selfish, ugly thought that I have to push away before it consumes me. A thought that maybe things would be different if I’d rejected this allyship from the start. If I’d played this differently and gone in every man for himself. Maybe I’d feel more prepared. Maybe I’d feel more confident in my own abilities.

There is nothing to back this up though, and that line of thinking is dangerous, so as the elevator soars up to the 12^th floor, I work on convincing myself that I am better off this way. Deep down, I’m not entirely sure which option I believe. Is it possible to believe both?

The doors open, and unlike yesterday, we are not being greeted with anger and hostility. In fact, we are not greeted at all. I glance to Peeta, and he looks as confused as I do.

It hasn’t been unusual for Haymitch not to greet us, apart from yesterday, when I had made a mistake he seemed desperate to reprimand. But we have, without fail, been greeted by Effie. She has been consistently keen to ask about our day, to hear what we’ve been up to. Today, we are greeted by silence.

We both stand there for a few moments, before taking some hesitant steps into the penthouse, our shoes seeming to echo off the floors. It feels wrong to even speak in this moment, so we both stay silent.

“Ah! You’re back, you’re back!”

The voice comes from down the hall, and when we both turn, we see Effie hurrying towards us, shifting her wig to sit on her head properly. She looks… flustered… like she had been caught off guard, and beside me I hear Peeta let out a sound between a gasp and a snicker.

I figure she must have lost track of time, and been halfway through changing her look, or fixing herself up. I don’t blame her, I’ve seen firsthand just how time consuming her routines are. She comes to a stop in front of us, and then bends down, adjusting her foot in her high heel, before standing back up, clasping her hands together.

“How did it go? Details, details!” She grins, though it isn’t hard to see she’s a little breathless. We must have really taken her by surprise. That, or the run down the hallways is the most exercise she’s done recently. It could really be either.

“Kestrel tried out a new weapon.” Peeta says as we head to the dining table, where, surprisingly, Haymitch isn’t. I’m definitely not upset by that. He must be in his room sleeping off the hangover. Or still incredibly drunk. Either way, as long as he’s out my way, I couldn’t care less where he is.

I also find that withing Peeta’s statement, there is just a hint of bitterness, though he covers it up with a proud smile. It’s almost reassuring to know he didn’t just get over his anger that quickly, though it makes me think I definitely need to sit down with him and clear the air. We only have a few days until the arena now, and if I can help it, I don’t want any lingering hard feelings between us.

“Oh, she did?” Effie squeals, looking at me with excitement in her eyes as we sit. It seems she is oblivious to any sort of tension in the room. That or she’s ignoring it, which doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world right now.

“Just a long knife thing.” I shrug. It’s really not a big deal. I’ll still use my own weapon of choice if I can manage to get my hands on some.

Somehow, the conversation fades into something between Effie and Peeta, and again I find myself being thankful for his reflective energy. Effie needs someone to bounce off of, and yet again, it’s not going to be me.

Instead, I find my mind wandering back to the inevitable. 3 days. That’s all we have left. That’s all I might have left. In 4 days, I could very well be dead. And for some reason, that fact isn’t necessarily one that scares me, rather just makes me wish I had done things a little differently.

Maybe I could have formed allies. I could have made myself liked by the other tributes. I’m relatively charismatic, or so I’ve been told, so maybe I could have formed bonds with those who could help protect me.

Or maybe I could have trained to failure. Tested out every weapon until I knew which ones worked for me. Not given a damn what anyone else would have thought of me. I should have pushed myself, I should have done more.

Now it’s too late. I have 3 days until I am thrown into the arena.

3 days until all my pathetic excuses for training means something.

3 days until it is all put to the test.

Notes:

Okay so I know it's taken a lot longer to get this chapter out, and it's a little shorter than some others, but I'm currently at university studying neuroscience and psychology, and who knew that would be such a demanding topic?? I'm in my third year so my free time is few and far between. I'm trying 3

Chapter 12: The Risk

My sleep is restless at best. Each time I manage to drift off, I am torn back to consciousness by invasive thoughts that set my nervous system ablaze.

Dread and anxiety and confusion swirl in my mind until I simply cannot take it anymore. No amount of sleep is worth the nightmares that plague me tonight.

The images of the girl from 2, towering over me with that poisonous grin as her arrows snipe me down. The reminders of my sister and her own arena. The way I feel as though I am drowning every time another tribute’s face comes into the forefront of my mind.

I throw the covers off, as if they themselves have offended me in some way and look at the small digital clock at my bedside. 4:28am.

Too early to venture to the main room. The loneliness that filled it yesterday was sickening, and today that might just put me over the edge. Though, I’m all but teetering as I sit here, my knees tugged up so tightly to my chest it feels suffocating.

Today is a big day. I know that. Of course I know that. Today I get my individual assessment, and ultimately, my tribute score. It’s the score that tells sponsors if I’m worth wasting their precious money on or not. Despite what Haymitch says, a low score all but solidifies certain death.

Nobody from 12 ever scores much higher than a 5 out of 12. And that’s pushing it.

If I don’t get a good score today, I am no better than anyone else from my District. I am just another number. Just another statistic that will ultimately be forgotten about come next year’s games. That thought is not one that helps to put my mind at ease.

My thoughts are racing, and no amount of slow breathing is able to reign them back in. I find myself wishing Haymitch were here to help, like he was on the first day, and it’s a thought I can’t even bring myself to push away.

He was so kind then. So gentle, and so caring. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen since, and one I’m not sure I’ll ever see again. It’s a bitter thing, being given such comfort, and then having it ripped away just as quickly.

Alcohol can do awful things to a person, can’t it?

I know he’s not to blame. He’s been through more than any person would even dare to think about. He’s been through all I’ve been through, 24 times over. He’s not only gone through the hell of the arena, but seen 46 other children go through it too.

I wonder if he ever bonded with any of them. Maybe at first, when his win was fresh, and he truly believed they had a chance. It’s clear he has the capabilities to care. And he can’t have always been a drunk, right?

He won a quarter quell. They would have kept him in the spotlight for at least a few years, right?

It’s not his fault he ended up this way, but still, that doesn’t mean I have to approve. But it also doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to miss what I almost had.

At 5:30, I finally drag myself up and into the shower. I should probably look at least half decent in front of the Game Makers, if I’m going to make any sort of impression. I don’t pay much attention to which scents or soaps or water pressures I’m selecting, mostly focused on getting in and out quickly. As nice as these showers are, I simply don’t have the energy to spare on it today.

I must be in and out in 10 minutes, and once fully dried, I head back to the bedroom wrapped in a towel. The bedside clock says it’s 5:48. 18 minutes. That’s not too bad and gives me a little time before Effie comes to get us. An hour, at least, I’d think.

I step towards my bed, and pause, at seeing my clothes for the day neatly laid out, as they had been on the first day of training. I had literally been in the bathroom for less than 20 minutes, how did someone…?

I look around the room, as if I’m expecting to see some trace of who has been in here without my knowledge. Obviously, I find nothing, but the thought of someone being in here makes me uncomfortable. What if I had walked out when they were still here? I have my towel but even then. It’s a disturbing thought.

Still, I dress as quickly as I can, so that the chance of being seen exposed if someone else decides to enter is significantly reduced.

I take some time to try and fix my hair, but nothing feels quite right. I tug it about, trying high and low ponytails and braids and buns. In the end, I throw the hairbrush across the room in a wave of frustration and give up altogether. I guess my hair is staying down today.

I am still sat, trying to regulate myself, when there is a knock on my door, and then it slides open immediately.

My breath is ragged, my temper flared from the lack of sleep and building anxiety. But when I lock eyes with Haymitch, it seems to triple and fade altogether simultaneously.

His head is tilted slightly, and he steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. His eyes scan over me, but they are focused, attentive. Caring.

No. This was the last thing I needed, dammit. Don’t do this to me right now.

“You alright?” He asks, coming to perch on the edge of my bed. “Something fall over… or?”

My eyes lock onto the hairbrush on the other side of the room, and the scuff on the wall slightly above it. He follows my gaze and lets out a sigh, crossing one leg over the other.

“Wound up?” He asks, like that sums it all up. And somehow, I think it does.

My nerves are frazzled. I’m on high alert against something I don’t even fully understand, nor could comprehend if I tried. Everyone understands the concept of imminent death, of course they do, but you never fully grasp it until you’re living it. And I think I’m beginning to fully grasp it now. Just in time, I suppose.

“Something like that.” I mumble in reply, and I see as Haymitch’s body relaxes slightly, the tension leaving his back and shoulders. He offers me a small smile, brushing some hair from his face.

“That’s normal, kid.” He says, letting out a soft breath.

“I know.” I reply, though of course, I don’t know. How could I? I haven’t done this before. I haven’t lived this time and time again; not like he has.

“Look…” He says, pulling my attention back to him. “I can’t tell you it’s all going to be okay, and I don’t think that’s what you want to hear either.”

I go to say something, but he puts a finger up, stopping me from saying anything else.

“But.” He says pointedly. “You’re strong, kid. I mean that. Show ‘em what you’re made of today, and you’ll impress them. Or at least, some of them. Us 12 bunch don’t often have a lot to offer, so anything makes for something.”

Admittedly, it does make me feel a little better. I nod, my lips forming a thin line as I drop my gaze from his.

“What did you score?” I ask him after a moment. When he doesn’t reply, I panic, thinking I’ve upset him, and look up, only to see him studying me intensely.

“A seven.” He says, but his eyes are narrowed. “But that’s not what you care about, is it?”

“It’s not.” I mumble, because he’s right. “I just… how did that… change things?”

He nods, uncrossing his legs and leans his elbows against his knees.

“I don’t think it did… sponsors don’t care as much about scores as they make out. They care if you’re pretty… if you’re funny, if you’re charming. They care if your death would make them sad.”

It makes sense in the grand scheme of things, I guess. Haymitch continues speaking before I get a chance.

“They pick favourites as soon as you come out in those chariots. Scores don’t change that. People already have their eyes on you, sweetheart, I promise you that.”

My eyes widen slightly, and I lift my head more, a wave of shock and surprise coursing through me. People have their eyes on me already. Is that even a good thing? I’m not so certain.

With that, he stands up, patting me almost roughly on the shoulder, before he heads towards the door. He turns as he’s half out.

“Effie wants you at the table in 20 minutes. Just… try and calm yourself down, okay?”

And then he’s gone, as if he was never really here to begin with. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was a mix of sleep deprivation and unrestrained fear that led me to conjure up what I wanted most out of the depths of my mind. A figment of my imagination.

Still, real or not, I have no doubts that Effie will want me ready soon, so I wipe at my cheeks, wiping away the dampness that I hadn’t even realised had formed during my conversation with Haymitch. I can’t quite place if they’re angry tears or something more vulnerable, but I decide not thinking too much into that is in my best interest.

I stand up, and stretch my arms out, trying to release some of the tension in my muscles, taking a deep breath in to try and vanquish the burning in my lungs. It helps a little bit, and some of the fuzziness in my mind subsides slightly.

I put my shoes on, taking my time to tie my shoelaces. Idle tasks always did help with the trembling in my hands, and the racing of thoughts. One loop, two loops, knot. And breathe.

Pushing my hair out my face, I head to the door, allowing myself one last glance in my mirror. I don’t really look like I’ve been crying, other than a slight red tint to my cheeks and under eyes which could definitely be excused as having just woken up. Nobody needs to know that I have, in fact, been awake for hours already.

It is approaching 7am when I head through to the main room, and I pause in the doorway. Effie is running around, her arms full of papers and different objects. I can’t tell what any of them are. I don’t get a proper look at them as she twists and turns and darts between rooms. I don’t think I’ve seen her so frantic.

“Don’t mind her.” A voice comes from beside me, making me jump. I glance up at Haymitch as he appears beside me, watching her as I am.

“What is she even doing?” I ask, and I turn to him now. Watching Effie is beginning to make me feel dizzy.

“Preparing.” He hums, as if that explains anything. He then sighs. “It’s around now that she realises that you are tributes, not dress up dolls.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“She’s trying to get all our contacts in order. Anyone we know that would potentially be willing to sponsor you or help you out.”

Right. She’s realised this isn’t all fun and games. Considering it’s her job, I’m surprised that it’s taken her this long. But it’s not her job, is it?

“Isn’t that your job?” I ask him, and he laughs in response, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the wall.

“Usually, yes. But I’m usually way too shit-faced around this time to do it myself.”

So, he is self-aware then. And that also confirms to me that right now, he is sober. For now, at least. That only opens up a world of questions. I start with the obvious one.

“Why aren’t you? Special occasion?”

He tilts his head and looks down at me, a slight grin tugging at his lips. He pushes off the wall and begins walking towards the dining table. I follow automatically.

“A little birdie told me I’m better off sober. At least until you go into the arena.”

I stop walking, the air feeling like it’s been knocked forcefully from my lungs. It is so rough that I actually take a faltering step back as I try to process this.

“What?” I all but splutter, not missing the smug grin that creeps onto his face as he sits down. I now regain my composure just enough to rush over to the table and pull up a seat next to him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shrugs and fiddles with his fingers. It’s a habit that I know to be an anxious one. It isn’t hard to tell that he’s itching for a drink.

“After you went to bed last night, your little boyfriend had a very stern word with me.”

“My what?”

This is the second time in very close succession that I feel winded. Is he talking about Peeta? He… he thinks there’s something between us?

“No. No you’ve got that all wrong for starters.” I say, shaking my head, and to this, he simply laughs.

“Please. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

I’m about to retaliate when Effie and Peeta head over to the table, and I shut my mouth immediately, feeling the way my cheeks burn with a level of embarrassment I didn’t even know I was capable of. Effie raises an eyebrow at me as she sits down, and I know I am shrinking into myself as Peeta comes to sit beside me.

“Right.” Effie says, in her usual sing-song tone that immediately raises heads. “The plan for today is a little different than what you’ve had so far.”

“Ah right.” Haymitch says, leaning forward. “You’ll be with us up until lunch. Which I believe is around 12?” He says, glancing to Effie, who nods.

“You’ll have lunch with the other tributes at 12.” She explains, “And then it’s individual assessment for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for you two, that means a lot of sitting around and waiting.”

Peeta and I both nod, taking this in.

“You’re from 12, so you two will go last. Kestrel first, then Peeta.” Haymitch fills in.

“So, what do we do while with you?” I ask, and Effie smiles gently.

“We figure out how you impress them.” She says. “Now Kestrel, we’ve seen what you can do, but I’m not sure that throwing a few knives is… quite enough. And Peeta, you need to use your strength in a way that is new. Innovative.”

We talk technique for a few hours, and Effie continues to write page after page of intense notes. Haymitch sits mostly silently, offering input here and there. Surprisingly, his advice is actually pretty solid, and I find myself taking a lot of it on board, which is something I didn’t expect.

Effie seems very interested in flair factor, while Haymitch is opting for more skill-based performance, and they advise us to try and find something in the middle. Something impressive, but flashy. Something that the Game Makers will remember when they are discussing our scores.

Apparently, us going last does give us an advantage, if we choose to use it, as we’ll be the last assessment they see, but Haymitch does also add that they’ll likely be bored. He says it’s the only reason he’s condoning the extra flair that Effie is encouraging.

Throughout the morning, the Avox’s bring out various snacks and drinks, and while the others make the most of them, I find I barely touch anything. Instead, I sip on my glass of water, and nibble on a small bite sized ham sandwich. I don’t have much of an appetite, and we’ll be having lunch soon anyway so there isn’t much point to making myself sick now.

I do notice that at one point, the red-haired girl brings Haymitch a glass of his usual, to which he seems to consider it for a moment, before shaking his head and handing it back, quietly asking for some coffee instead.

He looks up to see me watching him, and I drop my eyes immediately, though I can’t deny the warm feeling that swarms my chest knowing he’s going through that struggle on my behalf. Or, apparently, anyway.

Before I know it, a small, pleasant tune comes from a device in Effie’s pocket, and she stands up, motioning for us to do the same. We do. Even Haymitch stands, and this time, he too accompanies us to the elevator.

The racing in my mind has come back tenfold, and it feels again like my lungs are being compressed. We’ve been talking for the last almost 5 hours, and I still feel like I know nothing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to show the Game Makers to make them like me.

Then, I realise with disgust, that I am again playing into the hands of the Capitol. I am, whether I want to admit it or not, another piece in their game, and I always have been. But is it really so selfish to crave my life, just a little bit? Or at least, to be spared from a gruesome, painful death?

The elevator doors open at the bottom, and Peeta and I step out. We are ushered to the lunchroom, and told we have an hour.

It doesn’t take me an hour to eat. I thought I’d been saving my appetite for now, but when the smells of the food hit me, I am nauseous, and I know I was wrong. I watch as Peeta seems to be in the same position. He puts a few things on his plate but doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic about any of them. I do the same, just to keep up appearances.

We sit in a quiet corner, and silence falls between us. We are both stressed. Anxious. I can tell by the way Peeta chews on his lip more than he does any actual food. I can tell by the way his eyes dart between the other tributes, as if trying to size them up, or figure out what they might have up their sleeves.

I only take a few bites of my food before I allow an Avox to take my plate away. The last thing I need is to be sick in my assessment. While it would certainly leave an impression, it’s not exactly the type of impression I’m looking to make.

Peeta also gives his plate up, moments after I do, and he turns to face me. He has something on his mind, I can see that, but he says nothing. So, I do.

“Haymitch told me you spoke to him last night.” I say, and he immediately tenses, confirming that he was being truthful. He takes a moment before responding.

“So, you two are talking again?”

“I guess so… He’s really not so bad when he’s sober.” I shrug, and Peeta’s eyes soften at this.

“I know. That’s what I told him.”

“No, it’s not.” I mutter before I can stop myself, and a hint of guilt flashes across Peeta’s expression. His mouth opens and closes a few times.

“Was I supposed to just leave it?” He splutters after a moment, and I feel my body tense. I am hit with the gruesome realisation of what exactly Peeta had told Haymitch about. He had told him what I had revealed to him yesterday, in confidence.

“Yes!” I return, a little louder than I mean to, turning a few heads. I quickly reign myself back in. “He didn’t need to know that!”

“Yes he did, because it was upsetting you!”

“I can handle myself just fine.”

“I’m sure you can, but we are a team, and that’s not just me and you. That’s Haymitch too. Someone had to tell him what he was doing to you, and it wasn’t going to be you.”

I huff, standing up and walking away. He follows me. I turn to him, dropping my voice to a hushed whisper.

“Now he’s going to think I’m some sad abused little orphan.”

“Aren’t you?” He returns quickly, a pointed look in his eyes. But there’s something else there too. Concern. Worry. But no guilt anymore. He’s not sorry for what he did. Not one bit.

I shake my head and walk away, clenching my jaw so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter. It is not worth it to fight with him right now. I have much bigger, much more important things to worry about.

One of those being figuring out how to score higher than Peeta.

Effie was unfortunately right, that the rest of the day consists of a lot of sitting in a side room and waiting. One by one, the tributes are called out by an automated voice. It starts with the Careers from 1 and 2 and makes its way closer and closer to us.

My heartbeat is rising with each passing tribute, and by the time the boy from 11 is called, my pulse is in my ears, making my vision swim. I might actually vomit in the assessment room.

My feet tap on the floor as I wait, my knee bouncing constantly, and this time, even Peeta doesn’t attempt to calm me down. I can’t tell if it’s because he knows he’s upset me, or if he’s just as anxious himself. Either one is okay with me, because somehow the silence is still more welcome than another fight with the one friend I have here.

“District 12. Kestrel Eyrie.”

The voice from the speakers rings out above my head and I can’t breathe. I stand up, completely on autopilot and begin walking towards the door. I wait to see if Peeta has any final words of advice for me, but he says nothing, and I walk through the door, listening as it hisses shut behind me.

The training room feels significantly more daunting now. It is empty now, all of the survival areas pushed aside, with the weapons on full display. I’m sure, if you wanted to, you could choose a survival skill as your chosen skill, but something tells me the Game Makers won’t be overly impressed by a particularly difficult knot.

“Kestrel, you have 5 minutes to display your chosen skill.” One of the Game Maker’s speaks, and it is now that I look up for the first time. They are all up on a ledge, watching me. Well… some are watching me. Most are talking with each other, half inebriated by expensive wine, or fascinated with foods even we haven’t had the luxury of trying.

My hands are trembling, so I clench them into fists at my side as I silently approach the weapon racks. My footsteps echo off the floors, and it is the only sound in the room, unless my heartbeat is audible to them too. This time, I do not hesitate. I pick up a small blade, with a light, intricately designed handle, and a solid, heavy blade, I spin it around my fingers and know, for sure, this is my weapon.

As I turn back towards them, some of the Game Makers seem almost… surprised at my weapon of choice. Or that I have a weapon of choice to begin with. They are watching me slightly closer now, leaning forward in their seats, nudging their neighbours to get their attention. This is it. My one chance. If I mess this up, it’s over.

And suddenly, an idea comes over me. It is stupid and dangerous and reckless. But it is impressive and full of flair. I get the feeling Effie and Haymitch would hate it and love it all at the same time. But I know what I have to do.

If it goes wrong, it could kill me, if it goes right, I hope to leave a mark.

I will impress them.

With my free hand, I point up at them, trying to still the shaking in my finger. I tilt my head innocently to the side as I point to a fruit basket sat right near the edge of their area.

“Your apple.” I say, keeping my voice as loud and steady as I can manage. “May I have it?”

They seem a little confused at my request, but after a moment of consideration, one of them leans forward, takes the apple, and gently tosses it down to me. I catch it gracefully and nod in thanks at them.

Part of me was hoping they’d say no. So, I’d be forced to throw some knives at some targets or training dummies instead. Boring, but undoubtedly safer.

But here they are, waiting with bated breath to see what I, the nobody girl from District 12, am about to do. I have them in the palm of my hands. I have them right where I want them. Now to follow through.

I take a shaky breath as I turn and walk towards the side wall. There is a large, metal pipe that runs up from the floor and along the ceiling. I know it is durable, because one of the other tributes was using it to spar against with a spear back on day 2. I’ve had my eye on it since I came in, I realise. This plan was never up for debate in my mind, I just had to acknowledge it.

As I face the pipe, I place the apple on the centre of my head, stretching my back to keep it steady. Breathe in. And breathe out.

If I fail, I die. If I don’t… well… it can’t be worth risking my life, but… at this point what else can I do?

I figure that if I throw my knife sideways, it should spin just enough that the blade will make contact with the pipe and send it back towards me at the same angle. I’ve done things like this before, but never with such high stakes.

No time to hesitate. Hesitation shows uncertainty, and I need them to think that I am certain. That I am confident in my own abilities.

So, before I can stop myself, I launch the knife towards the pipe.

I realise very quickly that I forgot to factor in one very crucial piece of information.

Being anxious doesn’t just come with shaky hands. No. It comes with sweat. And sweat against a blade with a metal handle is very, very slippery.

I know this now as the blade slips from my grip at the wrong time. Instead of flying towards the pipe, it clatters off the floor. I watch as it bounces, ricocheting off the metal ground. If the floor was concrete, I’d be okay. But no.

Now the blade hits the pipe, but not how I’d originally planned. It is loose, and uncoordinated. It is uncalculated and dangerous. And it is coming straight back for my forehead.

I don’t close my eyes. That would show weakness. That would show uncertainty. I made this choice, and I have to see it through. At least if this kills me, I won’t have to face the horrors of the games. I may be known as the girl who died in the assessment, but by law, the Game Makers cannot disclose the events in this room.

My stupidity would be safe, and they’d assume it was a freak accident.

It takes me a moment to realise that there was no impact between my eyes. Nor on any part of my body, and the Game Makers are… clapping? I turn back to them, raising an unsteady hand. The apple is gone, leaving just a slither on my head. I’m alive.

Somehow, by some miracle, I’m alive. And I think my accident made it all the more impressive.

I don’t take the time to catch my breath, which I now realise is long gone. I pull the apple slice from my head, and bite down into it as I watch the Game Makers. They’re probably too drunk, and that’s why their reactions are so… extreme… but it means I impressed them.

I impressed them at the cost of my life, but I impressed them all the same.

“Thank you, Kestrel, you are dismissed.”

I don’t have to hear that twice. I rerack the blade and head out of the room. I don’t want to stay in there any longer than I need to. My heart is racing so fast that it hurts, and I cannot breathe.

The adrenaline is gone, and the tears start almost as soon as the elevator doors shut behind me. I nearly died. How the hell do I explain that to Effie and Haymitch? I tried to show off, and it went wrong, but somehow went so right.

If I can get myself under control now, I won’t have to explain anything to them. I wipe at my face and try to steady my breathing, but it’s a futile attempt.

The elevator door opens, but it is not Effie and Haymitch that greet me, but Cinna.

“Hey little bird, how- oh…” He hums, his voice kind and gentle as he steps forward to take my hand in his. His touch is soft, his hands encasing mine, before he pulls me into a hug. He shushes me, his hand combing through my hair as he holds my head tightly.

I wrap my arms around him, leaning my head into his shoulder. I don’t know why, but Cinna is a whole different type of comfort. He isn’t unpredictable. He isn’t predictably happy. He’s real. He knows that life sucks. That this sucks. But he’s still soft, as if he is the only good thing left in this world.

“It’s okay…” He whispers soothingly, “The scores don’t matter…”

“That’s not what I’m worried about…” I reply, and to this, he steps back, cupping my cheek in one of his hands. He says nothing, his eyes studying my features. We stay like that for a moment, and he gently brushes away a tear with his thumb, before nodding.

“Okay… then let’s get a drink and wait for the scores, hm?”

It’s another reason I like him. He isn’t desperate to talk. He allows my private life to stay private. He can’t read me like a book, not like Haymitch seems to be able to do, and he doesn’t feel entitled to my deepest secrets, like Effie. He’s okay not knowing. And I’m okay not telling.

We sit for a few hours, mostly in silence, but he doesn’t leave my side. Not once. I am sipping on a warm, chocolatey drink, and he has his wine. At some point, Effie, Haymitch and Peeta join us, along with the other stylists, but none say anything to me. I’m not sure if Cinna somehow communicated to them that I didn’t feel like talking, but either way, I’m not complaining.

Then, it’s time for scores. I don’t care about the other districts, so I don’t listen. I don’t need to know who has a better chance of killing me. It’ll just make me paranoid and anxious. I do, however, need to know our scores, so when they announce Peeta’s name first, I glance up.

Peeta scores an 8. I’m not sure what he did to impress them so much, but it’s a tough score to beat. The team beside us cheer and crowd him, and I offer him a soft smile. Even though I’m still mad at him, I can’t deny it’s an impressive score.

Then it’s my turn.

“Kestrel Eyrie… with a score of…”

The room goes quiet, and I swear that Caesar is dragging it out just for my suffering. Again, I can’t breathe, and I feel Cinna’s hand on my knee, rubbing soft circles with his thumb. It helps to keep me grounded as the world around me seems to fade away.

“11.”

Notes:

Okay!! Another longer chapter because I had a sudden burst of creative energy and decided to write instead of doing any of my uni coursework but I actually love how this chapter came out.

Chapter 13: The Truth

The world around me seems to fade as I stare at the screen. I can see Caesar’s lips moving, that wide, plastic grin plastered on his face, but it’s like he’s on mute. I keep waiting for him to announce that it was a joke, and to reveal my true score, but he doesn’t. All air is knocked from my lungs, and it feels like I can’t breathe.

I can feel as Effie and Cinna and the other stylists grab at my arms excitedly, pulling me this way and that, but their squeals are muffled as I try to comprehend this. In no world can I comprehend this.

I scored an 11.

Higher than all the careers, higher than any other tribute. Higher than Peeta.

Either the Game Makers were really, truly impressed or… they knew I messed up. That has to be it, right? They know I messed up; they know I nearly got myself killed by being too cocky. They know that that makes for great entertainment.

I’m screwed.

But I can’t ruin the pure joy in the room by telling them that. They’re all so happy, that for once, just maybe, District 12 may have a chance. They think that maybe, I have a chance.

I don’t think they could be more wrong.

I turn my head, and the first person my eyes meet… is Haymitch. He is looking at me with a look I can’t place. I feel like I never can with him, and I hate it. But by the way his eyes immediately narrow, he’s read me like a book. His jaw is tense, his body muscles more so as he swirls a glass in his hand. I don’t think its liquor, but from here I can’t quite tell.

“You two should get some sleep.” He speaks firmly, and everyone immediately releases my shoulders. “You’ve got a very, very busy day tomorrow.”

Peeta immediately stands, and I have to force myself to do the same, my eyes not leaving Haymitch for a second. There’s more to this. I don’t know what, but he either knows something or wants something. Maybe both. There’s no way he can know what happened in there, right? It’s confidential. Isn’t it?

Still, I head to my room, leaving the party behind me. The stylists and Effie are celebrating, dancing around with one another, cheering and crying. I’ve never seen them look so happy, and yet, I refuse to say goodnight and I leave without so much as looking back. They deserve their moment of joy. For some, it’s been a long time since they had hope in their tributes.

I’ll let them enjoy it before it’s over.

I go to close my door, but it stops, and immediately pushes back towards me. I stumble back as it collides with my arm.

Haymitch pushes into my room, giving me no time to protest, though I don’t really think I want to. He seems to be the only one that can sense my unease. My regrets.

He shuts the door firmly behind him, leaning back against it as his eyes rake my body head to toe. I shiver under his harsh gaze and take a reflexive step back.

“You wanna tell me how you did it, or do I have to guess?” He asks, his arms now folded over his chest.

“I… guess they were just impressed-“I mumble, wrapping my own arms around myself defensively. He seems angry. Much angrier than I originally thought he’d be. This, in some respects is good right? At least for him? Sponsors will want me. It makes his job easier, doesn’t it? Still, that doesn’t stop the bile that is rising in my throat.

“Bullshit.” He says, shaking his head. I want to protest, to act offended by his lack of trust in me. To seem upset that he truly doesn’t believe I could have done that on my own. But it’s pointless. Because the look in his eyes tells me he already knows what happened. He’s just waiting on me to say it.

I am silent for a moment, the only sound in the room the sound of my own ragged breathing and his impatient tapping of fingers on his arm. I need to choose my words carefully. Even if he already knows, maybe I can try and soften the blow.

“I… got cocky.” I finally admit, and this seems to trigger something in him. He pushes himself off the door towards me, dropping his voice to a venomous hiss.

“Cocky? Kestrel, this isn’t about being cocky. From what I hear, you damn near got yourself decapitated.”

“I-“

He holds his hand up, making me freeze.

“There is a fine line between showing off and being downright stupid. Showing off scores points. Being stupid gets you killed. Now, from how you’ve been acting, I’m beginning to think you don’t really care which way this ends up.”

I scowl at him, my teeth gritted as my hands bunch into fists at my side.

“But I’m fine! I didn’t die, did I? I’m right here!”

“That’s not-“He huffs, taking in a shaky inhale. “You could have.”

“Do you even care either way? Cause right now, I’m getting mixed signals.” My words come out much harsher than I intent them to, and they leave an awful taste in my mouth. He freezes at this and stands up a little straighter.

“You think I don’t care? First of all, it would be damn embarrassing only having one tribute to deliver in a few days’ time.”

I roll my eyes, but he continues.

“And second… Dammit, Kes, you’re the most promising little brat I’ve had come through here in a while. So just… try not to get yourself killed by something preventable, okay?”

With that, he turns to leave, and I’m stuck in place for a moment. The nickname takes me by surprise, the almost loving tone I have heard so few times from him slipping through. This can’t end like this, dammit.

“Haymitch- Wait.” I call, reaching for him arm. I grab onto his sleeve and tug him back slightly. He seems taken off guard by this, and turns to face me, his eyes wide and surprised. He says nothing but doesn’t tug his arm away either.

“You… really think I have a chance?” I ask after a moment, and I can’t help but scold myself for the child-like vulnerability that I am displaying. A small smile comes onto his face. He nods.

“I do. As long as you stop pulling these little stunts of yours.”

That’s all I need. I release his sleeve, and he grants me a quiet goodnight, before making his way out, shutting the door softly behind him. I stand in the same place for a moment, my eyes locked on the door like I’m expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. So, I surrender myself in for the night, knowing that he is right, and tomorrow will be a very, very long day.

-

When I wake, it’s to that oh-so delightful rapping at my door that can only be originating from one person. Effie. Which means I likely overslept my normal early morning and have to get up. Right now.

My door then opens with a slight squeak and she pokes her head in with a soft smile.

“Good morning, good morning!” She chirps, and I push myself to sitting, offering her a weary smile in return, pushing some messy, tangled hair from my face.

“Morning, Effie…”

“Ah, there you are! You didn’t answer my first three calls, I thought I’d have to come pry you up myself! Now, up you get! We have a very busy day and a lot to get through!”

She laughs at her own comment before letting herself into my room. At this point, I’m getting used to the lack of privacy, so I let her. She begins hurrying around, transferring bundles of clothes and fabrics from wardrobe to room and back again.

“Don’t worry about getting dressed.” She says over her shoulder in my vague direction. “You’re with Haymitch first this morning, and I really don’t think he could care less about what you’re dressed in.”

Her voice is tinged with a hint of disgust and resignation, but she covers it up quickly enough as she heads back into my wardrobe. It is only a moment before her voice comes again, though she’s yet to make a reappearance.

“Up you get, come on! Go get some breakfast in you, you need some energy! You’re going to be the star of the show tonight!”

Right. I’d almost forgotten. How silly of me. The televised interviews are tonight and because of my score, no doubt the Capitol are dying to meet me.

I force myself out of the bed, slipping on my indoor shoes, before wandering over to the wardrobe, trying to get a peak at whatever Effie is up to.

As it turns out, she is fighting with dresses and shoes and accessories bigger than my head, hanging them up and laying them out. I decide to leave her to it.

Breakfast is… uneventful, to say the least. I pick at a bowl of cereal while I am showered in compliments and attention that I really don’t want or need. I am asked questions I don’t get the chance to answer before the next one is asked, and honestly, I’m grateful for that.

Peeta chimes in here or there, but other than that he seems too focused on himself to really be up for conversation. I don’t blame him. Tomorrow, we are put in the arena. This is our last confirmed day alive. It’s not shocking that neither of us really have an appetite.

Before I know it, Haymitch is pushing his plate away from himself. He looks exhausted. More so than usual. His hands are balled into fists so tightly that his knuckles are turning white, but still, I can see the tremors that are wracking his body. His face is pale, lacking the usual red flush caused by his intoxication. He looks… unwell.

His voice takes me by surprise. I guess I had been too focused on his state, that the sound catches me off guard.

“You two have interview preparations all day. Before lunch with me or Effie, switch after lunch. Peeta, you’re with Effie first, Kestrel, you get me.”

Lucky me.

I stay sat at the table, while Peeta gets to escape. The stylists also follow quickly after him, leaving just myself and a very grumpy looking Haymitch opposite me. The room falls into an uneasy silence, and he takes a sip from a glass of water.

“So…” He says after a moment, looking down into the water glass. “I’m supposed to figure out just how you present yourself tonight. And I’ve been thinking long and hard about it, I really have.”

His voice is gruff, lower and rougher than usual, and he sighs, putting the glass heavily back down. He says nothing else.

“And?” I prompt.

“And. I can’t figure it out. Because you’re not like everyone else. It’s not simple to just place you into a category and ask you to play the part.”

I understand what he’s talking about. Every year, tributes fit into one of a few specially crafted categories to try and get them sponsors. Some act sexy, to try and win over younger sponsors, some act young and defenceless to gain sympathy. Some act strong and brave to spur on the fighters. The list goes on, really.

“Why not?” I ask, and he looks me up and down.

“Because… the Capitol already know who you are.”

Now, I don’t understand. Know who I am? Is this about my score? That I can’t play weak and vulnerable because of how high I scored? I go to speak, but Haymitch shakes his head.

“Look, kid. There’s really no easy way to have this conversation… but we…” He trails off, closing his eyes for a second before he tenses his jaw and continues. “We need to talk about your sister.”

My blood runs cold, and I genuinely think for a second that the few bites of breakfast that I had managed may be about to come back up. He senses this, I think, and pushes the water towards me. I shake my head.

“Why?” I finally manage, and he offers me a pitying look. He clasps his hands on the table in front of him, his lips pursed as he tries to figure out exactly what to say.

“Peeta told me that you… never watched her games, is that true?”

I clench my teeth and nod, a hint of betrayal biting at my chest at the thought of Peeta telling Haymitch so much. Haymitch simply nods though and lets out a soft exhale.

“Well… I’m sure you’ve already expected that they’ll ask you about her tonight… What she was like, what you thought of her games?”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t this about me?” I ask quickly, and immediately I feel guilty at how selfish that sounds.

“Normally, yes… but Nicole did nothing but talk about you in her interview. She played the part of the family devoted older sister… and she played it damn well. To them, you aren’t Kestrel Eyrie, who mysteriously scored higher than anyone else. You’re Nicole Eyrie’s little sister.”

“So, I’m already in a box.” I whisper, and he nods.

“You are… And I’m going to give you two options. Either you play into it, and you speak all about your love for your sister, how much you miss her, how every day for you is torture without her.”

“Or?” I say quickly, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Or… You show them that you’re angry. Show them that you are a fighter, that despite your sister’s death, you are your own person.”

“Why was the first one ever an option?”

Haymitch chuckles and shakes his head. It’s not a humorous chuckle. No. It is laced with something almost dangerous which serves only to make my skin crawl.

“Because you risk pissing off a lot of people by doing things your way.”

Right. And pissing off the Capitol means no sponsors. No sponsors means my survival chances drop significantly.

“I’m not putting on a pink frilly dress and acting like a 10-year-old.” I say firmly, also moving my arms to lean on the table. To lean towards him.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just think that playing into what they already believe you to be might do you some favours.”

“Until I kill someone.” I say bluntly, and he pauses, leaning back in his chair.

“A fair point.”

“Look.” I huff, chewing on my bottom lip. “Tell me what I need to know about her games and then… we can figure this out, okay?”

He nods, then raises his hand into the air, snapping his fingers. An Avox appears and he whispers something to them, muttering a quiet ‘thank you’ before turning his focus back to me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him use any sort of manners towards the Avox’s. It must be because Effie isn’t here. Still, I can’t help but wonder what he requested.

“Before I start… do you have any questions? Anything you want to know first?” He asks, his voice soft again. His mood is changing so fast it’s giving me whiplash, but I shake my head. I just want this over with as quickly as possible. Haymitch continues.

“You know I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I didn’t have to. But it was technically illegal for you to have not watched, and the last thing you need is for them to find that out on live television. I’m not doing this to be cruel.”

“I know.” I reply, and my voice is quieter than I expect it to be. Shakier. Deep down, I know there is a curiosity that has always been there about what happened to my sister. It comes to the surface sometimes. It is a dark, crippling curiosity that I have to fight back down when it arises, because I’ve always known, despite everything, not knowing is better.

I also know, without fail, that I am not ready to hear what Haymitch is about to tell me. This information is about to change everything I thought I knew. Every idea I’ve ever had of Nicole and the things she went through.

My time of living in ignorance, in my protective little bubble, is over. There is no avoiding it now. Not this time.

“You should be very proud of her.” Haymitch says gently, leaning slightly towards me, and immediately, there is a lump in my throat that feels suffocating. I can only nod. If I say anything, I’ll cry, and I’ll be damned if I start crying so soon.

“She went out in a very respectable way…” He continues. “She didn’t kill anyone, you know? Stayed true to herself the whole game. Not many tributes can say that.”

He’s trying to make me feel better before he lays it onto me. Trying to comfort me before he breaks me. But it is surprising to me.

Nicole survived until late game. I knew that. From the hope that existed in the District up until the final day, I knew she was still alive. Our male tribute had already been returned, and we held him a beautiful funeral, so I knew it was her that was still fighting. But to make it that far without killing a single person? It’s impressive. I say nothing still, and he sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“In terms of death order by technicality… she came second.”

This catches my attention, and I raise my eyes to look into his. Tears are forming and my chest is burning.

“By technicality?” I repeat, my own voice strained as I struggle to reign in any hint of composure, I might be able to grip onto. I am shaking, my teeth clenching and my hands balled into fists.

“By technicality.” He nods. “Her death… was one of many. In a very short period of time.”

When I say nothing, a hint of anger crosses into his expression.

“It was a cruel, unjust act of favouritism from the Game Makers… I’m sorry, kid… She never stood a chance.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I snap, my expression now reflecting the agony and rage in his. Is he trying to wind me up? To make me mad so I show myself up tonight.

“Because it is important. I cannot let you go into that arena tomorrow not knowing the unfairness of this situation.”

I fall silent, simply staring at him as I try to figure out his motives. What the hell is going on in that head of his? Then it clicks and I sit up slightly straighter.

“You want me to pick option two.” I whisper, and he gives me a sad smile.

“Weren’t you always going to?”

It is now that an Avox returns, carrying two mugs. One, placed in front of Haymitch, with putrid smelling tea. It is black as coal, and I do not understand how he drinks it. The other, placed in front of me, a hot chocolate, topped with cream and sauce and small box shaped pink and white sweets.

It’s a comfort drink. That’s what he requested before. Why? To try and sweeten me up? To try and make me agree with him? I pull the mug closer to me and wrap my hands around it to try and stop the trembling.

“How did she die?” I ask, and Haymitch leans forward, like he had been expecting the question.

“She drowned.” He answers truthfully enough, and the answer makes my stomach sink and my eyes sting. I take a moment to try and absorb this information, but no matter how hard I try, it won’t settle. It won’t go in and stays sitting on my chest.

“It’s actually a very peaceful way to go, I promise you.” He says, his eyebrows furrowing in concern as he watches me.

“How the hell is drowning peaceful?” I choke.

“Because…” He starts, before taking a shaky breath. “It only hurts for as long as you hold your breath… Nicole didn’t know it was coming, so she couldn’t hold her breath for long. As soon as you give up… It stops hurting.”

Tears form in his own eyes now and he blinks them back with a sharp inhale, picking up his mug.

“You promise?” I find myself asking, again letting that weakness slip into my tone.

“I promise.”

He then goes on to explain that Nicole’s death had been caused by an avalanche in the arena, that had caused a flood. It was caused by the Game Makers, who had decided the game had become boring.

Up until this point, Nicole had survived on her pure survival knowledge alone. Apparently, she spent her 3 days training working on pure survival skills. She learnt to forage, to set snares, to fish. She learnt how to keep herself alive with natural remedies and herbal concoctions. She learnt how to find safe water to drink. She didn’t hurt a single person.

She had, however, sustained an injury at the hands of another tribute. It was nothing serious, he assures me, but it was enough to send her into hiding. She found a cave, hidden under the surface of the arena, where she could rest up and tend to her wounds.

Until the flood came.

By the time she knew what had happened, it was too late. She couldn’t get out. She was trapped, and she drowned. Not that she knew how to swim anyway, so it wouldn’t have made any difference at all.

There was some debate, apparently, on whether the Game Makers had intended the flood, or just the avalanche, since the flood gave the surviving District 4 tribute an unmistakable advantage. Coming from the fishing district, their people know how to swim better than anyone. Out in our outlying Districts, swimming is a skill that is never taught, since it’s not needed.

That flood wiped out all remaining tributes, besides the District 4 girl, who was crowned the Victor.

The Capitol chose not to make a comment on this tragic disaster, and this game is very rarely televised. It is being left to vanish into history.

Nicole is being left to vanish into history.

I now know why he wanted to tell me the full story. At this point, my face is wet with tears, and I am a sobbing, sniffling mess. But the despair of Nicole’s death is not my leading emotion. No. I am angry. Angry that if they had just stepped back and let the game run, Nicole may have won. And even if she didn’t, her story wouldn’t be being left to fade away as if she never meant anything at all.

They couldn’t be more wrong, and I know now exactly what I have to do. I have to pick neither option one, nor option two. I have to combine them. To show them that despite my independence and my own strengths, Nicole will always be a part of me, and what they did to her will do nothing but fuel me. They made a mistake in killing her in such a way.

They made a mistake in allowing me to be reaped but a few years later.

I will be the person she never got the chance to be.

I will make sure her name cannot be erased from history. Even if I die tomorrow, it is now my mission to ensure that Panem remembers us. That they remember the name Eyrie.

Let it be a stain they cannot erase.

Notes:

Aaaah this is a chapter I've been waiting for for so so so long!! I'm still fighting with balancing this with my uni work but I'm very happy with how this ended up, even if slightly more rushed than I'd have liked.

Chapter 14: The Teacher

The conversation doesn’t last much longer, and I think Haymitch knows that the previous topic left me a little more sensitive than I’d be willing to admit out loud. Occasionally, he tries to spark a conversation, asking me some questions about myself or about Peeta, but I think he eventually gets the hint, and we fall into a semi-comfortable silence.

He does tell me however, that normally, he doesn’t allow tributes to step foot onto the interview stage without having figured out a practically pre-written script. Apparently far too many tributes have embarrassed themselves in front of the entire country, under his guidance, and he refuses to let it happen to anyone else.

However, according to him, my situation is different. That I am, in his words, rare. He believes that putting me into a box would cause more harm than good. He has enough experience for me to protest, and I’m just happy they don’t want to dress me in glitter and frills, so I don’t argue.

For the next hour until lunch, Haymitch ensures the conversation is lighter, giving me a chance to compose myself. I think he knows that I view myself as having some sort of reputation to uphold, so he is giving my tears time to dry and the red tint in my cheeks time to fade. I sip on the hot chocolate, rolling my tongue around individual pink and white sweets as a distraction. The sugar melting onto my tongue gives me a burst of flavour to focus on and acts to cover the acidic bile coating my tastebuds.

After about 20 minutes of idle small talk, Haymitch moves the conversation back to the upcoming games, thought in a more light-hearted tone. We discuss survival techniques, but it’s mostly him talking while I continue sipping on my drink.

At one point, I find myself asking what his plan is for Peeta’s interview, but he shrugs it off as he takes a sip of his own drink. He lets it sit in his mouth for a moment, before swallowing and placing his mug back down. He tells me not to worry, that he has plans and tricks up his sleeves. This does not help me not to worry. Not one bit.

It is around noon when Effie and Peeta return to the dining room. Effie seems ecstatic, clearly proud of whatever she had accomplished. She sits at her usual seat at the table, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly in her lap. She is positively beaming. Peeta, on the other hand, is not. He looks… exhausted, to say the least. His cheeks, like mine were, are tinted in a rosy hue, and at first it makes me wonder if he’s been crying. Until I see the sweat beading on his temple and the way his hair is sticking up at unnatural angles, held up by something thick and sticky and shiny. His eyes are tired and hazy as he too sits himself beside me at the table and slumps in his chair, letting out a long breath. Just what did Effie put him through?

I meet Haymitch’s eye, silently asking him just about every question on my mind, but in return I get nothing but an amused grin as he takes another sip of his tea. Well, that answered a lot. And did nothing to make me feel better about what is coming for me after we’ve eaten. Not that I’m allowed to eat much, not at first.

While Peeta loads his plate high, to regain his strength, he says, Effie tells me to keep my stomach as light as possible, so I don’t look “bloated” in any dresses. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but the scowl that forms on Haymitch’s face tell me it’s not a good thing.

He immediately loads a few familiar foods onto my plate, keeping his eyes on Effie the whole time he does so. She does not look pleased but says nothing else.

“Eat up, Kes.” Haymitch says, his voice rough but… soft at the same time. He nudges my plate towards me. I glance up at Effie, who now has her head ducked, picking at the salad laid before her. Haymitch clears his throat, almost pointedly. “You could do with some meat on those bones anyway.”

I hesitate, before picking my fork up. The atmosphere has become almost suffocating, and a heavy silence falls over us as we eat. I try to find a happy middle ground, eating a little bit, but not enough to make me full. It seems to satisfy Effie more than it does Haymitch, but I’ll make it up to him at dinner, I tell myself.

Nobody talks as we eat, though we can all tell that Effie is just about on the edge of her seat, waiting for someone, anyone, to ask her about what she had accomplished with Peeta. Nobody does, and before I know it, and before I’ve been able to emotionally prepare myself, Effie stands and claps her hands, looking to me.

“Come on, come on!” She squeals, and I immediately feel nauseous, somewhat regretting what I had eaten. “I have so much planned for you!”

I stand, and take one last glance at Haymitch, who rolls his eyes, before following Effie to my room. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Maybe it was seeing Peeta’s face and exhaustion, maybe it’s knowing I’m soon to be in front of the entirety of Panem, maybe I’m afraid of disappointing Effie and Haymitch. Either way, my heart is beating in my throat, and it feels like I can’t breathe. It feels like I am choking on my own anxiety and I’m really not sure if I’m going to have another panic attack or bring my lunch back up. Both, probably, it’s just a matter of which comes first.

Effie doesn’t seem to notice my silence as she talks away, but the ringing in my ears makes it difficult to pay attention. She leads me into my dressing room, and I freeze, upon seeing the dress hanging up, waiting for me.

It’s beautiful. There’s no other way to describe it.

Like the previous one, it is mostly yellow, though this hue isn’t quite as bright, and it seems to be nearing on gold. The fabric is loose, crossing over across the chest, and then flowing out into an elegant lacy skirt that I’m sure would sit just above my knees. There is a section of pale, slightly transparent material connecting the chest piece to a black neck piece, that appears to be somewhat of a choker.

The sleeves are low, more for accessory than actually offering any support, but attached to those are more pieces of transparent fabric, used to cover my arms.

The waist of the dress is cinched with a black corset, decorated with green lace, and connecting to a fairly large green bow around the back. The bow connects to a see-through train of matching green material that hangs just above the floor.

The entire dress is coated in sparkles and sequins and feathers sewn into the lining. I know exactly what the stylists have done here. I, once again, am their Canary Bird.

Effie slips it over my head, and ties the corset, and when I see myself in the mirror, I feel like crying. A lump forms in my throat that I have to force myself to swallow. If I thought my parade dress was pretty, this is on a whole different level. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like this in any parade or interview I’ve ever watched over the years. Though admittedly, I do try to avoid them if I can help it.

The colours of the dress bring out the colours in my eyes, and Effie too steps back, admiring Cinna’s work.

“Oh… Kestrel…” She gasps, placing her hands over her mouth. She looks emotional, and when I turn to face her, she has to take a moment, fanning her face as if that would ever help to wash away tears. “They’re going to love you…”

That sentence makes my chest flutter, and I take another look at myself in the mirror. Am I really something special or is she trying to make me feel better? Maybe she’s trying to give me a boost of confidence so that I don’t absolutely blow the interview. Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.

“Usually, we have to try on so many dresses before we find the right one.” Effie comments, taking my hand and leading me back to the bedroom. “But Cinna has worked some serious magic here, don’t you think?”

She’s definitely talking more to herself than to me. I manage a soft hum of agreement before she is already on the next topic. I must zone out at some point, because I find myself sat at the makeup table, facing the mirror as she pulls and tugs at my hair, running the hairbrush through it as though she’s running out of time. She’s definitely not being as careful or gentle as she was last time she managed my hair, and it makes it clear just how anxious she really is.

I catch her gaze in the mirror, and she gives me a small smile, scooping my hair up into a high ponytail. She takes a moment to look over it, her eyes squinting in contemplation, before she drops it and combs my hair through with her fingers.

“Don’t look so scared, darling.” She hums with a quiet chuckle. “I’m not doing your final hair for tonight. That’ll be done just before you go out, so it doesn’t get all… messy…”

I do my best to neutralise my expression as I watch as she plaits individual sections of hair, her fingers working effortlessly like she’s done this a thousand times before.

“Cinna and Octavia just asked me to try out some styles if I had time… to give them some ideas. You’ve got so much hair; we’ve got so many options! Usually those from your district don’t have an awful lot to work with.”

She says it with a small shrug, but I have to look down, to avoid my expression betraying my thoughts. I know what she’s talking about, and it makes my stomach sink. Outlying districts like 12 don’t have enough food, which leads to starvation, which leads to hair loss. Most of the women in the district wear their hair in tight buns or ponytails to try and hide the damage, but the hungrier you are, the more that falls out.

Because I can hunt, I’ve managed to stay on a diet that is just sufficient enough to keep the majority of my hair. Not to say I haven’t lost any. I have. I’ve lost my fair share of hair too, and every handful that comes out reminds me just how much I wish I were born in any other district.

Even as she says this, I can see Effie pulling the loose strands from her fingers, and I’m just grateful she has chosen not to comment on it.

This continues for a while, until eventually it seems she’s had enough of treating me like a personal practice doll, and she puts my hair back up how it was originally. A limp ponytail sitting around my shoulders, just to keep it out of my face.

She doesn’t give me any time to breathe before she’s turning me around on the seat. It’s making me dizzy how quickly she’s moving from one thing to another, but it’s a type of efficiency that can only come with years of practice, and I’ve got to give her credit for that.

She kneels in front of me, and before I can question it, she’s slipping some shoes onto my feet. I notice immediately that these ones too, have heels.

They aren’t nearly as high as my parade shoes, but they are heels none-the-less, and I feel as my heartrate picks up at just the sight of them.

The shoes themselves are nice. Effie calls them “dolly shoes” which seems fitting, with a small yellow bow on the front. There are strands of material that wrap around my ankles, keeping them firmly on my feet. They’re pretty, but I’m not exactly keen on breaking my ankle live on stage in front of the entirety of Panem. There’s no rules against sending injured tributes into the arena, so I’d be sent in tomorrow morning regardless. I’m not sure I’d have any hope of winning with my ankle held together by some sticks and scrap bandages.

Effie tugs me to standing, and I’m thankful she keeps a firm grip on my hands, as I immediately wobble. My ankle twists to the side and I have to take a moment to catch my breath.

“Why does it have to be heels?” I ask through gritted teeth, as Effie prompts me to take a step forward, still holding my hands.

“Because, my dear, heels are all the rage round here… unless you want to be seen as a child? We have rules against putting under 13s in shoes such as these, after all.”

I look up, my eyes knitted into a scowl. She knows exactly what button she’s pushed, because she simply grins innocently at me, prompting me to take another step forward.

I feel like a baby learning to walk for the first time. You see it in the district sometimes, especially in the warmer months. Mothers holding their baby’s hands exactly how Effie is holding mine, teaching them how to gain their balance and strengthen their legs. It’s embarrassing and I hate the knowledge that Peeta wouldn’t have had to do this.

At least when babies do it, it’s adorable and every other mother in the district crowds to watch its first steps.

Another comparison that comes to mind is a newborn deer. I’ve seen a few of them in my time, and they walk super shortly after they’re born. At first, it looks like their legs aren’t their own, far too weak and skinny to hold them up. They’re shaky and they fall often. But even then, that’s a beautiful feat of nature. There is nothing beautiful or natural about this.

After a few slow laps of the room, Effie moves to walking beside me, holding one of my hands instead of both of them. My steps are still cautious and hesitant, but slowly, I believe I am getting the hang of it.

But cockiness is a fine thing, and the stride in my step is halted by a twist in my ankle that leads to me hitting the floor hard before I even have a chance to stop myself. All the air leaves my lungs, and I groan, pain coursing through my body, though thankfully, my ankles feel fine.

“That’s why we practice.” Effie sighs, kneeling beside me. She traces her fingers across my ankles, and across the tops of my feet. Inspecting for injury, I suspect. When she finds nothing, she helps me sit up and cups my face with one hand. Her eyes study my expression, but when I show no signs of pain or vulnerability, she stands up and offers her hand to me. I take it and she pulls me back up to my feet.

We try again, and this time, I’ve learnt my lesson and don’t rush it.

We must be at this for at least half an hour, maybe more, but eventually I’m able to make my way from one side of the room to the other, and back, completely independently with no wobbles. Apparently, that’s all I need to be able to do. Walk onto the stage, sit beside Caesar, and then get up and leave the stage afterwards. She assures me someone will be waiting in the wings with a change of shoes for me. I’m going to hold her to that.

Honestly, Effie looks like she’s getting tired by this point. Like I’m a mess that cannot be made stage ready. There is something almost reassuring about that. You can take the girl out of the district, but no amount of glitter and hairspray will ever take the district out of the girl.

“Sit.” She orders, dragging me from my thoughts. She is gesturing to the seat below the window. I go to slip the shoes off, but she raises her eyebrows at me, her fingers still indicating towards the seat. I sigh. Not getting out of that one so easily, huh?

I walk with determination to the other side of the room, each step coordinated and calculated. I have not come this far to have to spend another hour learning to walk due to a stumble. Absolutely not.

I sit down triumphantly, but based on Effie’s expression, I know I have immediately done something wrong. Her eyes are narrow, scanning every single inch of my body. It feels uncomfortable, and I shift to pull my knees together. This seems to please her a little, as she lets out an approving hum and steps closer.

She comes to sit beside me, and as usual, folds one of her legs over the other. She does nothing else, and it takes me a moment to realise she wants me to copy her.

Well, it’s not nearly as easy as she makes it look, and I have to use my hands to pull one knee on top of each other, and though I can’t see myself, I know that it was far from graceful.

“Okay…” Effie mutters with a sigh and a small nod. Yeah, she definitely has no idea what to do with me. She takes a moment to look over me again, before unfolding her legs, and pulling them up underneath her, so she’s more or less sat on her heels. It looks uncomfortable, but… debatably more doable.

I try to copy her, and at first, it’s a struggle to get my legs to cooperate with me, but after a few attempts, I’m able to effortlessly tuck my legs underneath me. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it looks either. She just reminds me to make sure my dress is covering me, but she seems otherwise pleased with that and moves on.

She teaches me to lay my hands neatly in my lap and trains me not to fiddle with any of my accessories, or hair or clothing. According to her, fiddling shows anxiety, and anxiety is less likely to earn me sponsors. I’m tempted to tell her it’s easier said than done when she’s not the one going to fight to the death, but I’m sure that would earn me a lecture on my attitude, and quite frankly, I can’t be bothered, so I keep my mouth firmly shut.

I think we must be almost done, but I couldn’t be more wrong. Apparently, there’s a lot I need to learn before I’m ready to be interviewed.

She teaches me how to laugh behind my hand, how to politely comb any stray hairs back with a flick of the wrist, how to smile with just enough teeth, but not too much. I learn how to shift my legs if I get uncomfortable without looking too fidgety or exposing myself.

She does also teach me how to come across as a little sassy, as she calls it, but she ensures me its best used in moderation, and to turn down my usual attitude. So, I definitely ended up getting that lecture anyway.

By the time we actually are done, I’m beyond ready to just be left alone, and when she slips my dress off and tells me to get into pyjamas until tonight, I genuinely feel like crying.

I watch as she hurries around my room, still so full of energy despite how completely and utterly drained I feel, and it makes me wonder if she’s truly just that naturally energetic, or if any of it, even some tiny part, is forced. Either way, I hope she gets time to relax once these interviews are over. After that, there is nothing more she can do for us anyway.

Before I know it, she’s half out the door, and she turns back to look at me, a genuine, reassuring smile of her face.

“Just be yourself.” She says, and there is sincerity in her tone. “They’ll love you.”

Notes:

I genuinely struggled to get this chapter done. My assignments took so much attention, and then Christmas and my niece's birthday. But finally!

I hope you all had a great Christmas if you celebrate, and have a great new years!

Chapter 15: The Spotlight

Despite the promise to myself that I’d make it up to Haymitch, dinner that night is a struggle. Every mouthful that I manage to force into myself makes my stomach turn and I have to have a sip of water after each and every bite to ensure it doesn’t come back up. After about 20 minutes, and a quarter of a plate of white chicken and rice, I decide it’s a futile attempt and push my plate away.

It is now and only now that I allow myself to look up at everyone else at the table.

Nobody else seems to have much of an appetite either, and if I had seen earlier that everyone else was picking at their food too, maybe I would have spared myself the struggle.

Peeta, like myself, seems riddled with anxiety and I don’t blame him one bit. He is repetitively chewing the same bit of bread and has been since I looked up. He’s hunched over, each movement of his jaw becoming slightly slower and slightly more forced than the last. Whether he’s struggling to swallow, or just in some sort of nerve-fuelled daze, I’m not sure.

Effie is pushing salad leaves around her plate with her fork, tracing meaningless circles in the ceramic, occasionally stabbing it, lifting it up, and then sighing. It never quite makes it into her mouth, and she always ends up dropping it back down. It does make me wonder what could possibly be going on in her head to ruin her appetite. It’s not like tonight’s outcome will get her killed.

I know what’s going on with Haymitch. He is struggling his way through a bowl of some sort of broth, but his nausea is clear in the slightly green hue to his face. His skin is clammy, his hands shaky and unstable as the liquid spills back into the bowl before it can even reach his mouth. Slightly damp hair falls into his face and he pushes it away with a huff. I can’t tell whether he’s fresh out the shower or desperately in need of one. It’s not my business either way, but I can’t help the pang of guilt in my chest knowing how badly the withdrawals are eating him alive.

I’m sure that by now, he’d be far too intoxicated to even notice it’s interview night. But this year, tonight, he’s all too aware. For my sake, he says.

The room is thick with a heavy silene, disturbed only by the half-assed scrape of utensils and Effie’s restless watch-checking. None of us are even eating anymore, but yet we stay stuck in this limbo as we wait for Cinna, Octavia and the rest of the prep team to retrieve us. Every second that passes makes my chest just that little bit tighter.

By the time Cinna does arrive, I’m sure I’m going to be sick, and I stand up before I can stop myself, heading over to him.

“Hey, little bird!” He grins, and I already feel more at ease. He envelops me in a hug, and while I’m not really a fan of hugs, this is one I lean into, taking in the comfort of his smell. To me… he smells almost district. He’d probably be offended if I told him that, but it’s true. And I don’t mean district in the same way Haymitch is district. No, Haymitch smells like alcohol and sorrow. Cinna smells like nature. Like the forests outside the fence. Like leaves and bark and honest, hard work. There is a hint of sweat on his collar, not nearly enough to be repulsive, but enough to make him human. Not artificially sweet like the rest of the Capitol. It’s reassuring. It’s comforting.

He pulls back much before I’m ready, but his hand lingers on my shoulder, keeping me grounded as he tilts his head.

“Let’s get you ready, hm?” He hums, his tone light and soothing, and I find myself nodding, despite how much I want to protest and tell him I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready, and that’s a truth that is better being faced sooner rather than later.

The scraping of chairs sends a jolt of electricity through my spine, and I feel as my entire body tense. Effie stands first, smoothing her skirt out with practiced precision as she moves. All anxiety previously displayed seems to melt away immediately, and she is back to being composed and pristine, like it’s second nature. I’m almost envious at how quickly she can turn her emotions off, like flicking a switch.

 Peeta trails behind her, his steps heavy, his gaze fixed firmly onto the carpet. I almost reach out to him, want to offer him some reassurances, but nothing I have to say would make this any better, so I stay silent.

Haymitch is last to rise as he pushes himself up with a groan, pushing more hair from his face as he mutters something I don’t quite catch. Effie shoots him a harsh look, so I’m not sure I want to know either way.

We are led to the prep room, though I’m not entirely sure where we’re going. I’m not really paying attention as we move through elevators and hallways and buildings.

Stepping into the last room seems to take my breath from my chest and I try to step back, but Cinna pushes me gently in, offering me a soft look to try and ease my nerves. It doesn’t work, but I appreciate it none-the-less.

I am placed on a pedestal and the stylists descend without hesitation, their hands a blur of motion. Brushes swipe roughly across my skin, and multiple pairs of hands tug at my hair, making me wince. Their chatter fills the air, an endless stream of hollow compliments and gossip that I simply hum and nod to appropriately to keep them thinking I’m interested. I don’t think I could be less interested.

I let them work with little protest, simply watching as the girl in the mirror opposite becomes less and less familiar to me. The person staring back isn’t me. They’re too… shiny. Too polished. It’s not me. The thought that this may be my last true look at myself crosses my mind, but I push it away with all the effort I can muster.

Cinna’s quiet presence in the corner is my only anchor. I only have to glance over at him occasionally to ease the burning in my lungs. He doesn’t join in the onslaught, not this time. He simply watches with calm, focused eyes, offering occasional advice, and making sure they don’t cross any sort of invisible lines that I’m yet to see.

After what feels like forever, they all finally step back to admire their work, gushing and squealing and fanning their faces as though they might cry. I can only stare at myself. The dress is beautiful, sure, but I don’t feel so beautiful. I feel… unnatural. It’s like they’ve taken everything I thought I knew about myself and erased it. Replaced it.

The excitement I felt at the parade doesn’t seem to have caught up with me this time, so I’m left tilting my head this way and that, trying to catch out my reflection to prove that it couldn’t possibly be me.

The girl I knew is gone.

“Perfect…” One of them gasps, taking my hand to help me twirl. The circle of stylists clap their hands together.

Perfect. Right. I swallow hard and nod, forcing my lips into a weak smile.

I am almost immediately tugged from the room, with two assistant stylists walking with their arms on mine, keeping me stable. I’m not sure if they’re assuming I still can’t walk in these shoes, or if I just look that uneasy, but I can’t say I mind.

I am quickly reunited with Peeta, who once again is in an outfit made to match mine. His suit is of golden hue with green and black detailing. Much like the one he wore in the parade, just… more. I try to offer him a smile, but I can barely force my lips to move. 

“You look beautiful.” He whispers, running his fingers over the feathered detailing on my shoulders. His compliment makes my body warm up, and this time, I do manage a smile. 

“Thank you. So do you.”  

It isn’t until he laughs that I realise I may have misspoken, but I don’t have time to dwell as we are quickly pushed along, and right into the back of a long queue of all the other tributes. 

It’s dark back here, and I can’t really see anyone more than a few tributes ahead, but they too are all stood with their stylists and mentors. Most are huddled in groups, as far as I can see. Probably mentors trying to give some last-minute advice. 

We all stay quiet. Anything that could be added now is probably better left unsaid in my opinion. 

Haymitch reappears at my side, his own eyes anxiously scanning the tributes ahead of us. I watch him with curiosity, trying to catch snippets of the words being whispered under his breath.

“Definitely flirty… maybe scared… a fighter…”

He is trying to pin down how the tributes are presenting themselves. It makes sense. We come on stage last, and if each tribute does the same as the one before them, then we all end up as nothing special. I didn’t think he’d be so worked up over it though. I know that nobody is going to be doing the same as me, so it makes me wonder what they might have in store for Peeta. I wasn’t necessarily worried before, but maybe now I should be, for his sake.

The first tribute is then called. The district 1 girl, and immediately I see what she’s going for as the screens around us light up, showing her in all her glory.

She’s pretty, it’s undeniable. She’s got this beautiful blonde hair that bounces around her shoulders, and these bright, piercing eyes. It’s the type of look you only really see in the Capitol or top districts. They’re clearly using her looks to her advantage.

She sashays onto the stage, her pink dress emphasising her every movement. It sways around her knees, flowing out in a way that almost reminds me of a flower. She has the audience captivated before she even says a single word.

It must be nice to have such confidence that they’ll like you.

She finishes her interview, answering a few questions about her motivations and why she volunteered, but I have to admit, she was much more of a threat when her mouth was shut. She wants to come across as scary and intimidating, but the sparkles and pink framing her face make it hard to come across sincere. Even the audience give a few chuckles when she mentions that she’ll kill without mercy.

She’s a career, I don’t doubt that, but they should have done more to work that in her favour.

The next interview to catch my attention is the girl from district 2, Brennan.

Caesar starts off by praising her for being the youngest ever volunteer from her district, being only 17 years old. It doesn’t strike me as particularly young, when you have 12-year-olds in the game, but when you consider that all careers, without fail, are 18, it is odd.

At first, I’m not at all sure what vibe she is trying to give off. She’s not acting particularly confident or cocky, she’s not throwing around threats or bragging about what she can and can’t do. But she’s also not being sickeningly sweet or flirty or mysterious. Some answers are coy, accompanied by a small giggle, while others are blunt, and she shoots the odd glare or harsh look to the audience.

Then it clicks.

She’s being unpredictable.

It’s a unique tactic for sure, and one that takes a lot more work to pull off, but she’s doing an incredible job. Tied all together, she looks even slightly unstable, yet charming. It’s impressive.

Sponsors will be crawling over her. A career that you can’t predict. It makes the game fun. Brings in betters from all over the country.

She’s an outlier just for being here at her age, and this interview was everyone’s chance to figure out how she did it. She gave them nothing. They’ll want to keep her alive to get answers, because the Capitol is nothing if not dependably curious.

It’s smart. Too smart.

I try to keep track of who is a threat and who isn’t, but my mind becomes more and more muddled the closer I get to the front of the queue. I am trembling and I can’t stop. I have to stop. Nobody thus far has come across as weak. I will not be the first. Even the 12-year-old from district 11 held herself together and even came across as a little cocky. If she can do it, I can do it.

I’d like to think Katniss might be watching. Maybe even Gale and Prim are watching. If I can’t do myself proud, I’ll do it for them. And so I take a deep, shaky breath, straighten my back, square up my shoulders, and walk confidently onto the stage when my name is called.

I am immediately met with an eruption of noise and blinding lights that cloud my vision, but as much as I hate to admit it, it’s almost magical. The dust being brought up from the floorboards shimmer like glitter in the spotlights, surrounding me in a curtain of sparkles.

Caesar takes my hand and leads me to sitting, and for a brief moment, I stare at him, almost awe-struck. I’ve never been desperate to meet him, he’s exactly the same as the rest of the Capitol, but somehow, he’s that much shinier in person and it takes my breath away.

My mind is hazy, a thick fog taking over my senses and I know for sure that I’ll wake up at any moment, back in my bed in the seam. But again, I don’t.

“Kestrel!” He chirps, bringing me back to the present. “Look at you! You look… just wow… quite the outfit, isn’t it?”

I smile at him and fiddle with the sleeves that cover my hands just enough to do so.

“Thank you, Cinna made it.”

The words leave my mouth so naturally, and I see as the cameras pan to Cinna, wherever he is in the audience. He smiles and waves and somehow that makes my chest a little bit lighter.

“Can you explain it?” He asks, motioning to the dress. “The feathers, the material… what is it? Some kind of bird?”

“A canary.” I say.

“A canary! Of course it is! Why don’t you tell us a little bit about what that symbolises?”

This isn’t the direction I was prepared for this interview to take, but I can’t say I’m upset with it. I look at Caesar as I talk. Haymitch told me not to worry about what comes out my mouth, to just say what needs to be said, but even then, I’m careful as I talk.

“The canary birds are native to my district. We use them in the mines. They detect harmful gasses so that the miners know to leave before it’s dangerous for them too.”

He listens intently, as does the rest of the audience, as they sit silently, hanging on my every word.

“They’re songbirds.” I continue, tucking my legs underneath me like Effie taught me how to do. I fiddle with my hair like it’s the most innocent thing in the world.

“And what does that mean for you, Kestrel? Why are you representing a canary today?” Caesar asks, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He already knows, his gaze is too knowing, but he is offering me the stage to own it.

I force myself to swallow, the weight of this moment pressing hard on my chest. This is all or nothing. Make or break. “Well… once the canary stops singing, it means danger is coming.”

My voice wavers, but I force it steady, lifting my chin as Caesar’s smile grows. He’s hooked, and that realisation ignites something in me. The doubt that clung to my words fades, replaces with resolve.

“And if I stop singing,” I say louder, my voice slicing through the silence of the auditorium, “you’ll know to pay attention.”

The Capitol people erupt, a wave of screams and applause crashing over me. I blink, startled by the force of their reaction and my head snaps towards them.

Caesar throws back his head with a laugh, ringing out above the noise. He gestures broadly to the crowd. “Yes! That’s what we’re talking about! District 12 bringing the fire!”

I allow myself a small smile, the roar of the crowd resonating deep in my chest. I’ve lit a spark, and for the first time, I feel it’s warmth.

Then, Caesar’s expression turns serious, and I know what is coming. I want to beg him to let this moment last just a little longer, to give me a little more time to thrive in this spotlight, because in mere minutes, this high will all come crashing down.

“Now Kestrel,” He begins, his voice soft and weighted. The crowd hushes instantly, and the silence is deafening. “There’s something else we need to talk about, isn’t there?”

I nod, because what else can I do, and again the room is so silent I’m sure they can hear my racing heart.

“Tell me about your sister.”

The words hit like a dagger, and I force as much air into my lungs as I can physically manage. It’s not enough. Now is the time to follow Haymitch’s plan. If I get angry, that’s okay. If I cry, make sure the cameras catches every tear.

Lifting my head, I meet Caesar’s gaze deliberately, letting the silence stretch, holding the weight of it.

“I’m proud of her.” I say, my voice firm. I refuse to let it waver. I won’t give them the satisfaction. “Maybe she could have won if not for…”

I pause, letting the words dangle. The effect is immediate. Caesar’s smile falters- a crack in the polished veneer. His eyes stay locked on him, searching, calculating. I let my lips curve into a soft, wistful smile, as if I’m remembering something bittersweet. Something lost.

“If it weren’t for that tragic flood.” I finish, my tone tinged with bitterness, followed by a carefully measured sigh. “It really was just bad luck, who could have seen it coming?”

I raise a hand to dab at my eyes, feigning the start of tears, and the audience give a collective coo of sympathy. I feel their attention. I have them wrapped around my finger. Right where I want them.

Caesar relaxes as I seem to drop the topic, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He smiles, tight but relieved, playing along.

But I’m not done.

“Though of course,” I mumble, just loud enough to be picked up by the mic on my dress. My eyes flick back to Caesar’s, and his expression hardens slightly, a warning glint flashing in his eyes. I act oblivious, like I don’t notice the danger in his stare. “I’m sure the game makers might have had a say or two… Still.” I add with a soft, bitter laugh, “may the odds be ever in your favour, right?”

The tension in the room shifts suddenly, a sudden shift in pressure. Caesar freezes, his polished façade cracking further as he struggles to maintain images. Both his and mine.

“That flood really was something.” He says finally, his voiced strained as he grasps at the control which is so quickly slipping through his fingers. “Something no one could have predicted.”

His tone carries an unspoken plea: Stop. But I hold his gaze, unwavering. I see it then- the flicker of realisation, the moment he understands I’m doing this on purpose.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, letting my bottom lip stick out in a slight pout.

“I do miss her dearly.” I hum, tucking my knees up tighter underneath me. My voice is sweet, deliberate, masking the sharp edge beneath. “Life just… isn’t the same without her.”

Caesar nods sympathetically, his gaze sweeping the audience before returning to me. His expression is carefully crafted- a mix of pity and curiosity, as if he’s navigating fragile glass.

“And… what did your parents think? At the reaping, I mean.” He asks gently, leaning in like we’re sharing a private moment.

My stomach twists painfully. Right. The Capitol believes I have parents at home, mourning the loss of their second and youngest child to this brutal spectacle.

“I’m sure they’re rolling in their graves.” The words slip past my lips before I can stop myself. The words cut through the air, sharp and unrestrained. The audience gasps audibly, the shock rippling across the room. My expression hardens, my lips flattening into a thin line. I let the silence stretch, letting them sit with the weight of what I’ve said.

“Oh-“ Caesar swallows heavily. “But Nicole-“

“Talked about them? Yeah, she did.” I interrupt, my voice tight. “But they… passed shortly after her games.” The hesitation in my tone is intentional, my body language closing off. I don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now. Not on their terms. Weakness is a luxury I cannot afford.

Caesar picks up on it immediately, clearing his throat and straightening in his seat.

“Right, well, on behalf of all of Panem,” he says, his voice louder now, more practiced, “I’m deeply sorry for your losses.”

The audience hums with murmurs of approval, as if his empty words could erase years of my grief.

“But now,” He presses, his tone shifting back to intrigue, “What does this mean for you, Kestrel?”

I meet his gaze, my shoulders square.

“It means I have nothing to lose.” I say simply. The honesty in my voice is unpolished. Raw. “Nothing to return to, you know? So hey, at least I’ll go out in style, right?”

The audience laughs, the sound harsh and abrasive against my ears. It twists my stomach how easily they turn tragedy into entertainment. I force a faint smile, letting them think they’ve won this moment, when in reality, I’ve just told them everything they need to fear. Everything that makes me so dangerous.

The laughter fades, but the air feels heavier now, like the audience is trying to figure out what to make of me. Caesar flashes his bright, rehearsed smile, trying to glue the moment back together.

“Well, Kestrel,” He says, leaning towards me. “You certainly have a way with words. That… bold spirit of yours. You remind me of someone else from District 12.”

His eyes gleam, daring me to bite. The cameras shift away from me for a moment, and they find one particular face in the crowd. Haymitch. H’s trying to draw a comparison, but I refuse to let him weaponize it.

I tilt my head, a soft, knowing smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Oh… I wouldn’t say that.” I reply, my tone light, almost playful. “I’m sure he had something to fight for. I just have… me.”

The audience murmurs again, some laughing nervously, others shifting uncomfortably.

Caesar’s smile flickers, and he presses on, his voice tightening.

“But surely you must have some hope for the future? Something that keeps you going?”

“Hope?” I repeat, my voice sharp but quiet enough to draw the room closer. I let the word hang in the air before continuing. “Hope is a luxury for people who have something to lose. For the rest of us, it’s just… survival.”

Caesar falters for a beat, before he jumps up, gesturing to the audience.

“Well! Unfortunately, that’s about all we have time for!” Caesar’s voice rises, bright and practiced, the perfect Capitol showman. He claps his hands together, turning to the audience with a wide grin. “Let’s have a round of applause for Kestrel Eyrie, our District 12 canary!”

The applause swells, a strange mix of genuine cheers and cautious claps. I rise slowly, smoothing the fabric of my dress before offering the audience a graceful curtsy. The lights are blinding, and the noise feels distant, like it’s coming from underwater. I force a smile, but my pulse pounds in my ears.

Caesar steps closer, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder as he steers me towards the wings. His grip is firm- not painful, but enough to remind me who’s in control.

“Be careful, kid.” He murmurs, his voice low enough to ensure no microphones catch it. The smile plastered on his face doesn’t waver, but I can hear the tension in his tone. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” I reply, my voice steady. My eyes flick towards his, holding his gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. There’s something in his expression- something almost like concern- but I don’t let it sway me.

As I take the last few steps off stage, leaving the lights and cameras behind, the sound of applause fades into the hum of backstage commotion. Capitol attendants dart around, their movements practiced and precise and mechanical, avoiding eye contact as I pass. The air back here feels different. Heavier, as if the tension from the stage has seeped into the walls.

Haymitch is waiting for me in the shadows, leaning against a metal beam with his arms crossed. He must have left the auditorium when the interview began coming to a close. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes that makes my stomach tighten.

“Nice show.” He drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really know how to make friends.”

I shrug, my lips curving into a faint smirk. “Making friends isn’t exactly part of the plan.”

“No kidding.” He straightens, stepping closer so we’re eye-to-eye. “I hope you know how dangerous that was. The Capitol won’t just laugh that off.”

“That’s the point.” I say, meeting his concerned gaze without flinching. I know part of him wanted me to do this, but a bigger part of him definitely wanted me to play it safe. “They need to see me. They need to remember me.”

Haymitch shakes his head, a bitter chuckle escaping him. “They’ll remember you alright. Just hope it’s not in a graveyard.”

I glance back towards the stage, where Caesar’s voice is still booming, now interviewing Peeta, his attempts to smooth over the cracks I left behind painfully obvious. The Capitol audience may be clapping now, but the Game Makers. No. President Snow. Won’t be so easily entertained.

Turning back to Haymitch, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

“Good.” I mutter. “Let them try.”

Notes:

Not to sound like a typical fanfic writer?? But my roof collapsed so I did not have a whole lot of free time. Um. Anyway. I'm back at uni now so hey loads of free time! Enjoyyy

Chapter 16: The Talk

I am barely a few feet from the stage exit, still standing next to Haymitch, when Peeta’s words from the stage catch my attention.

“Well, there is this one girl that I’ve had a crush on forever… but I don’t think she even knew I existed until the reaping.” He says with a small, nervous chuckle.

How is that fair? I get grilled about my tragic life, and he gets asked about girls? Is that the role Haymitch has picked for him? Some hopeless heartthrob to catch the attention of young Capitol girls with too much money? It’s shallow, and honestly, I’m disgusted Peeta would let himself be used like this. He’s better than that – or at least, I thought he was.

I glance to Haymitch, but he’s watching one of the backstage screens intently, like he’s waiting for something. He is chewing on his bottom lip in a manner that can only be described as anxious. I roll my eyes. So, I have to be tragic and angry and borderline rebellious, but Peeta gets to coast on his golden boy charm? I guess blonde hair really is enough to sway the Capitol. I’m not sure why I’m letting that surprise me.

“Yeah well… winning won’t really help me.” Peeta says, and I see Haymitch tense from the corner of my eyes.

Caesar pouts theatrically and tilts his head. “Well, why not? She’d just have to go out with you if you win.”

“Because…” Peeta mumbles, his voice so soft I almost miss it, and beside me, Haymitch takes in a sharp breath. I feel my stomach twist, like I know what’s coming even before it’s been said. Peeta looks down and then back up at Caesar. “She came here with me.”

I’m almost certain that everything freezes in this moment. My breathing, my pulse, every thought that had been going through my mind. Gone. I can’t seem to pull a breath in as I stare at the screen. And then, my own face is staring back at me, a backstage camera having captured every last, shameful moment.

My flushed cheeks burn an embarrassed pink, my lips parted as if caught mid gasp. My eyes can’t tear themselves away from the screen, even knowing this humiliating display is being broadcast across Panem. It fills me with rage that is strong enough to drown out the rest of the world.

Every single thing I just worked for. Every ounce of doubt I may have put into the hearts of the Capitol. Every moment that they thought I may be someone to watch- to be careful of- erased in one single moment. I can almost feel it shattering around me and I have to remind myself to breathe again.

I am angry. I am confused. I want to scream at him, to demand to know why he’d do this- but at the same time, I want to pull him close, to shield him from the storm he doesn’t even realise he’s unleashed. I don’t return his feelings- of course I don’t- but he’s not to know this. It’s not his fault.

It’s Haymitch’s.

When I finally tear my gaze away from the screen and turn to Haymitch, the cameras have already swung back to Peeta. It doesn’t matter, I’ve seen enough. Haymitch knows what he’s done. It doesn’t matter much anyway, as the blood pounding in my ears makes it impossible to know what’s being said on stage.

Haymitch looks me dead in the eyes, his expression unflinching. There’s no regret there, not even a flicker. My hands curl into fists, and I bare my teeth like something rabid, stepping towards him.

“Easy…” He murmurs, catching my arm before I can do anything worse. His grip is firm. Unyielding. I try to yank free but it’s no use. “Let’s take this upstairs before you lose it.”

I want to protest, to scream, but I catch the glint of a camera in the corner of my eye, and I know, as much as I hate it, he’s right. The only place I’m truly free from the public eye is the district 12 penthouse. Another public scene is the last thing I need, so I swallow the rage clawing at my throat, bitter and corrosive, and let him lead me back to the elevator.

The walk is tense, my body rigid with fury, but by the time we’re standing in the elevator, the anger shifts. Softens. The burn doesn’t fade, it just changes. My chest tightens, and before I can stop it, the heat rises to my eyes.

Dammit.

I blink furiously, trying to hold at bay the tears that threaten to spill, but it’s no use. They break free, streaking down my face with a force that feels almost violent, each drop carving sharp lines into my skin. I bow my head, hoping he won’t notice, but the shame is already suffocating. I never knew it could hurt so much.

Haymitch steps out of the elevator first, and I trail behind, already planning my escape. The second I’m out, I head straight to my room. No questions, no attention, and absolutely nothing Effie might have to offer me. Just quiet. The last shred of alone time I might ever have without being in mortal danger.

“Sit your ass down.”

I pause mid-step, groaning inwardly. Of course he wouldn’t let this go, but a girl can hope, right? Without a word, I drop onto the nearest couch, practically throwing myself into the cushions. The stiff fabric of my interview clothes scratch at my wrists. I twist a strand of green lace tighter and tighter around one of my fingers, letting the pinch distract me from the man settling into the seat across from me.

“What the hell is going on in that head of yours?” His voice is rough and low. Not angry, but not soft either.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I mutter, pulling the lace so tight it cuts off the circulation. My fingertip tingles as I let it go.

“Too bad. We’re talking.”

The words hit right in my chest. I glance at him and immediately regret it. His gaze is unwavering, focused on me. He’s watching me with that sharp, unrelenting focus that I hate so much, because it means he won’t let this drop. A bitter thought clouds my mind. I wish he were drunk again. Right now, for this conversation, he’s too sober. Drunk Haymitch wouldn’t care. Drunk Haymitch would let me shut myself away and let me deal with this on my own.

But he’s not. And the shame of wishing he was gnaws at me, hot and sharp, until it feels like it might hollow me out. I lean forward, pressing my arms to my stomach, trying to block it out, but it doesn’t help.

“Kes…” His voice softens, just slightly. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

I can’t. I want to- God I want to- but what’s the point? I don’t want him to hate me just before I die. Nothing can fix this.

I rewrap the lace around my finger, the pressure biting at my skin.

“You can’t help me.” I whisper, barely enough to hear over the roaring in my mind, the words tasting bitter as they pass my tongue.

“And what makes you so sure about that?” He asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. When I make no attempt to answer, he exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” He huffs, looking up at me. His tone is sharp, but not cruel. “You’re all confident and proud of yourself for putting yourself in the line of fire up there, but the second a boy says he likes you - a really charming boy, might I add- you freak out?”

I look up at him again, releasing the lace from my finger once more. “Yeah… something like that.”

“Alright…” He says with a slow nod. “And walk me through that one.”

“Made me look weak.” I mutter, dropping my gaze back down to the floor. The words feel small and fragile, like I’m testing them out.

“Bullshit.” He shakes his head. “Loving that boy might just save your life, and you’re a smart kid, so I know you know that. So, what’s this really about? Is it him? Did he do something I don’t know about?”

“No!” The word bursts out of me, too fast. Too defensive. My back straightens as if bracing for impact. My heart thunders, nausea rises, and my hands shake despite my best effort to steady them. I feel exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny.

He doesn’t let up, his eyes narrowing. “Then what is it, Kestrel? Talk to me.”

I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. Every explanation feels pointless, like trying to empty a sinking ship with a broken bucket. I swallow hard, my chest tight, and look away, those god-awful tears stabbing at my eyes again.

“There’s… someone else….” The words fall from my lips in a whisper, so quiet I’m not sure he hears me. I keep my gaze fixed on the ceiling now, blinking hard to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Alright.” Haymitch says after a beat. “So, there’s a boyfriend back home? That’s all this is? Was that really so hard to tell me?”

“No-“ My voice cracks and I take a shaky breath. My fingers fumble as I release the fabric, now wringing my hands together like I can squeeze the words into place.

“A girlfriend, then?”

The casual way he says it knocks the air from my lungs. I whip my head towards him, pure disbelief painted across my expression. He’s watching me carefully, and slowly, I see the pieces click in his mind.

“You have a girl back home, don’t you?” His voice is softer now, a quiet understanding creeping in.

“Kind of…” I croak, my voice barely holding steady. “It’s complicated. Don’t get me wrong- Peeta’s great, and I should like him. I should feel something, but I just-“ My words spiral into a nervous ramble until Haymitch cuts me off.

“You don’t swing that way.” He says with a soft shrug.

The bluntness of his statement catches me off guard, and a watery chuckle escapes before I can stop it. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, shaky but real. I lift a trembling hand to wipe away the tears now streaking down my face.

“Yeah…” I whisper, my voice lighter now, though my throat still burns. “I don’t… swing that way…”

A silence falls over us for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Haymitch reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of fabric. Without a word, he hands it to me. My fingers tremble as I take it, dabbing at my eyes. The simple gesture steadies me, if only a little.

“So,” He begins, leaning back against the couch, “you don’t want to play the love story angle. Totally fair. I get it. But…” He fixes me with a pointed look. “That confession is out there now, and the Capitol eats that kind of thing up. You can’t ignore it.”

I shake my head and firmly meet his gaze. “I’m not going to pretend to be in love with him, Haymitch. That’s not fair to him. Or me. I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile, but not quite.

“Good. You shouldn’t have to.” He taps his fingers against his knee, his expression thoughtful. “But you’re going to have to give them something.”

My frown deepens as frustration simmers in my chest. “Like what?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended. “I don’t want to be some tragic heroine in whatever story they’re spinning about me!”

“You don’t have to be.” His voice is calm, like he expected this reaction. “You just have to be someone real. A living, breathing person with thoughts and feelings. Someone they can root for.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “So what? Spout the same tired lines about how much I love my district and my sister? I thought we agreed that wasn’t my angle.”

He shrugs, unphased. “It’s not. But whatever you do, make sure it’s you they see. Not some version of you the Capitol have dreamed up. That’s the only way this works.”

There’s a pause, and then his tone shifts, lighter but still sharp enough to cut through the tension.

“And as for Peeta…”

I stiffen, every muscle in my body tensing at the sound of his name.

“What about him?”

Haymitch studies me, his sharp gaze raking over my face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, he nods towards Peeta’s door.

“Talk to him.” He says simply. “You’re not in this alone, you know.”

“Maybe not, but the Districts aren’t exactly… understanding about this kind of thing.” I huff, pushing a few loose strands of hair from my face. The memories hit all at once, sharp and unwelcome.

Haymitch tilts his head, studying me. “No?” His voice is softer now, an unspoken invitation to continue.

I exhale sharply.

“Come on, you must have heard about it. A Peacekeeper caught us. Wanted us publicly-“ I hesitate, my throat tightening around the word. “Executed. Or something like that.”

I drop my gaze, that old shame creeping in like a weight on my chest.

“So, they caught you. Why is that such a big deal?”

“Because-“ The word escapes before I can stop it, heavier than I meant for it to be. I swallow hard. “Because love is between a man and a woman,”

The words taste bitter on my tongue, the same empty lesson they drilled into us at school. The same lectures Katniss and I got from our parents.

Her father was never cruel about it. I don’t think he agreed, not really. But there was disappointment- subtle, quiet, lingering. Her mother, though.

She worried about Prim. What would she think? What if she copied? As if we were some kind of disease that could spread if Prim got too close.

I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath until I let it out, unsteady. I shake my head.

“You’re telling me to just be myself, Haymitch, but when I’ve done that before, it nearly got me killed.”

Silence stretches between us, and for once, he doesn’t have a sharp retort ready. I risk a glance at him. His fingers drum lightly against his knee, his lips pressing together in thought.

Then, he sighs.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

I blink. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Kes?” He leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “That the world is unfair? That the districts punish people for things that don’t hurt anyone? You already know that.”

I do. But hearing him say it doesn’t make it any easier. He looks at me again, this time more serious.

“Listen. I can’t change the past for you. I can’t make any of this easier. But what I do know is you’re in the damn Games now, and none of this changes that. So the questions isn’t whether or not you should be yourself.” He tilts his head. “It’s how much of yourself you can afford to show.”

I shake my head, and my chest swarms with things I can’t quite place. But one thought, one dangerous thought, is at the forefront of my mind.

“And what if I don’t want to hide anymore?”

His expression softens, just slightly. “Then we make sure you survive long enough to have that choice.”

The words hit deeper than I expect. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Right now, survival comes first. If I win… If I become a Victor… they can’t punish me for this anymore. I could become something revolutionary for the districts. Just that thought alone fills me with a sense of hope.

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. Haymitch holds my gaze for a moment longer, before nodding back. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestures towards Peeta’s door.

“Now go talk to your teammate before he gets his heart broken on live television.”

I linger in the living room for a moment, before I finally manage to push myself off the couch. My stomach is twisting and the thought of facing Peeta right now makes my skin prickle with unease. But I know Haymitch is right. If I leave this alone, it’ll fester. And the last thing I need is Peeta spiralling just as much as I am.

I hadn’t even realised he was back yet, but apparently Haymitch contacted Effie to tell her to bring him in a different way and get him to his room. That I needed space. Effie, of course, was more than willing to oblige.

My heart feels heavy as I move towards his door. I raise my hand to knock but hesitate. What the hell am I supposed to say to him?

“Hey sorry the entire country thinks we’re star-crossed lovers, but actually I like girls.”

I’m sure that would go down well. I almost turn around, but before I can, the door creaks open. Peeta stands there, arms crossed, brow furrowed, like he was expecting me. His eyes flicker down the hall before landing on me again. He looks… tired.

I shift awkwardly on my feet.

“Hey.”

His lips press into a thin line.

“Hey.”

Silence. I can hear the faint hum of the city outside, the distant sounds of voices from the television playing in the other room. I wish more than anything the ground could just swallow me whole. He finally sights and steps back.

“You should come in.”

I don’t argue.

His room is neater than I expected, though I don’t know why I thought he’d be messy. Peeta Mellark is too put together for that. He gestures for me to sit on the edge of his bed while he drags a chair from the corner and sits in front of me.

“So,” He says, rubbing his hands together. He’s just as awkward and uncomfortable as I am. “Are we talking about it, or are we pretending it didn’t happen?”

I shake my head softly. “I don’t think pretending is an option anymore.”

He nods, gaze lowering for a second. “Yeah… guess not.” He exhales, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Listen, Kestrel, if I’d known this would make you uncomfortable, I never would have-“

“It’s not that.” The words come out sharper than I meant them to. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Okay it is. But not in the way you think.”

His brows knit together. “Then what way?”

“It’s not you, Peeta. I just… don’t feel that way about you.” The words feel clumsy and inadequate, but I force myself to keep going. “I can’t.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me. And then I see it. The moment the pieces fall into place. The moment that he realises that I was that girl all those years ago. I think people assume she got executed, or simply grew out of it. But here I am. Right in front of him.

Poor luck on his behalf, right?

“Oh.” His lips part slightly, his expression shifting into something softer. “Oh.”

I brace myself for something. Hurt, confusion, maybe even anger. But Peeta just… nods.

“Okay.” He says simply.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He leans back in his chair. “I mean I get it. Kind of wish I knew before spilling my heart out on live television, but… I get it.”

A guilty pang tugs at my chest.

“Peeta, I-“

“You don’t owe me an apology, Kestrel.” His voice is firm but gentle. “You don’t owe me anything, actually.”

I drop my gaze, fingers twisting in my lap. “I just don’t want to mess things up between us. We still have to be a team in there.”

“We are a team.” He pauses, then sighs. “Look, I know what Haymitch is thinking. He’s worried about strategy, about how we handle this. But I just want you to know, whatever happens, I won’t push you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

I glance up at him.

“Even if it hurts our chances?”

His jaw clenches slightly, but then he nods. “Even then.”

I feel something in my chest loosen. A breath I didn’t realise I was holding escapes in a shaky exhale.

“Thank you…”

Peeta offers a small, crooked smile. “Don’t mention it… so… what do we tell them?”

I let out a humourless laugh. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

We sit in silence for a moment, both of us lost in thought. Then finally, Peeta leans forward, a glint of determination in his eyes.

“We don’t have to lie.” His voice is quiet but steady. “We just have tot tell the right kind of truth.”

I bite my lip, running my fingers through the lace still wrapped around my wrist.

“And what kind of truth is that exactly?”

Peeta leans back in his chair, running his hands together as he thinks.

“We don’t need to sell a love story. But we can sell… something else.”

“Like what? Tragic best friends?”

He considers it for a second before shaking his head.

“Not tragic. Just… loyal.”

I snort. “The Capitol loves a tragedy, Peeta. Loyal is boring, they want drama.”

“Then let them think it’s a tragedy.” His eyes meet mine and there’s almost something defiant in his expression. “Let them think I love you. Let them think I always have. They already do.”

My stomach clenches. “And what about me?”

“You don’t have to say you love me back. You just have to let them believe you care about me in some way.”

I scoff but my voice is soft.

“That’s not hard. I do care about you.”

His lips twitch into a small smile. “Then that’s the truth we tell.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough.”

“Maybe it won’t be. But it’s better than pretending to be something you’re not.”

I shake my head, a quiet laugh slipping past my lips. “You’re way too okay with all this.”

He chuckles. “What can I say? I like to think on my feet.” His expression softens. “Besides… I’d rather have you as a friend than force you into something you don’t want.”

A lump forms in my throat but I swallow it down. “Thank you, Peeta…”

He nods, then gestures towards the door.

“We should probably tell Haymitch. He’s going to need to know what angle we’re taking before we go in tomorrow.”

I sigh. “Right, Haymitch.”

Peeta smirks. “Think he’ll be proud of us for coming up with a strategy on our own?”

“Please. He’ll just say it was his idea all along.”

Peeta laughs, and for the first time since this whole nightmare started, it doesn’t feel forced. For the first time, I feel like I can breathe.

Notes:

Did you say. More filler??? (I'm sorry I swear the arena is in like. 2 chapters we're getting there)

Chapter 17: The Build Up

The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in colours too vivid to be real. The glass windows reflect streaks of gold and crimson, a beauty I can’t bring myself to appreciate. Instead, I sit on the couch, staring blankly at the television which is yet to even be turned on. The warmth from the fading light coats my face. It doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t even touch me.

Behind me, supper is in full swing. The clinking of cutlery grates against my skull, setting my nerves alight. I was invited to join them, like every other night, but the smell alone made my stomach turn. Effie negotiated me out here, at least. Her one small victory. I don’t know how she won, but here I am.

I press my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, as if holding myself together might make the noise stop. It doesn’t.

“Starving yourself won’t do you any favours, sweetheart.”

The voice comes from beside me, and I flinch. I hadn’t even heard Haymitch get up. Hadn’t even noticed him move. That either means I’m already good as dead tomorrow, or he was being careful. Neither thought is particularly reassuring.

When I don’t respond, he settles in the chair opposite me, elbows on knees, body leaning forward. Waiting.

“Am I supposed to have an appetite right now?” I ask, voice low. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me, measuring. He takes his time before answering.

“This isn’t about appetite. It’s about tomorrow.” His voice is rough but steady. “When you’re stuck in fight or flight, you need energy. Where do you think that comes from?”

Something in me bristles. I feel like he’s talking down to me, like I’m a child who doesn’t know how to take care of herself. I finally glance at him, sharp-eyed.

“I’m not an idiot, Haymitch.”

He exhales through his nose; a breath just shy of a laugh. There’s something almost amused in his face, but beneath it, I catch the flicker of something else. Annoyance. Frustration.

“No, you’re not.” He concedes. “You’re a smart girl. Which is exactly why I don’t understand why you’re acting like an idiot.”

I stiffen, the words hitting deeper than I expect.

“I know you’re scared, Kes. But you know better than to starve yourself the night before the Games.”

I don’t answer. Because he’s right. I do know better, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I force myself to take a breath, but it doesn’t help. The tightness in my chest is still there, pressing. Crushing. My fingers dig into the couch arm.

“So, what?” My voice wavers and I hate it. I swallow hard and try again. “I’m supposed to sit there and pretend everything’s fine? Make small talk? Eat a nice meal while we all know I could be dead by this time tomorrow?”

“You aren’t-“ He stops himself mid snap, shutting his mouth so fast I see his jaw tighten. His hands flex like he wants to grab something to steady himself. He takes a deep breath before trying again. “You can’t talk like that.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “I thought you wanted me to stop being cocky.”

“I also wanted you to stop being stupid.” He fires back. “Talking and thinking like that is a sure way to get yourself killed tomorrow.”

His voice is rougher now, edged with something I can’t place. Not anger, not quite. I glance at him and see it- his posture is rigid, his jaw clenched, his gaze suddenly anywhere but mine.

Something is wrong.

“Haymitch-”

He shakes his head, cutting me off. His fingers come up, pressing against his lips, his thumb under his chin like he’s physically holding something back. I recognise the posture; I’ve seen it before. When he was drunk. But he’s not drunk now. Maybe that’s the problem. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and I’m not prepared for when he speaks again.

“Kestrel.”

I freeze. His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see it. Gleaming, sharp, raw, just beneath the surface. His eyes are wet, and that alone makes my insides churn.

“Normally…” His voice is slow, deliberate, like he’s choosing every word carefully. “When you brats go out there and ignore my advice… when you get yourselves killed… the blame doesn’t stick to me. It should, but it doesn’t. I’m just the… worthless, drunk mentor.”

I already know where this is going, and my throat tightens.

“If you go out there and die-“ He cuts himself off.

I react before I can think.

“It’s still not your fault.” The words leave my mouth too fast. Too desperate.

His head snaps towards me, something dark flashing in his eyes. “Then whose fault is it?”

“I thought you said it would be mine.” The words come out weak, an echo of a past argument neither of us can forget.

Haymitch stares at me, breath shallow. And for the first time since I met him, I realise. This isn’t just about me. He drop his eyes again, almost confirming my suspicions.

After a moment of him not saying anything, I lean forward.

“Haymitch.” I press.

It’s rare, actually. Usually he stares straight through me, like he’s reading every move before I even make it. But now, his gaze is locked on the floor, his fingers flexing and unflexing as tension courses through his veins.

“Look… it’s just… different with you.” He says finally. His words are quiet. Almost too quiet. I sit up a little straighter.

“Different how?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, rubbing a hand down his face, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher.

“You remind me of someone.”

My stomach turns. It should be obvious who. But I don’t think I ever considered the idea that Haymitch Abernathy, the man who barely seems to tolerate me at the best of times, might see something of himself in me. Caesar had made the comparison too. Have I just been oblivious this whole time?

I try to force a smirk. To make light of it in a desperate hope that I might be wrong.

“What, you?”

His eyes flick up, and I know immediately that I’ve hit something real.

“Yeah…”

The air shifts. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No humour, no irritation, nothing to soften the words. Just facts.

I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to say that I’m nothing like him. That unlike him, I haven’t given up. I’m still here, I’m still fighting. But I don’t say any of that. Because deep down I think I’ve always known that he’s right.

I know the kind of person I am. I know how my mind works. How it calculates, how it doesn’t trust, how it sees survival as a game I have to win. I know what it means to grow up with nothing and still have to fight for scraps.

And maybe Haymitch does too.

“Did you have someone?” I mumble. “Back home?”

He blinks. Just once. And then the shutters all but slam closed. The crack is gone. His walls are back up.

“Eat something, Kes.” His tone is flat now, all the weight tucked back into a place I can’t reach. “I mean it.”

He pushes himself up, not looking at me as he straightens his jacket. I should let him leave. I should let him have his silence, just like I want mine. But something in me snaps before I can stop it.

“You’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”

He stops mid step and for a second, I think I’ve struck something deep. But then he turns back, and his mouth tilts into something that isn’t quite a smile.

“And you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

That’s all he says before he walks away. And somehow, that feels more personal than anything else he’s ever said to me.

No more than ten minutes pass before an Avox enters my space, a small tray balanced carefully in her hands. She moves with practiced silence, placing it on the small wooden table beside me.

I don’t need to look to know who sent it.

But I do look.

A bowl of steaming soup, its surface glossy with oil. Bread rolls, still warm. Hot chocolate, topped with a swirl of cream and those same little sugared treats. A feast for someone who can’t even stomach the thought of eating.

The Avox gives me a soft nod before slipping away. Gone before I can thank her.

Not that it matters. I don’t want this. Any of it.

The soup is too thick. Too red. Enough to make my stomach turn before I even entertain the thought of trying it. The rich scent of the chocolate curls into the air, cloying and sickly sweet, twisting into something unbearable. I press my lips together, swallowing hard.

But Haymitch is right. He always is, isn’t he?

If I had any sense, I’d choke this down. Other than breakfast tomorrow, there’s no guarantee of when I’ll have another real meal. If I ever do again. I need every ounce of energy I can get, whether I want it or not.

At least it’s soup. No chewing, no effort. Just mindless and easy to swallow. In theory.

With trembling hands, I pull the bowl into my lap, fingers curling around the ceramic. It’s hot. Hot enough that I should let go, but I don’t. I just hold it there, staring down at the surface, watching the slow ripple of liquid as my hands shake.

I wonder if the weight of this moment will ever truly hit me. If I’ll ever get the chance to process it. Maybe I’ll be dead before I can. Maybe that’s for the best.

Before I can think too hard, I lift the spoon to my lips and take my first mouthful. Before I can talk myself out of it.

The first taste is way worse than I expected. The thick tomato soup coats my tongue, the tang of herbs hitting too strong, too rich. Too artificial. I force myself to swallow, but it sits heavy in my throat. I take another bite anyway, because what else can I do?

By the fourth spoonful, my hands are well and truly shaking.

I tighten my grip around the bowl, willing them to stop, but they won’t, and it feels like they never will. My breath is shallow. The room feels too big, the air too thick, and as much as I try to swallow it down, the soup coating my throat is suffocating. The scent of the chocolate is too sweet, the soup too much, the pressure behind my eyes unbearable.

I try to lift the spoon back to my mouth, but my fingers just won’t grip the metal, and it clatters against the ceramic, the sound echoing. I shove the bowl roughly back onto the tray before I can make any more of a mess.

I suck in a sharp breath and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard, like I might be able to force it all back down. The nausea, the fear, the weight in my chest that has been there since my name was called and won’t let up. I will not fall apart. I won’t. Not here. Not now.

But my shoulders are already trembling.

The room is so silent I almost think I’m alone, until I hear the softest exhale.

Haymitch.

I don’t look at him. I don’t want to. If I meet his eyes, I think I’ll break completely. He doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t make a move. Just lingering slightly behind me, waiting, like he knew this was coming.

I hate that he knew this was coming

I drag in a shaky breath.

“I can’t do this.” It slips out before I can stop it.

Haymitch doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t call me dramatic. He just shifts forward, lowering himself into the chair across from me. When I finally risk a glance at him, his face is unreadable, but there’s something behind his eyes, something old and weathered, something that makes my stomach twist.

“You can…” He whispers gently.

I shake my head. “I’m not you.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“No. You’re not.”

That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Because there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s remembering something, or someone, like it means more than I understand. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting.

“If I die-“

“You’re not going to die.” His voice is quiet, but sharp.

I snap my head up. “You don’t know that.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“No,” He agrees. “I don’t.”

I blink. I expected him to argue, to tell me I’m being stupid, but he doesn’t. He just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching me in a way that makes my skin crawl. Not pitying. Not judging. Just… watching. Like he sees something I don’t.

“You don’t have to believe you’re going to survive.” He says finally. “But you can’t go in there already dead.”

For a second, I don’t say anything. I just stare at him, at the worn lines on his face, at the exhaustion settling in his shoulders. I think of the way his hands twitch when he’s without a drink, the way he flinches at certain sounds, the way he looks at me sometimes like he already knows exactly how this ends.

Because he does.

And I think he always did.

Maybe that’s why he was so hard to figure out. He wants us to hate him. He wants us to push him away. If we don’t want his help, if we don’t get attached, then maybe it won’t hurt as much when we die.

Because that’s what always happens, isn’t it? He’s been here before, sat exactly where we are now, pouring everything he had into keeping some kid alive, only to watch them get torn apart anyway.

But the real him slipped through.

In the moments I needed him most, he couldn’t help it. Maybe he hadn’t had enough to drink, or maybe it just wasn’t enough to drown out the part of him that still cares.

I couldn’t figure him out because he was still trying to figure himself out. Still trying to decide how much he can let himself care before it breaks him again.

The thought lingers in my mind, heavy and unshakable.

I sigh, shaking my head.

“What happened?” I ask quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head lift. He doesn’t answer at first, and for a second, I wonder if he even understands what I’m asking. So, I keep going.

“Maybe I’m just delusional.” I say, voice tight. “But from everything I’ve ever heard about you, about our useless mentor, about the chronic drunks who sends us to our deaths… I don’t believe you show all of us this much… care. I’m sorry, Haymitch, but I don’t.”

“I already told you-“

“No.” My jaw tightens. “You said I’m like you. But every kid who grew up in the Seam is miserable and tragic in some way. I refuse to believe I’m anything special.”

He exhales, a small shrug rolling through his shoulders. “It’s not that.”

A pause. Then more quietly.

“Yeah, the kids that come through here year after year have had awful lives. But they let it beat them down. They want to get home to make it better.” His eyes flick to mine. Steady. Unreadable. “You haven’t once told me you want to go home.”

His words land like a punch to the gut. I open my mouth to argue, to say that of course I want to go home. But the words don’t come. Because I don’t. Not really. Not in the way I should. And didn’t I just make that abundantly clear on live television?

I want to live, sure. I want to survive. But when I think about home, I don’t feel the same desperate pull that the others do. I don’t picture warmth, or safety, or something worth clawing my way back to.

I picture the same cold nights. The same empty streets. The same struggle to scrape by, to find somewhere safe to sleep, to be something more than just another body wasting away in the Seam.

Haymitch sees it. He sees me.

That thought unsettles something deep in my chest, something I don’t know how to name. I swallow hard, looking away.

“Maybe I just don’t see the point in saying it out loud.”

Haymitch lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “Bullshit.”

I snap my head back up, ready to fight him on it, but the moment I meet his eyes, the words dissolve on my tongue.

He’s looking at me like he’s already seen everything running through my head. Like he’s already lived it himself. Maybe he has.

Maybe that’s why he’s here now, sitting across from me long after he should have walked away. Maybe that’s why he keeps trying, even though he knows better. Even though it never makes a difference.

He’s trying anyway.

I press my lips together, staring at my hands. “You didn’t answer my question.”

His jaw tightens. “I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” My voice is quiet, but firm. “You said I remind you of you, but that’s not what I asked. I asked what happened. Why do you care about me specifically?”

A flicker of something crosses his face, just for a second. Then it’s gone.

“Eat your damn soup, Kes.”

He starts to push himself up from the chair, but this time I don’t let him leave. Before I can think about it, I’m on my feet, and I reach to grab his wrist. It’s a bold move, stupid even, but I don’t care.

He freezes at the contact, his entire body going still.

I expect him to yank away. To scoff, to say something cutting, to put up that wall between us again. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, his pulse thrumming beneath my fingers.

“Just tell me what’s going through your head…” I murmur.

Something in his expression cracks, just slightly. His mouth parts like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, he forces it back down. He exhales sharply, shaking his head, and I think this is the moment he pulls away. That he shrugs me off and leaves, because that’s what Haymitch Abernathy does.

But instead.

Instead, he turns his body back towards me.

His movements are slow, uncertain, like he isn’t sure what he’s doing. And then, without a word, he pulls me into him.

I go rigid at first.

He’s warm. Solid. He smells faintly of whisky and worn fabric and something else I can’t quite name. But he doesn’t let go, and slowly, my body gives in and I sink into him.

His arms tighten, just barely, just enough that I can feel it. His chin rests lightly against the top of my head, and for a moment, neither of us speak. Neither of us have to.

Then, he breaks the silence, his words barely above a soft hum.

“You’re so much tougher than you give yourself credit for…”

---

A few hours have passed since I said goodnight and made my way to my room. I hadn’t wanted to leave so early, but the air had becoming suffocating, thick with something unspoken. Effie insisted that Peeta and I needed rest, but that was easier said than done.

I’ve been staring at the projected stars on my ceiling for too long, my eyes dry and aching. Eventually, I switch them off. The darkness is better. The artificial constellations only remind me of what I’ll never see. Real stars, unfiltered and endless.

I always wanted to see them. Back home, the sky is smothered by smoke and smog, but I’d heard that in other Districts, they shine like pinpricks of silver. I thought maybe the Capitol would give me that, but the lights here drown out everything, even the stars.

So now I’m lying here, staring up into the dark and I can’t stop my mind from wandering to Peeta. Is he asleep yet? Or is he just one room over, staring at the exact same spot on the ceiling willing the night to end but praying that tomorrow never comes?

I roll onto my side, curling up beneath the satin sheets, but they cling too tightly, the weight pressing down like a second skin. The softness I’d craved all week now suffocates me, and I shove them off, pressing my feet to the cold marble floor. My breathing is too heavy. The air too thick.

This is pointless. How are we supposed to sleep on a night like this?

Before I even know what I’m doing, my hand is on the sensor. The door slides open with a quiet hiss, the sound slicing through the silence of the penthouse. I hesitate, straining for any sign that I’ve woken someone. But the apartment is still, drowned in shadows.

Then, a soft blue glow catches my eye. The flickering light of the television.

I move carefully, drawn towards it like a moth to a flame. As I near the end of the hallway, I make out Haymitch’s silhouette on the couch, hunched and unmoving. The dim glow casts sharp angles across his face, his eyes locked on the screen.

“Couldn’t sleep, sweetheart?”

His voice is quiet, rough. He doesn’t look at me, but somehow, he knows it’s me. Not Peeta. Not Effie.

I say nothing as I step closer. The shirt and shorts I’m wearing suddenly feels too revealing, but I push past the self-consciousness and ease onto the couch beside him, curling into the space under his arm. He doesn’t hesitate to pull me in, his grip solid and grounding.

There is a lingering scent of liquor that clings to him, and it makes me wonder if he was every really, truly sober. He told me he was. I saw the withdrawals. Maybe he was faking them to make me believe him. Or maybe he is just that dependent on the alcohol that just a few hours without it is enough to set his nervous system ablaze. Still, the scent is fainter than it was when we first met, and for that I’m thankful. Beneath it, there’s something else though, something warm. Familiar. He smells like home.

For a while, neither of us speak. I let the hum of the television fill the silence, my gaze drawn to the screen. The arena is unlike any I’ve seen before. Rolling hills stretch into the distance, meadows of wildflowers swaying under a golden sun. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful.

Then, the camera zooms in on a boy. Vibrant blond hair. Piercing grey eyes.

Haymitch tenses. A sharp, cold understanding settles in my stomach.

“This is your game…”

He nods, slow, his fingers tightening on my shoulder. I glance up at him, studying his face in the dim light. He looks… tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but something deeper.

I settle back against his side, my heart thrumming against my ribs as I watch tributes move across the screen. It takes me a moment to realise there are more of them than usual. A lot more. I try to count them, but the numbers quickly pass 24, and I can tell at this point, from how spread-out tributes are, we’re well past the bloodbath.

Of course. Haymitch won a quarter quell.

I find my mind flickering through strategies as I watch. The way one tribute lights a fire, then sprints in the opposite direction. Another cooks food, but extinguishes the flame too soon, leaving the meat half-raw so they can finish cooking elsewhere. Small, clever moves that might make all the difference.

Haymitch’s eyes are on me again. I don’t meet them.

His grip on my shoulder is firm, steady. He’s holding me like he might never get the chance to again. And the worst part? He’s right.

I pull my knees in, curling into him like a scared child. I shouldn’t. I know better than to take comfort where there is none. But for one night, just tonight, I let myself. Because at the end of the day, that’s all I am. A scared kid with no comforts and even less time to find them.

The glow of the television blurs. The hum of the ceiling fan fades into the background. The warmth of Haymitch’s arm, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, all of it lulls me under.

I think, just before I slip under completely, I feel his hand shift slightly, his grip tightening ever so briefly. A silent promise.

Notes:

One more chapter until the arena I SWEAR. Though admittedly I'm a sucker for soft Haymitch and there will be no soft Haymitch in the arena. Half of the next chapter is already written so hopefully not long until next chapter release.

Chapter 18: The Ascent

I hear the hushed voices before I’m fully awake. Muffled, urgent, their words blur together in my groggy state. I shift with a small, protesting groan, my body sluggish with exhaustion.

And then I feel it.

An arm, warm and solid, tightens around me almost instinctively. Protective. Steady. Safe. I never want to move from this spot.

“She has to get up, Haymitch, we’re already behind schedule.” Effie’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet. Even half-asleep, I’d recognise her clipped, impatient tone anywhere. Unlike Haymitch, she makes no effort to be gentle.

“What does it matter if she sleeps in a little?” Haymitch’s voice is softer, but firm. “It’ll give her more energy.”

His thumb strokes absently along my arm, an unconscious, soothing gesture. He knows I’m awake now. He has to. But he’s giving me this moment, holding back the world for just a little longer.

Effie lets out a huff of frustration and turns to speak to someone else- Peeta, I think- before they both hastily disappear from my proximity.

I don’t want to open my eyes. Opening my eyes means admitting I’m awake and being awake means facing today.

But, if I don’t, Haymitch will get in trouble.

Reluctantly, against every instinct screaming at me to stay curled up in this fleeting moment of peace, I force them open.

The lights are blinding. I wince, blinking rapidly, but before I can even think to shield myself, Haymitch’s hand moves, settling lightly on my forehead. His palm blocks out the harsh glare, casting a comforting shadow over my vision.

“Good morning, princess.” He hums, voice thick with sleep as he finally stretches, his joints popping slightly.

A pang of guilt twists in my chest. He must have spent the night sitting up. Maybe he hasn’t even slept at all. But there’s no time to dwell on it. There’s no time for anything.

The moment I push myself up, the world snaps into motion.

Haymitch stands too, stretching out his stiff muscles, but Effie’s heels are clacking back into the room before I can even think.

“Up, up, up! We don’t have time for dawdling, Kestrel, come on!” She snaps, and suddenly, Peeta is there too, his expression unreadable, already dressed. How long has he been awake?

My head is spinning.

I stumble my first step, my body sluggish even as my heart pounds with the opposite feeling- urgency, dread. An Avox appears at my side in a second, ushering me towards my bathroom. The shower is too hot, the pressure too strong, but I barely feel it. My thoughts are screaming over each other, racing ahead of me-

It’s today.

It’s happening.

I’m really going into the arena.

None of this was just a bad dream.

I barely dry off before another set of hands tugs me forward, dragging clothes over my head. My tribute uniform is smooth, cool against my skin, and I can’t help but think of the kids before me who wore their own version of this. Who never took it off again.

My breath hitches. I feel like I might throw up.

Someone shoves shoes onto my feet. Another pair of hands yanks my hair into tight bunches out of my face. The pressure at my scalp grounds me for half a second, but then Effie is shoving a steaming cup of something into my hands- tea?- and saying something about hydration, but my fingers are trembling too much to lift it to my lips.

I don’t remember sitting down, or even leaving my room, but suddenly I’m at the dining table, Peeta across from me. Neither of us are eating. Neither of us are speaking.

Haymitch drops into the chair beside me, but this time, there’s no comforting arm around my shoulders.

Because this is it.

The airship is waiting.

The clock is ticking.

And in less than an hour, I’ll be in the arena.

Eventually, Peeta and I manage to force down a few slices of toast and some breakfast meats, but every bite feels like it’s choking me.

This is for survival. I tell myself. Over and over and over again, until the words are nothing but a hollow echo in my head.

Effie doesn’t eat. She paces behind us, a sleek device pressed to her ear, speaking so rapidly I can’t imagine the person on the other end possibly keeping up. Haymitch is nursing a mug of black coffee, but after a few sips, he pushes it aside like it’s turned bitter in his mouth. His fingers tap restlessly against the table. He wants to say something. I can feel it.

I clear my throat. “Any last-minute advice?”

His eyes snap to mine. The cogs in his head are turning.

“Stay alive.” He says with a shrug. Then, realising it’s not enough, he sighs. “Avoid the bloodbath. Careers swarm the cornucopia; they kill anyone who gets close. Run as far away as you can in the opposite direction as fast as you can. Find water. Water is your new best friend.”

I blink. That’s it? That’s just… common sense, isn’t it? Stay away from immediate murder. Secure the one thing you need to survive.

He catches my expression and shakes his head.

“You’d be surprised.” He mutters, lifting the mug to his lips.

Effie snaps her device shut with a sharp click, tucking it into her pocket. When she turns to us, I know what it means.

My stomach knots so tight that I feel lightheaded. My body moves before my mind catches up, pushing me to my feet. Every breath is like swallowing glass.

Effie steps forward, wringing her hands, and for once, there’s no rehearsed poise, no carefully curated Capitol perfection. She doesn’t fuss over my hair or Peeta’s posture. She doesn’t remind me to smile or stand up straight. The mask she wears so effortlessly is cracked at the edges, and in her wide, glassy eyes, I see something I never have before.

Remorse.

“I-“ She falters, voice catching, and for a second, I think she might actually say something real. But she swallows it back, straightens her spine, and forces out something crisp, something practiced. “I expect you to do your best.”

It’s the closest she can get to Come back. And we both know it. I nod, because there’s nothing else I can do.

Cinna is waiting by the elevator, standing beside Portia, Peeta’s stylist. They both look solemn, pressed into the background like they don’t quite belong in this part of the story. Because they don’t. There is nothing left for them to do.

Then, Haymitch is at my side. He doesn’t say a word, but I know what it means. He’ll take me as far as he’s allowed. Effie will do the same for Peeta.

I blink, and suddenly, I’m following Cinna down a bright hallway, the lights too harsh, the corridors unfamiliar. The way Haymitch’s hand lingers on the small of my back feels too much like the Peacekeepers at the Reaping.

Still, I hold my head high.

They televise this part sometimes. Sometimes they don’t. If another tribute is kicking and screaming, they’ll show the ones walking with steady steps. They’ll show the strong ones, so the audience can compare, so they can sneer at the ones who break too soon. I don’t want to be one of the weak ones.

Then, we stop.

I barely register where we are until the bright, sterile lights pierce my vision. The hangar.

The hovercraft looms ahead, engines already humming, waiting to steal us away. The fluorescent lights burn into my skull, making everything feel distant. Not real. Not happening.

A hand on my shoulder tethers me back. Cinna.

He doesn’t waste time with words. He just pulls me into a hug, fierce and certain, like he’s trying to hold me together before I shatter. I grip the back of his jacket so tightly my fingers ache.

“Whatever happens…” His voice is so quiet only I can hear. That’s all the confirmation I need that the cameras are on me. “Don’t let them take all of you, little bird.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. They already have.

“I won’t.” My voice is barely a whisper. I don’t know if it’s a promise or a plea.

I let go, and the moment feels stolen too soon.

Then, Haymitch.

His eyes are locked onto mine, unreadable, heavy. There’s a beat of silence, something hanging between us, something unsaid. I don’t give him the chance to say nothing. I step forward and throw my arms around him.

He exhales sharply, like the weight of it surprises him, but he wraps his arms around me just as tightly. Today, he doesn’t smell of liquor, but of coffee and something else- something safe. Something that reminds me of home.

“You got a hell of a fight ahead of you, sweetheart.” He says gruffly, his voice steady, even though I can feel the way his breath shakes. “You’re smart. You’re fast. You know how to survive. Just don’t waste your time on hope- hope won’t keep you breathing. Be smart. Be ruthless if you have to.”

My throat burns. “That’s all?”

He rests his chin on the top of my head, his grip tightening. His breath is unsteady. I know immediately he’s trying not to cry. Then, he steps back and presses something into my palm. I look down, to see an intricately detailed gold bracelet.

“Come home.”

A Peacekeeper’s gloved hand closes around my shoulder, pulling me away. I barely have time to register the movement before the hovercraft doors slam shut behind me.

I don’t get a final look at them. But just before the door seals, I see it. Cinna pulling Haymitch into a tight embrace. Like it’s not just me they’re losing.

That can’t be the last thing I see of them.

But it is.

Inside, the hovercraft is cold and sterile, the walls lined with silver seats. The hum of the engine is the only sound. A few tributes are already seated, staring blankly at the floor, rubbing at their arms.

I am ushered into the nearest seat. The moment I sit, thick straps descend over my shoulders, locking me in place. I hate it. The claustrophobia grips me instantly, making my breath stutter.

“Your arm.”

I look up. A Peacekeeper stands over me, holding a small device.

I swallow hard and roll up my sleeve. The needle is in my skin before I can brace myself. A sharp sting. A dull ache.

It’s not the pain that unsettles me. It’s what it means.

I am no longer just Kestrel. I am no longer a girl. No longer a tribute.

I am a body to be monitored, tracked, controlled. A pawn on their board, a showpiece for their cameras.

And when my inevitable demise comes, they’ll know exactly where to find me.

We sit still for a moment, suspended in the thick, suffocating silence of what’s coming. Then, everything seems to shift, and there’s a slow, stomach-churning pull as the hovercraft ascends. My ears pop with the sudden change in altitude, and a faint pressure settles over my chest, making my already shallow breaths feel even thinner.

The walls are sealed tight. No windows. No way to see where we’re going. It’s deliberate, I realise. They don’t want us to have a final look at the world outside. No sky, no trees, no horizon. Just cold, sterile metal and the distant hum of engines carrying us towards the nightmare waiting below.

I turn my head slightly, my gaze falling on the tribute beside me – Rue, the tiny girl from District 11.

She looks so much younger up this close, her small frame swallowed by the stiff Capitol issued clothes we’ve been forced into. I can’t help but think of Prim as I look at her, and that thought burns my chest. But her eyes- wide, and dark, and knowing – they don’t belong to a child. They hold something deeper, something watchful. She’s afraid, I can see that, but she doesn’t tremble, she doesn’t cry. She holds herself together in a way that no child ever should have to.

Rue tilts her head at me, studying me, and for a second, I wonder if she’s trying to decide if I’m a threat. Then, almost imperceptibly, she offers me a small, toothless smile. Uncertain, shaky. A peace offering, maybe. A quiet recognition of something we both understand: This is the last bit of calm we’ll ever get.

Before I can react, she looks away, her gaze falling to the floor. I do the same, forcing my eyes down to the scuffed metal beneath my boots. I slip the gold bangle onto my wrist, twisting it as my only form of self-soothing. I hadn’t had chance to thank him, but I know what this is. Each tribute is allowed to bring one thing that reminds them of their District. A token.

This is mine. I wonder if this bracelet is of any importance to him. I guess I'll never find out.

The dull ache in my arm from the tracking device lingers, a constant reminder that I’m no longer my own. That I belong to them now. But somehow, the pain fades into the background, drowned out by something worse.

Because, with every passing second, we are getting closer.

The air feels heavier, pressing against my lungs, tightening around my ribs. My heart beats too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to escape before the rest of me can.

With every second that ticks by, I am farther from home.

Farther from Haymitch, with his gruff unspoken concern, and his warmth. Farther from Effie, who wrung her hands and smoothed her dress because she didn’t know how to say goodbye. Farther from Cinna, who may be the only person who I’ve felt truly understood me. The last true sense of love I felt before the Peacekeepers pulled me away.

Farther from Prim, who still braids her hair just the way I taught her. From Gale, whose voice used to be the thing that made me feel safer in the woods.

Farther from Katniss.

A lump lodges in my throat, tick and unmovable.

I should have done more. I should have told her more. I should have admitted I was scared; I should have let her comfort me. I should have held her tight, for as long as we were allowed. I should have made her make so many promises when I had the chance.

I should have told her I love her.

But I didn’t. And now I never will.

I don’t know how much longer we’ll be in the air. Minutes? An hour?

Time feels warped, stretched too thin, like it’s trying to pull me apart. But I do know this. The moment we land, the countdown begins. Then I’ll be fighting for my life. While they all watch.

I press my fingers into my palms, grounding myself, but my hands won’t stop shaking. My nails bite into my skin, sharp, punishing. Still, I shake.

I keep my eyes down, forcing myself to just breathe, but eventually, the engines shift. A low, grinding noise rumbles through the hovercraft, and my stomach lurches. The humming changes now. Heavier. Final.

Then – A jolt.

Metal on metal, a mechanical hiss. My straps snap back from my shoulders.

No one speaks.

The Peacekeepers move between us like shadows, wordless and efficient. One by one, tributes are yanked from their seats, ushered forward.

A hand grips on my arm. Not rough, not gentle. Indifferent. It’s terrifying, how easily I am moved. How little resistance I give.

My legs feel numb, but I walk anyway.

The hallway is blinding white, clinical. The air smells like nothing, too clean, too artificial. There is nothing human about this place. Just footsteps, echoing too loud against sleek silver walls.

I watch as tributes ahead of me disappear behind separate doors, picked off one by one. Then it’s my turn. I am tugged to the side.

The door closes behind me. The room is small, cold, empty. Except for the glass tube in the centre. I stop breathing.

I know what this is. I once saw an old documentary in school where they toured an old, previously used arena. This is underneath the main arena. The transport up. The final cage. The last moment of quiet before the storm.

I don’t move. The Peacekeeper behind me does. A small nudge, almost kind, as if it doesn’t matter whether I resist.

Because it doesn’t. The outcome is already written.

I step inside and the glass seals around me with a quiet hiss.

My breath comes too fast, too sharp, but the tube is soundproof, not that the Peacekeeper on the other side would care either way. The only thing I can hear is my own gasping.

I press my hands against the glass, my heart slamming against my ribs.

No. No, no, no, no. Wait.

The floor shifts and I lurch forward, catching myself. The glass trembles, and with a soft click, the floor beneath me begins to rise.

My chest locks up. I claw for air, but it’s too thick, too hot, too heavy.

Too late.

I light overhead grows blinding. Then the world explodes.

Blazing sun.

Fresh grass.

The smell of clean sky and damp earth. It smells like home. Like the woods. Like something I’ll never see again.

For one, horrifying second, I forget how to breathe. Then, the sound hits.

A hum that I can’t quite place, and the distant, eerie cry of something that doesn’t belong to any forest I know.

I force my head up, my vision swimming. The Cornucopia looms in front of me, it’s mouth spilling weapons onto the grass. I don’t look at it. I won’t.

Where is he?

I scan the other tributes, heart hammering, until I spot him. Peeta. A few podiums to my right. His face is pale, his hands shaking at his sides, but he’s here, and that alone is a comfort. My knees nearly buckle with relief.

Then, Haymitch’s voice, loud and urgent in my head.

“Avoid the bloodbath. Run. Run as fast as you can.”

My hands fist at my sides. My body refuses to stop shaking. I try to shake my head, clear my thoughts, but of course it doesn’t work. It will never work.

Because this is it.

Fifty-Nine

Fifty-Eight.

Notes:

YEEAH WE MADE IT this chapter is a little shorter I think but I really struggled with it because I just want to publish the next one.

Chapter 19: The Start

Summary:

OKAY so hey this is your warning that this chapter and all from here until I say otherwise are going to be graphic!!
They will contain blood, gore, death and detailed depictions of the human body.
Enjoy!

My eyes are locked onto the countdown, the piercing yellow numbers burning into my vision.

It’s sickening. This whole thing is a performance, a game for the Capitol’s amusement. Somewhere, right now, they are gathered around massive screens, drinks in hand, voices raised in eager anticipation. Their tables are likely weighed down with food that could feed my entire district for months. Their fingers will be already on their betting slips, eager for the canons to sound. Eager for us to die.

I swallow hard, but my throat feels like sandpaper. My heart slams against my ribs, pounding so hard it hurts. My lungs feel tight, my breaths too short, too shallow. The waiting is unbearable.

Then I feel it. Eyes on me.

I glance to my right. Peeta.

His gaze flickers past me, towards something lying on the ground just beyond our podiums by the Cornucopia’s mouth - small, dark, glinting in the sunlight. A bundle of knives. In my direct path. They were placed there specifically for me, and we both know that. To lure me in. To entice me into the action.

I know what he’s thinking before he even tilts his head towards them. No.

I shake my head sharply, mouthing desperate words to him. “Haymitch said no.”

Peeta doesn’t listen. When did he ever?

15…

14…

13…

“I can get them.” He mouths back. My stomach plummets. He shifts his weight on the podium, muscles tensing, body coiled like a spring. He’s going to run for them.

“Peeta- No. Please, don’t.”

He turns his head from me, and now there is nothing more I can do. I want to scream to him, to beg him to just turn and run the other way. But I can’t.

3…

2…

1…

The canon fires. For a single heartbeat, the world is silent. Then, chaos.

Bodies explode into motion. Screams tear through the air, metal clashes against metal, footsteps pounding against the ground. The Cornucopia becomes a warzone, all while I’m still firmly planted on my podium. I should be running, sprinting in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between myself and the others as possible. But I can’t. Not without Peeta.

And he’s running, and my eyes follow him. He’s fast. Faster than I thought he’d be, and more agile, weaving through the madness with a focus that terrifies me, but it won’t be enough.

I know that Haymitch is somewhere, screaming at us. He’s probably drowning himself in booze to numb our stupidity. He gave us one instruction. Run as soon as the canon sounds. Neither of us listened, and we’re likely good as dead for it.

Peeta reaches the knives, and swipes them, skidding to a halt before twisting and heading back in my direction. Oh god, he might make it. He’s getting closer, that bundle gripped firmly in his hand, and I step off my podium with trembling legs.

I turn and start running. It’s less of a sprint, more of a fast jog, just slow enough that Peeta should be able to catch up. He’s just given us the biggest advantage. With knives in my possession, we might have a shot. An actual, real shot. I can hear his footsteps closing in behind me, the desperate thudding of feet approaching. My heart is racing, and despite knowing we’ve been beyond stupid, I feel a little more hopeful than before.

Then, his footsteps stop. The world slows.

I turn before I can stop myself. Before I can remember the only rule that ever really mattered. Don’t look back.

Peeta is standing still.

His blue eyes meet mine, wide, full of something unreadable. His mouth parts slightly, as if he wants to say something. I take one, stupid step towards him.

“Peeta…?” The words barely fall from my lips, and I reach a shaky hand towards him, as I step closer, only a few metres apart now.

A tiny line of red trails from the corner of his lips, and my stomach sinks.

Peeta coughs, a wet, ragged sound, and blood spills down his chin. His eyes are still on me, fearful.

No. No, no, no. Not like this.

I can’t move. I can’t move.

His fingers tremble around the bundle of knives. He looks down at them as if they no longer make sense. Then, with what I believe to be the last of his strength, he tosses them weakly towards me. They land just short of my feet. I don’t reach for them.

Because Peeta staggers. His knees buckle, his mouth opens in a silent gasp, his eyes still locked on me like he’s waiting for me to do something. But what? What can I do?

His body tilts forward, and that’s when I see it. The knife, lodged deep in the back of his neck. A perfect shot. A fatal shot.

No.

I know now, for certain, there is nothing left for me to do. There is nothing I can do.

I let out a small, broken sound. A breath? A sob? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Peeta is still looking at me, his body trembles.

Then he falls, hard, face-first into the dirt.

A scream is rising in my throat. A protest, a plea, but it gets stuck, tangled somewhere between my ribs. I take a stumbling step towards him, then another. My breath is coming too fast, too sharp.

I should do something. I should do something. I should do something.

But… He’s not moving. The trembling has stopped. Blood trails down his neck, pooling beneath his head, dark and seeping into the grass, staining that beautiful blonde hair an ugly crimson.

I swallow back bile, my body shaking. I take another step forward.

Then a shadow shifts in my peripheral.

Someone is watching. Someone is aiming.

They killed Peeta in a single strike, and I could be next. The realisation is a slap to the face, a sudden yank back into reality. I can’t stay here.

I force my legs to move, staggering backward, then shakily grab the bundle with trembling hands. The metal is still warm from Peeta’s grip.

A sob rips through me, but I choke it down, turning on my heel. And I run.

Blindly. Stupidly.

I run, because I have to. Because he would want me to.

Because Peeta is gone.

My legs don’t feel like they belong to me anymore. They’re just moving, tearing through grass and dirt and broken twigs, faster than they should be able to, faster than my brain can catch up.

The noises behind me- God the noises. The screaming, the fighting, the agony, it’s fading, but it’s still there, ringing in my ears.

The bundle of knives is clutched so tightly in my hands that the edges bite into my palms. It doesn’t matter. Nothing hurts more than the image behind my eyelids. Peeta. The blood at the corner of his mouth. The way his knees buckled before he hit the floor. The knife in the back of his neck, buried so deep. So… final.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I run, but the images follow me. I can still see him turning towards me, still feel the way his eyes found mine in those last seconds, like he was asking me to… what? Do something? Stay…? Live?

I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know-

My foot catches on a root. I stumble and nearly fall, but I force my body forward. My lungs burn. Every gasp feels like I’m inhaling shattered glass. I don’t even know where I am. The trees around me are closing in, taller, thicker, suffocating. The air is damp, heavy. It smells like pine and fresh dirt and… home. It smells like home. I nearly collapse at the thought.

No. Keep running. Keep moving.

But my legs are trembling, and my next step sends me crashing into the base of a tree. My back slams into bark, and the world spins. The screaming is gone now. It’s just me.

Just me.

Because Peeta isn’t running behind me.

I press a hand to my chest, fingers curling against fabric, as if I can hold myself together. As if it will stop the weight pressing down on my ribcage, the unbearable, gut-wrenching truth that is finally, finally sinking in.

He’s gone.

The first sob rips through me so violently that I clasp a hand over my mouth, trying to strangle the sound. I can’t be loud. Someone might hear me. Someone might find me. But it doesn’t stop my shoulders from shaking, doesn’t stop my lungs from convulsing under the weight of everything I’ve just done.

I left him.

I left him there.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through me, and I double over, pressing my forehead to my knees, rocking slightly. I should have stopped. I should have done something. I should have made him listen to me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Run as soon as the canon sounds. That’s what Haymitch told us. That was the one main thing he said. If we had, he’d still be alive, wouldn’t he?

I hear his voice in my head. I hear Peeta’s voice too. I can get them. The way he tilted his head towards the knives like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t about to die for them.

I look down at my hands. The bundle is still there, gripped between my shaking fingers. His last act. A sharp, broken noise escapes me. Something between a laugh and a sob.

He did this for me. And I’ll be damned if I waste that.

I swallow down another cry, wiping at my eyes roughly. I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. I can mourn him properly when I get the hell out of here.

I force myself up, legs unsteady. They don’t want to move, but I have to make them. I tighten my grip on my knives, slipping one from the bundle and clipping the rest securely onto my belt. I press forward, deeper into the trees, where the shadows are heavier, and the sun is already fading.

I don’t look back. I don’t let myself.

But Peeta’s voice follows me anyway.

And I think it always will.

I’m not entirely sure how long I stay walking. Maybe minutes, maybe hours.

The trees blur together, a never-ending sea of green and brown, and my body is moving on instinct alone. I don’t spot anything that particularly sticks out, no discernible landmarks. How are we meant to orient ourselves in here? Maybe we aren’t. Maybe that’s the point.

 My chest is tight, my hands are still shaking, and my throat feels raw from holding back sobs. But the worst part is my mind. It keeps replaying the moment Peeta’s knees gave out, the way his body hit the ground, his light hair soaked in his own-

Stop.

I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my nails into my palm until the pain jolts me back. I can’t do this. I can’t fall apart, not this early.

I force myself to focus. Survival. That’s what matters now. That is the only thing that matters. Deep breath, then another. Think.

The sun is dipping lower. I have no idea how long before night falls, but I know I need to find shelter. Water. A place to hide. I press a hand to my stomach. Hunger is a problem too, but it’s not pressing. Not yet. Maybe that can be tomorrow’s task. Granted I get to see tomorrow.

I inhale sharply, steadying myself. I am not dead. Peeta is. But I am not.

I force myself to scan the forest ahead, really look. I take inventory of what I have, what I can use, what I need to find. Because I have to live.

For him.

For them.

I grit my teeth and stop, just for a moment, pressing a hand against the rough bark of the nearest tree. I inhale, trying to steady myself, but my breaths still come sharp and uneven. Get your bearings. Think.

With a trembling hand, I carve a single, jagged line into the wood. Day one.

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I need proof that today happened. Maybe I need something to ground me. If I don’t keep track of the days, I might lose myself to this place. That’s how it starts. First, you forget how long you’ve been here. Then you stop remembering who you are.

Over the years, I’ve seen tribute after tribute unravel. Some slowly, piece by piece, others all at once. It starts with whispers, eyes darting at shadows that aren’t really there, trembling hands reaching for weapons at the slightest sounds. And then, eventually, the moment that seals their fate; a final, desperate outburst. A breakdown. A scream. A mistake.

Then, the cameras cut away, and we never see them again. They expect us to forget, but we never do.

I think of the girl from District 4- the one who won Nicole’s games. She lost herself after her victory. They barely show her now, only brief flashes of her face when they have no choice. A shattered thing in expensive silk, forced into a life she can’t escape. The Capitol wants victors, but they don’t want broken ones. They like their survivors functional.

One year, there was a tribute who cracked inside the arena. Turned to cannibalism, they said. The Capitol tried to spin it as desperate hunger. But the boy was a skilled hunter, and the arena was plentiful. He had plenty of food.

That’s why they don’t leave the bodies anymore. That’s why they drag them away the second they can. The Capitol didn’t enjoy that display, apparently. I think it was for the best that he wasn’t crowned Victor that year.

A canon fires. I freeze.

The sound is deafening, rattling through my ribs like a war drum. Then another. And another. Each blast is a hammer to my chest.

I count eight.

The bloodbath is over.

That means every canon from now on is fresh. A new death. One less opponent. One step closer.

And yet, a small part of me feels… relieved?

I don’t have to wonder if one of those canons belongs to Peeta. I don’t have to waste my nights worrying about him, don’t have to use my days trying to track him down, trying to protect him. He’s gone.

By now, his body will be on its way back home. They’ll take him to the stream and strip him from his awful tribute getup. They’ll wash his hair, soak his skin in goat milk and primrose petals. Then, they’ll lay him out in the square, dressed in the finest clothes they can find. Something respectable. Something that hides the wounds. They’ll bury him in the tribute graveyard, the same place we’ve been burying our children for decades.

It will be a good funeral. A proper one. His family will be there, his mother crying, his father standing beside her. The whole District will turn up, because Peeta was liked. Because Peeta was good. And because dying for the Games is the most respectable way to go in 12. They’ll talk about his kindness, his strength, and the way he always seemed to carry more weight than anyone his age should have. They’ll do their best not to blame me. Because they know they’ll be burying me next, and one way or another, I’ll be given the same treatment, because tradition is just that.

They’ll mourn him the way he deserves.

And I won’t be there.

A sharp, ugly ache carves itself into my ribs. Because I know how this ends. Either I die in this place, just another body to be dragged away, or I survive long enough to make it home. Too late.

Either way, I’ll miss it.

The thought almost makes me laugh. Because of everything- of all the horrors ahead of me, all the ways I might die- that is what I grieve first. That I won’t get to say goodbye.

I dig my nails into my palm and force myself to move.

Day one.

I have to survive it.

I don’t have a game plan. Not really. My only real possessions are my weapons. No food. No water. No shelter. Just my own body and the knowledge I fought to retain during training. But knowledge isn’t warmth. Knowledge isn’t food.

Water has to be my first priority, but there’s no point finding it if I can’t drink it safely. A single mouthful of contaminated water can kill faster than starvation- dysentery, infection, parasites eating you from the inside out. I know how many tributes have died like that. It’s never a quick death.

That’s why the smart ones head for the Cornucopia. That’s where the water purification tables are. The iodine and the flasks. But the smart ones also tend to die first.

I swallow; my throat already scratchy from thirst. Dehydration is slower, but at least it’s cleaner.

The ground beneath me is thick with tangled roots, damp leaves sticking to my boots as I move. I scan the undergrowth, forcing myself to take note, my mind cataloguing what I can use.

Dandelions- edible. The leaves can be chewed raw, the flowers brewed into tea. Nettle, if I can find a way to prepare it without getting stung. A few weeds that won’t keep me alive but might fool my stomach into thinking it has something to work with.

But plants won’t be enough. I need real food. I need meat. I need to hunt.

The thought sends a fresh wave of exhaustion through me. Hunting takes patience. It takes energy I’m not sure I’ll have if I don’t find something soon.

The sun is sinking now, the woods darkening faster than I’d like. Shadows stretch long between the trees, and I have to lift my feet carefully to avoid catching on roots, to keep from snapping a branch and giving myself away.

Then I see it.

A flicker of light in the distance. I freeze. I blink. Did I imagine that?

No. There it is again. A small, flickering glow threading through the trees, golden against the deepening black.

Fire.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Someone’s there.

My body tenses with the instinct to run. This is the first rule of the arena. Don’t let them see you first. But I don’t move. Because who the hell would be reckless enough to light a fire on the first night?

My heartbeat pounds against my ribs. It could be an act of arrogance. Someone too confident in their strength to care about hiding. Or it could be a mistake- Someone inexperienced, desperate, freezing in the bitter night air.

Either way, they’re vulnerable.

It is painfully cold, I now realise. My focus before had been elsewhere, and I hadn’t really noticed the sudden drop in the temperature, but the air is biting at my cheeks and fingers.

I should turn back. I should vanish into the trees and keep moving. But my feet stay planted, my body caught between fear and something far more dangerous.

Curiosity.

I take another step forward, then another.

As I creep closer, the fire casts long, flickering shadows through the trees, distorting everything it touches. Then I see him.

A small figure, hunched near the flames, his hands rubbing desperately together for warmth. He’s shivering. His fingers tremble as he stretches them towards the fire, like he’s trying to soak up every last bit of heat.

His mop of curly brown hair is illuminated in the glow.

District 4.

I squint, trying to place him. He was young, too young. Thirteen, maybe fourteen at most. And he’s alone. That means either his district partner ran, or she never made it out of the bloodbath.

Something shifts inside of me, something deep and instinctive. He doesn’t belong here. Not alone. Not like this.

I step forward, lips parting, ready to whisper a warning- put the fire out, you’re making yourself a target.

I don’t get the chance.

The arrow cuts through the night like a whisper of death.

A sickening thud.

The boy jolts forward with a choked gasp, his hands flying to his chest. His fingers grasp at the arrow lodged there, but his body betrays him. He’s shaking too much to pull it free. His breaths are ragged, wet.

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a small, broken sound. He’s afraid. He knows. Every ounce of myself wants to run to his side, to hold his trembling hand in my own, to tell him he’ll be okay. But if I do, I’m dead too.

How selfish of me.

My stomach twists violently, but I don’t move. I press my back against the bark of a tree, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe. If they hear you, you’re next.

But my eyes stay locked on him. On his fingers, twitching weakly around the arrow shaft. On the way his body rocks slightly, as if he’s trying to stay upright. He’s fighting it. Even now, he’s fighting it.

But it’s already over.

He sags forward, his breathing growing shallower. His lips part again, maybe trying to whisper something. Maybe just trying to breathe.

Then, after an agonising minute, he slumps sideways. His cheek presses into the dirt. His fingers stop moving.

Boom.

The canon fires. His body is still warm, but the Capitol has already declared him gone. Still, I don’t move.

Because whoever fired that arrow is still here. Watching. Waiting.

Then I see her. A figure steps from the shadows, bow in hand.

Brennan.

She moves slowly, deliberately, like she knows she has all the time in the word. The firelight catches her sharp features, her expression unreadable as she approaches the body.

She stops over him and nudges him with her boot. Checking. Confirming. Then she crouches, planting a steady hand against his shoulder. And-

Crunch.

She pulls the arrow free without hesitation. The sound of it makes bile rise to my throat, but she barely reacts. She just turns it in her hand, inspecting it. She wipes it on her leg, smearing blood over the fabric, before slipping it back into her quiver.

Then she stands, unbothered. Unrushed. And disappears into the trees.

I stay frozen for a long time, the fire crackling softly, the smell of burning wood now mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

The boy’s body lies where she left it, his face slack, eyes still open. Alone.

And I hate myself for not doing more.

I step into the clearing. I crouch beside him for a moment, and brush my fingers over his eyelids, closing his eyes, before standing up, and continuing on in the same direction.

I don’t put the fire out, because until the hovercraft comes to retrieve him, even in death, he deserves to be warm.

Notes:

I know it hasn't been long since my last chapter (like 2 days) but I got excited it's not my fault. Also Peeta's death has been written for like 6 months now and I am SO excited to post it!!!!

Chapter 20: The Turning Point

Summary:

Quick warning for: Vomit, Blood, Death, Weird dreams, a little derealisation!

The night is bitter, and the longer I walk, the deeper the cold seeps into my bones. It’s not just uncomfortable – It’s painful, a dull ache spreading through my limbs, stiffening my fingers. I understand now why that boy lit his fire. I understand why he took that risk. If I hadn’t seen him die for it, I might have been tempted to do the same.

I need to find shelter. I can’t afford to push through the night on sheer willpower alone. The temptation is there – Keep going, don’t stop, you’re safer that way – but exhaustion is just as deadly as anything else in this arena.

After what feels like an eternity, I find a place to stop. A thick tree, its roots gnarled and sprawling, tucked away in a dense patch of forest. Secluded. Hidden. Or at least, I hope.

I curl up at the base of the trunk, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tight around my body. The bark is rough against my back, but it’s something solid. Something real.

My heartbeat is too loud in the silence. Then, the thirst sets in. It’s a cruel, nagging thing. Dry and scratchy, clawing at my throat, making every swallow painful.

Haymitch gave us two instructions. Run. Find water.

We did neither.

I press my forehead against my knees, forcing myself to think. I saw water. I know I did. But where? My memories are too hazy to pinpoint anything, warped by panic and grief.

Somewhere near the Cornucopia. A lake, I think. I remember it now, I remember seeing it just through the trees, just pass the chaos, past the screaming, past –

Stop.

I grind my teeth and push the thought away. I wasn’t paying attention then. I don’t know how far it was. But I haven’t seen another water source since. A slow dread creeps up my spine. What if that lake is the only one? What if they designed it that way?

It would force us all back there eventually. Force us into their traps, into their game. One by one, we’d be picked off.

I have two choices.

I can keep moving forward, hoping, praying, for another water source. But, if I find nothing, I’m dead. Or I can turn back. Go to the lake. Risk walking straight into the wolves’ den.

I weigh the odds, but they aren’t in my favour. They never were. If I push forward and the land stays dry, I’ll be too weak to make it back. Another day out, another two days back. Four days without water.

I don’t like those odds. I don’t think I’d survive them.

To distract myself, to try and tire myself out, I decide to set up the most basic security system I can think of. It’s crude, but it’s something. I gather loose twigs, laying them in a rough ring around my tree. They’re spaced just enough so that if someone steps through, the sharp snap will echo in the silence, giving me precious seconds to react. To run.

It’s not much. It’s barely anything. But with no supplies, it’s the best I can do.

I try not to think about bows. About throwing knives, or spears. About the fact that if someone spots me from a distance, all the snapped twigs in the world won’t save me. But there’s nothing I can do to stop an arrow. So, what’s the point in worrying?

I turn my focus to my jacket, running my hands over the reflective patches. They catch too much light. Too much attention. I grab a handful of dirt, trying to smear it over the fabric, but it’s too dry. Powdery. Useless. It crumbles between my fingers and dusts away.

Frustration burns in my chest, but I swallow it down. This will have to do.

I press myself tighter against the tree, curling in as small as I can manage. My grip on my knife is firm, my knuckles aching. I refuse to loosen it. If something happens, I won’t waste time fumbling with my belt in the dark. I need to be ready. Always ready.

Then, the sky ignites with blinding blue light.

The sudden blast of music jolts through me, and my pulse spikes. For a moment, I forget where I am. The Capitol seal bursts through the gaps in the branches, flickering between patches of leaves. I shift, craning my neck for a clearer view.

Then, one by one, the dead paint the sky.

The girl from 3. The boy from 4. My stomach twists- he was the one by the fire. The girl from 4, the boy from 5, both from 6, the boy from 8, the girl from 10.

And finally…

Peeta.

His face beams down at me, frozen in time. He’s smiling. Smiling. Where did they even get that picture? It’s not the face I saw last. Not the bloodied hands, the crumbling knees, the desperate eyes.

This version of Peeta is at peace. He almost looks happy.

It feels like a sick joke.

I don’t know how long I stare, only that the anthem is still ringing in my ears long after the sky fades to black.

The sky may be dark again, but the images burn behind my eyelids. Peeta’s face, bright and smiling. The boy from District 4, curled up by his fire, hands still clutching at the wound in his chest.

I let out a slow breath, tilting my head back against the tree. The bark digs into my scalp, grounding me into something solid, something real. I’m still here. I press my head in harder, just to feel something.

Sleep is dangerous. I know that. But exhaustion is worse. I just need a few hours- just enough to keep my body from shutting down on me tomorrow.

I shift, pulling my knees tighter to my chest. The cold gnaws at my fingers, my legs, my face. I tuck my hands beneath my arms, trying to preserve whatever heat I have left. My jacket is thin. Useless. If it gets much colder, I won’t need an arrow or blade to take me out. The night will do it instead.

The forest is restless. Distant rustling, snapping twigs, the occasional hoot or shriek of something nocturnal. But it’s the silence that terrifies me more. When the wind stops and the leaves go still, when the insects quiet… That’s when you know someone else is listening.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but my mind won’t stop. Peeta’s name lingers at the edge of my thoughts, clawing at my ribs like an ache that won’t settle. He should be here. We should be huddled together, sharing warmth. The audience would view it as an act of love. We’d know it was pure survival, but it wouldn’t matter. We’d whisper plans for tomorrow. Instead, I am alone.

I swallow hard and force myself to breathe slow. Steady. I can’t break now. Not yet.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Sleep flutters just out of reach, teasing me with brief moments of darkness before yanking me back into the cold.

Tomorrow, I’ll find water. I’ll keep moving. I have to.

But for now, I pull my knife closer, rest my head against my knees, and wait for morning.

I must eventually fall asleep, and I only know that because I’m woken by a sharp crack.

My eyes snap open, my heart slamming against my ribs. I wasn’t dreaming. Something- someone- just stepped into my ring of twigs.

I don’t have time to think. My grip tightens around the knife in my hand as I push off the tree, blinking the sleep from my eyes. My body is sluggish, my limbs stiff from the cold. Move, move, move.

Another snap. Closer this time. Too close.

Then, a flash of movement. A shadow barrelling towards me. I barely roll out of the way before something heavy slams into the tree where I’d just been laying. The bark shatters, raining splinters onto my arms. My feet scramble against the forest floor as I twist, trying to get a glimpse of my attacker.

The moonlight catches on a flash of steel. A spear, I think. It’s not a career. A career wouldn’t have missed. That’s almost good to know.

I don’t have time to wonder who it is before they’re charging again. I throw myself sideways, landing hard on my shoulder. A sharp, burning pain flares through my arm, but I can’t stop. I can’t think about it. I need distance.

I push up onto my hands and knees, scrambling backward. My attacker steps into the light- the boy from 9, I’m pretty sure. I saw him in training once or twice.

He’s breathing hard, his dark eyes wide with panic. The spear shakes in his hands, and I realise he’s just as terrified as I am. Maybe more. He doesn’t want to kill me. He’s desperate. But desperation is just as deadly.

He lunges again, and I react on instinct, swinging my knife up, forcing him back. He stumbles, off balance, but still, he thrusts his spear towards my chest. He’s too slow. I twist aside, barely avoiding it, and before he can recover, I bring my knife up again, slashing.

I don’t want to. It feels so wrong, but I know in this moment, it’s him or me.

A strangled cry tears from his throat as the blade slices across his forearm. It was just a warning hit, sending him stumbling back, clutching his arm, blood dripping between his fingers. But he doesn’t run, like I was hoping he would. He just grips his spear tighter, breathing hard. He isn’t going to stop.

I know it the moment his jaw sets, and he steadies his stance. He’s not fighting out of strategy or out of any sort of blood lust. He’s desperate. He’s hungry and scared, and willing to risk everything for just one more night.

But so am I.

He lunges again, but this time I don’t dodge. I step closer. He’s clearly not expecting this and his grip falters for just a second. It’s just enough time for me to knock the spear out of his hand. Then, I don’t think as I drive my knife as deep as I can manage into his stomach.

Be ruthless if you have to.

His breath hitches, his whole body tensing around the blade.

For a moment, we’re both frozen, then his hands move to grip my shoulders. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something. He doesn’t, which somehow feels even worse than if he had. I find myself wishing he’d scream out, beg me for his life, shout out something to his family who are almost definitely watching. The whole of Panem will be watching as I murder this pure, innocent boy. My eyes meet his and I feel the sickness beginning to churn.

I’m a murderer, there’s no other way around it. He may not be dead right this second, but he will be. There isn’t any first aid in the arena that could fix a stab wound like this.

Then, his legs give out.

I lower him to the ground as gently as I can manage, pulling my knife free as I do. I don’t do it to be cruel. I do it to make this faster. I’m not a monster; I don’t want him to suffer. He’ll bleed out quickly now. It’ll be over faster.

Blood spills over his hands as he presses them to the wound, and with trembling fingers, I gently remove them, holding them in my own. Pressing down, applying pressure, only prolongs the inevitable. Nobody deserves that.

His chest rises and falls in short, shallow gasps and he protests against my grip. I shake my head weakly, and he stops, his eyes on me again- wide, unfocused. There’s no hate in them. Just fear.

He’s dying, because of me. He’s in agonising pain. Because of me.

I should say something, I should comfort him. But no words come out. I just sit there, his hands in mine, watching as his breaths slow.

Then… a canon.

It’s a few moments before I release his hands and stand up, forcing down the bile burning at my throat. My hands are slick with his blood. It’s still warm.

My entire body is trembling and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep myself upright. The trees around me are spinning, tilting this way and that as I try and steady my breath.

Concentrate. Mourn later.

As I turn to leave, I notice something. I flash of orange poking out from underneath him. A backpack, Supplies. As awful as looting the dead feels, and as much as it makes my chest hurt, I know I don’t have a choice.

I kneel back beside him, whispering a hushed apology, though I’m not entirely sure who to, before rolling him onto his side. His body is heavier than I thought it would be, and quickly losing temperature. I need to move so they can collect him. So, they can send him home.

It takes a lot of effort to free the backpack from his shoulders, but I do, and don’t hesitate to keep moving in the opposite direction. As far away as I can get.

But I have to stop after about five minutes, because the nausea is overwhelming, and I end up vomiting into a pile of dirt. It’s harsh and rough and it feels like I may never breathe again, and anything I managed to force down in the past few days is definitely pointless to me now.

But I will not look weak for the cameras. So, I pick myself the hell up, wipe at my mouth, brush away the tears, and keep moving.

Once I’m sure I’m far enough from his body that they can collect him, I squat down, tugging the backpack from my shoulders and tipping it out onto the floor. Only a small handful of items fall out.

A length of rope, coiled up tightly. Unused.

A small packet of dried meat. Open, but not empty. It isn’t ideal but it is better than I had before.

A small parachute attached to a little metal canister. I pick it up and pause. This is a sponsor. How on Earth had he gotten a sponsor already? Haymitch hasn’t sent me anything. I try to push down the anger that threatens to crawl up. He hasn’t sent me anything because I don’t desperately need anything, I tell myself. He’s saving up for when I do. That’s it, I’m sure.

But what could this boy have needed so desperately on the first night?

I unscrew it, feeling like I’m invading his privacy. Inside, is a small tin, about the size of my palm. I open it and find… medicine? I think? It’s a thick goopy substance that smells heavily of chemicals, so I can’t think of anything else it could be. A large scoop, about half the tin, has been taken.

He was sick. Or injured. That’s why he was so desperate. He might very well have been dying anyway. Did I do him a favour or make it worse? I’m not sure I ever want to know the answer.

The last thing is a metal canteen, which, upon picking it up, is heavy. Water. I unscrew it as fast as my trembling fingers will allow me to and nearly lift it to my lips when I force myself to stop.

There’s no guarantee that this water is from the cornucopia. He may have retrieved it from the lake after grabbing a pack. I lift it to my nose and smell no hint of chemicals. I can’t be sure it’s safe to drink. Drinking this could kill me. But if I wait, and then purify it once I have iodine, I could make myself sick if he already did. It isn’t worth the risk.

So, as much as it hurts me to do so, I use it to wash away his blood that has begun to harden on my hands and knife, trying to wash away any remembrance of what I’ve done.

I watch as the now bloody water soaks into the ground, wishing that it were me that was lapping it up, and not the soil. Will the sponsors watching consider this a smart move? Or are they too ignorant to see the intentions behind my actions and think that I am foolish. Haymitch is probably having to desperately explain my motives to each one of them to keep them interested in me.

I decide to relocate, and against every judgement I have, try to sleep again. I am exhausted, the fight taking everything I had. My shoulder is throbbing, and without proper rest, it’s unlikely to heal properly. Being injured this early could be a severe hindrance.

I do eventually fall asleep, curled into a pile of thick moss. But it isn’t restful. Not peaceful. Sleep is supposed to be an escape, but this- this is something else entirely.

I’m at home. District 12. The air is thick with coal dust, and the scent of damp earth clings to my skin. But the usually bustling streets are empty, eerily silent, like everyone has just… vanished. The buildings are still here, just as I remember. The cracked windows of the Hob, the lopsided fence bordering the Seam, the uneven cobblestone leading to each house.

As I walk, my boots make no sound. No crunch of gravel, no scuff of heavy boots. It’s like I’m drifting. Weightless.

Then, I see her.

Katniss.

She’s stood outside the Everdeen house, a place I have long since visited, her back turned, shoulders stiff. She’s still wearing her reaping clothes. The last outfit I ever saw her in. I reach out, trying to call for her, but no voice comes. Every step I take fails to close the distance between us. I extend my arm, desperate, wanting to touch her, to prove she’s real.

But when Katniss turns, her face is all wrong. Her skin is washed out, drained of all her warmth. Her eyes hold heavy bags, her lips parted slightly like she’s gasping for breath. But it’s her eyes that make me take pause. They’re cold, empty, staring straight through me like I’m nothing. As if I were never even here at all.

“Why did you do it?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“Why did you kill him? That boy?”

I swallow heavily, but my throat is raw, dry from dehydration that follows me even into my slumber. I don’t need further clarification. I can still feel his blood on my hands.

“I had to-“ I reply, but my voice sounds foreign even to me.

Katniss takes a step closer, her expression unreadable. “You had a choice. You always had a choice.” She says, but it isn’t an accusation. It’s worse. It’s disappointment.

Then, around us, the world shifts. The Everdeen house melts into the Earth, the sky swirling from grey to black, and trees sprout around us, tall and unforgiving. We’re in the arena, though the trees loom higher, stretching endlessly, swallowing the stars. There is something- someone, lying on the ground between us, a shadowy, crumpled form.

I don’t want to look, but I do.

It’s the boy from 9, his lifeless eyes locked onto mine, mouth slightly open as though he still has something to say. But his face flickers- morphing, twisting- until it’s someone else entirely. Though the tribute uniform remains the same, the bloodied plait around her shoulders makes me falter.

Katniss.

I stumble back, my breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. No. No, it’s not real. It’s a trick. But the blood pooling beneath Katniss is real, the warmth leaking from her body, the stillness of her limbs.

And I’m the one holding the knife.

I drop it, like it burns, but it’s too late. The blood won’t come off my hands, soaking into my skin, into my veins.

“Is this what you wanted?” Katniss whispers. Her voice is distant, fading.

I jolt awake, my breath shallow. My heart is slamming against my ribs. The cold air rushes into my lungs, but it’s not enough. I still feeling like I’m drowning, still gasping, still-

I clench my fists and force myself to breathe. The arena is real, the dream is not.

But the guilt, the fear? That stays. That lingers.

Because what if it wasn’t just a dream? What if it was a warning? What if by the time I make it home, if I make it home, Katniss won’t see me as Kestrel anymore?

What if all she sees is a murderer?

Notes:

I struggled with this chapter for some reason. I just wasn't sure where to take it. Hope this is okay :)

Chapter 21: The Spiral

I make the choice now that rest is futile. Maybe I snatched a few hours between both sleeps combined – enough to see me through until tomorrow night, if I’m lucky.

If I survive that long.

I sling my backpack onto my shoulders, the weight pressing down heavier than it should, considering how little possessions I have to my name. I secure the clip across my chest, testing it once, twice. My fingers tighten around the knife in my palm, like holding it tighter might somehow make me safer.

I’m going back to the Cornucopia.

Every inch of me is screaming not to – the same instinct that has kept me alive this long. But thirst wins out over fear.

If I wait any longer, I’ll be too weak to fight for water if I find it. If I wait any longer, I’ll die.

The sun hasn’t risen yet. If I’m lucky, most tributes will still be sleeping. If I’m luckier, some of them will die during my return. Either way, now is the best chance I have to fill my canteen. I’ll figure out how to purify it later. Maybe once I have some water secured, Haymitch will send me some iodine or purification tablets, or even some matches so I can boil it over a fire. If worst comes to worst, I’ll do that anyway, with my bare hands. It’s not ideal and definitely not the safest option, but I’ll do what I have to.

That’s if Haymitch is even still watching.

The thought gnaws at me, low and mean in the back of my skull. He said he’d stay sober until I went into the arena – and even then, the whisky was close enough on his breath to make me uneasy. He could be blacked out in some corner of the Capitol by now.

He could have already forgotten about me.

I can’t rely on anyone but myself. Not him, not Cinna, not Effie, not Peeta. Not anymore.

I roll my shoulder as I walk, biting down hard when the ache flares hot beneath my jacket. It’s a little better – or maybe I’m just getting used to the pain. Either way, I won’t waste my medicine on it.

Katniss’ mother used to tell us that, back when we were kids. If you hurt something, move it. Sprain an ankle on the Seam’s cobblestones? Walk on it. Twinge a muscle from nightmares or cold? Work through it.

Stillness only makes the pain worse. I force myself to roll my shoulder again.

The pain flares sharp.

Good.

It means I’m still alive.

I stop after a while and decide now is my time to carve two jagged lines into a tree. A different one from yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. Day 2.

I press on through the undergrowth, knife gripped tight in my hand. Every sound feels louder in the dark – the crunch of twigs beneath my boots, the whisper of leaves brushing against my jacket. My own breath, too loud in my ears.

I keep scanning the shadows. Not just looking but listening. The Gamemakers will be watching for that – how aware I am, how much fight I still have left in me. They love to play with the tributes who still think they have a chance.

I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack.

Every few steps, I force myself to roll my shoulder again. The pain is duller now, sinking deeper into the muscle – the kind of hurt that could trick you into thinking you’re healing, until you realise it never will.

I count the steps between each roll. One… two… three…

Twenty-five steps and roll.

One… two… three…

Twenty-five steps and roll.

It keeps my mind busy – something to cling to when the fear starts pressing in at the edges. Because if I stop thinking, if I let myself slip, I know exactly where my mind will go.

Katniss.

I can still see the way she looked at me on reaping day. The desperation in her eyes, the way she seemed to cling to a hope I may return. Like she wanted me to.

Would she even want me to come home, if she saw me now?

I force the thought down, bury it beneath the numbers.

One… two… three…

The further I go, the thicker the air feels – humid, despite the lingering chill from the night. I’m not sure how it’s possible but I’m sweating all while my hands are numb with cold.

They want me on edge. I know that. The Gamemakers build these arenas to get inside your head before they ever kill you. I won’t let them.

I remind myself of what Haymitch said. To stay smart, but not hopeful. Hope doesn’t keep you breathing, he said. I know that. When has it ever?

I’m not hopeful that my memory of the lake’s location is accurate. I’m not hopeful of making it there in one piece. I’m not hopeful of finding a way to purify the water. I don’t think the world owes me anything, that I have any sort of overlooking force to help me survive this.

Because I probably won’t.

So, it’s the least I can do to try to be smart about my choices. To be calculated, to weigh up my options. And that’s what I’ve done so far, isn’t it?

I don’t have much food, I don’t have any water, but I’m still alive.

I didn’t run into the bloodbath, not like Peeta did. Because I weighed up my options. I didn’t get killed by Brennan last night because I made the choice not to step into the clearing. I didn’t die last night because I deemed it the right choice to fight back. I’m not sick because I didn’t drink the water I had found.

I feel like I’ve done everything right, so why is my mind screaming at me that I’m being foolish?

By the time I reach the clearing near the Cornucopia, the sky is starting to smudge with light. I’ve been travelling for hours, I’m sure of it, so just how early did I set off? Did I actually get any sleep at all or is my mind just playing tricks on me?

The light breaking through the leaves is just enough to see the glint of something, almost hidden from view by logs and trees and bushes.

The lake. I knew it was here.

My entire body clenches and I force myself to take the last few steps. I could be walking straight into a trap. This location could be crawling with careers or anyone else smart enough to dominate it. But I can’t risk turning back. Not now. The trek back over here has left me exhausted, my vision swaying slightly.

I crouch low, knife raised in one hand as I inch closer. Every breath feels like it’s stretching time out thinner and thinner, like the whole arena is holding still to watch what I do.

When I finally move to unclip my bag and slip it off my shoulders, I expect something to lunge at me from the shadows. I feel like a deer, ready to bolt at the slightest noise.

But nothing.

So, I pull my canteen from my bag and fill it with fresh water. Well. As fresh as it’s going to get. This water is likely highly contaminated, so filthy it would kill me faster than thirst. But it’s better than nothing and at least now I’m sure on what I need to do next. It’s a start. I screw the lid back on tightly and tuck it straight back into my bag, fastening it back on my shoulders.

If this were any other night – any other version of myself – I think I’d cry. Just for s second. Out of pure pain and exhaustion and relief. That things might finally be taking a turn.

But I can feel the Capitol cameras out there, hidden in the branches. Watching. Waiting.

I don’t cry.

If I cry now, they’ll milk it for all it’s worth. A close-up on the Capitol screens. I’m likely one of few tributes awake, one of few doing anything interesting. Maybe they’ll showcase it side by side with the reaping and the parade. They’ll ask what happened to that brave girl everyone was betting on. The girl who scored an 11. Where did she go?

I decide now that they don’t want me, as Kestrel Eyrie. They want something to sell.

So, I don’t let myself image Katniss and Gale and Prim watching from home, seeing the girl they grew up with crouched in the mud, clutching dirty water like it’s the best thing that ever happened to her.

I don’t let myself picture how they’d look at me now – if they’d still see Kestrel or if all they’d see is another piece in the game.

I don’t let myself imagine how Katniss would react if I ever made it home.

Instead, I push off a nearby log and start walking again.

One… two… three…

Twenty -five steps and roll.

The thoughts follow behind me, just out of reach. But I’m still moving. I’m still alive.

When I’m deep enough into the forest, I stop. Just for a moment. Just long enough to test something. To test if, in Haymitch’s mind, I’ve earned that silver parachute filled with iodine.

I feel like I have. I’ve fought. I’ve survived. I found water. But when nothing comes, my stomach twists. The hope I barely let myself feel shrivels up, curling in on itself. I swallow the disappointment, though it grates against my throat like sandpaper, and push forward, deeper into the trees.

Maybe it’s too early. The sun is only beginning to creep into the sky – assuming it’s even real. The Gamemakers usually sync the arena’s cycle with outs, so I decide to trust it. Haymitch might still be asleep, might not know yet what my night consisted of.

What I’ve done.

Maybe when he wakes, someone will tell him. That I killed someone. That I’m injured, but not enough to die. That I found water. It might be enough to send me purification tablets. But I don’t have long.

My body is burning, muscles screaming with every step. My mouth is drier than I think it’s ever been, my lips split and raw. Every swallow scraped my throat like glass. My vision is bleared, my head swaying occasionally. I am dying. That’s a fact. Dehydration kills fast, and I am dying.

I used to wonder why the never show tributes relieving themselves. I figured it was about dignity, but that never sat right with me. How could the same people who force us to murder each other care about our dignity?

Now I understand. It’s not about dignity. It’s about survival.

Two days, and my body has nothing left to waste.

I keep moving because stopping is dangerous. Stopping means thinking and thinking means feeling.

The forest stretches endlessly ahead of me, trees blurring together in an unbroken wall of green. I try to focus on the sound of my footsteps, the rustle of leaves beneath my boots, anything to try and keep my mind from spiralling. But it’s getting harder. My head is pounding now, the pain making me nauseous, my body is protesting every step.

And still, no parachute.

Again, I try and reason with myself. Haymitch is asleep. Or maybe he’s waiting, biding his time. He doesn’t know what happened yet.

But the excuses feel thinner and thinner the longer I go without help.

I glance down at my wrist, at the golden bangle glinting in the dappled sunlight. The metal is warm against my skin, worn from the constant rubbing of my fingers. I’ve twisted it so many times in the past two days that I half expect it to snap.

It had meant so much when Haymitch gave it to me. It was a gesture of trust, of connection. It was my token. He had made me promise to come home when he had slid it onto my wrist. I didn’t question it much. I should have.

Because now it feels heavier than it should. Like a chain instead of a gift. Like a promise that was never real.

The thought makes something hot and bitter coil in my stomach. I keep trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, keep clinging to the idea that I matter to him. That I’m not just another lost cause, another name on a list of dead kids he was too drunk to save. But if that were true, he would have sent something by now.

The man is swimming in more money than he has sense. It wouldn’t surprise me if he gave each tribute something. To make us feel special. To make us feel like he cares. I wonder what piece of worthless jewellery Peeta was wearing. What empty symbol of trust Nicole clung to as she drowned. Alone.

I’m alone now too. Dying of thirst while he’s probably lounging in a cushioned Capitol suite, nursing a drink and watching me fall apart on a giant screen.

The bangle feels suffocating. My fingers curl around the metal, tightening until my knuckles ache. It’s nothing. It’s a useless trinket. It doesn’t mean anything – not safety, not care, not a guarantee of survival. Just a piece of gold, and a reminder that I was stupid enough to believe him.

Heat burns behind my eyes, my breath coming short and fast. My body feels too hot, my skin sticky with sweat, my thoughts spiralling in jagged, angry circles.

Before I can stop myself, I rip the bangle from around my wrist and hurl it into the trees. It vanishes into the undergrowth with a rustling thud.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

No canon, no parachute. Just me, standing in the middle of the forest, chest heaving, fingers still curled like they’re gripping something that’s no longer there.

The anger should help. Should keep me moving. But all it does is leave me feeling hollow.

I drag my hands down my face, my breath shuddering out hot and ragged. That was stupid. Irrational. But I don’t have the energy to care. I don’t have time for regrets.

Gritting my teeth, I push forward. The trees close in around me again, and the golden bangle is left behind, buried somewhere in the dirt.

Just like everything else I thought I could hold onto.

Notes:

So I have a job now and am swarming in uni assignments but with the release of Sunrise On the Reaping, I've been desperate to get a new chapter out. That book was so good did anyone read it?? My heart 3

Chapter 22: The Hope

Summary:

Hi so this chapter includes depiction of animal preparation and death, so be careful !!!!!!

The heat of my frustration dwindles, and I find myself stopping and glancing back at where the bracelet lays somewhere in the undergrowth. But the heat coursing through my veins remains. The bangle is gone, lost somewhere in the greenery, and I refuse to let myself care. Going back for it shows weakness. It shows that I still need him.

I don’t need him. If he won’t help me, I’ll help myself.

I continue on, forcing my feet to keep moving, but the dizziness is getting worse. My hands shake, my vision blurs at the edges, and every sound around me is deafening. Do I look weak?

I must be moving continuously for at least an hour. I’m not sure where I’m going, where my final destination is, but moving feels better than staying stationary, so I move.

Eventually though, I do have to stop. Every step makes me sure I’m going to vomit. Every breath drags on my raw throat. It hurts; there’s no other way to describe it. I could eat the dried meat I found, in hopes it keeps my body busy for long enough, my mind occupied, but I’m sure they’re salted, and that would only dehydrate me further. What I really need is a fresh hunt.

Fresh meat holds water. Not a lot, but enough to hopefully dull the edges of this thirst. If I can find an animal, I can rehydrate just a tiny bit, which might keep me alive just that little bit longer. But so far, I haven’t really come across anything. No birds, no small creatures. Is there even anything edible in here with me?

I sit myself down on a log. I can’t stand for long. My head spins every time I turn my head, and my legs burn.

If there is a time for Haymitch to show me that he is watching, that he is rooting for me, it’s now. I will the chirp of a sponsor parachute, prey to see one floating through the trees, but again, I am left bitterly disappointed.

A canon echoes through the trees around me, and I lower my head. Someone else has died. Were they hunted down, or were they, like me, tragically let down by their mentor?

The echo brings the forest to life though, and just for a moment, I hear it. A faint rustle. Something small. Quick. Too small to be another tribute.

My body reacts before my mind catches up. I go still, lowering myself off my log into a crouch. The sound is close – something shifting in the leaves to my right. I move carefully, slow enough that my steps make no noise – as Katniss taught me to do.

Another rustle, then I see it.

A squirrel, perched on a thick tree root, its tiny paws working at something between its teeth. Its fur is a patchy mix of brown and grey, its tail twitching as it chews. I can’t help but think that it’s cute. I always do, I think, show some remorse for my prey before I hunt, but in 12, there is no time for remorse. Nor is there here.

It hasn’t noticed me yet. Good.

I reach for the knife tucked in my belt, fingers closing around the familiar weight of the handle. The metal is warm from the heat of my body, but my grip is unusually unsteady. I exhale slowly, trying to steady my breath.

This kill has to be clean. I can’t afford to miss.

I shift my weight slightly, drawing my arm back. The forest is silent, the only sound my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Then I throw. The knife spins through the air, a blur of silver-

Thud.

The squirrel jerks, a small squeal escaping it before it collapses onto its side, twitching once before going still. Relief floods through me, sharp and unexpected. I push myself to my feet, stumbling slightly as I make my way to my kill. The knife is lodged deep into the side of its head, piercing its eye. A clean hit.

Good. I can’t waste energy chasing wounded prey.

I crouch down, pulling the knife free with a sharp tug. Blood beads at the wound, staining the matted fur. I should feel something – pity, guilt, anything. But all I feel is hunger. This is survival.

I wipe the blade on my trousers and lift the squirrel by its hind legs, its body limp and warm in my hands. The thought of eating it raw sends a wave of nausea through me, but fire means smoke and smoke means being found.

I examine it for a moment. Decently plump, hopefully with a lot of meat that I can split into portions to last me multiple days. And if not days, then multiple meals.

That should be my first action. Skinning it and portioning it. I know how to do that, and it will keep my mind and body occupied. Plus, it may allow potential sponsors to see that I know what I’m doing out here. It may give them something to bet on.

Right. I have a course of action now.

I lower myself to the ground, leaning against the thick roots of a tree for support. My fingers feel clumsy as I set the squirrel down in front of me, exhaustion and dehydration making every movement heavier. But I can’t stop now.

I draw my knife and take a breath. I know how to do this, I’ve done it a million times before. So why does it feel so unfamiliar now? I imagine that I’m back home, back in the forests just outside 12. I feel the wind in my hair and the ground beneath my knees. And my hands begin to move just how I can always depend on them to do so.

I start with a small cut near the back of its neck, just enough to loosen the skin. It peels away with some effort, and I work carefully, my hands moving on autopilot now. I don’t think about it too much, just focus on the process. Follow the steps.

Once the fur is gone, I trim away what I don’t need, leaving behind the parts I can actually use. I’m not above eating non-toxic entrails, so I leave them in the mix. Waste nothing.

Using my knife, I portion the meat into rough pieces, slicing through muscle and tendon with quick, efficient strokes. My hands are steady now, the trembling gone. This is something I can control. A task I can complete.

When I finish, I sit back, breathing deeply. My hands are once again stained with blood, but this time, it’s not from a fight. This time, it’s a win. But I can’t eat yet.

I glance at the raw meat, feeling my stomach twist. I won’t risk eating it like this. Animals like rabbits and squirrels can carry disease, and if I get sick, I’m dead. But that means fire. And fire means risk.

I tilt my head back, peering through the canopy. The sun has risen higher now – probably late morning, maybe 9 or 10 am. I’ve never been great at reading the sun’s position, but I know the basics. Noon is straight overhead. East means morning… or is it West? Doubt flickers in my mind. It doesn’t matter anyway – there’s no guarantee the Gamemakers are following any real-world rules in here.

What does matter is that the other tributes are likely awake now. If I make smoke, someone might see it. Someone might come looking. But what choice do I have? I need to boil my water. I need to eat. If I wait for Haymitch any longer, I’ll die.

I listen to the forest around me. It’s quiet. Too quiet. That doesn’t mean I’m alone. I didn’t hear Brennan in the trees. I didn’t hear the District 9 boy until he was lunging at me. The arena is full of threats I won’t see coming.

But I can’t afford to freeze up.

I decide to move first, putting some distance between myself and this spot. Staying in one place too long is dangerous. The only way to survive is to stay unpredictable – hard to track, hard to follow. I grab a handful of leaves, wrapping up my squirrel, and tucking it into my bag for safekeeping.

As I walk, I collect kindling, selecting the driest twigs I can find. The lack of water in this place means most of them are brittle enough to catch quickly. I tuck them under my arm, pressing them against my side as I move.

The ache in my shoulder fades to a dull throb, a background sensation I barely register. The thirst still burns, the hunger gnaws at my stomach, but with my mind occupied, it’s easier to ignore.

For now, at least.

I hope the sponsors are watching. I hope they find themselves wanting to help.

Haymitch told me that people had their eyes on me from the chariot ride – that they liked me. So where are they now?

Maybe Haymitch is sitting on a pile of sponsor money, either too drunk or too stubborn to use it. Maybe he’s testing me. Either way, I make the choice right now. I don’t need it. I can do this myself.

Once I’m sure I’ve put enough distance between me and my last location, I kneel, making myself as small and silent as possible. I listen. Not just for movement – footsteps, breathing, talking – but for the unnatural silence that means that someone is nearby, holding their breath just like me.

Nothing.

Good enough.

I crouch and start digging a small pit with my hands, dirt packing under my nails. I don’t care. I never have. When it’s deep enough, I drop my kindling inside, arranging it into a tight little nest. Now for the hard part.

I take two sticks in my hands, trying to remember what the trainer said. Slow and relaxed. Tension in my shoulders… or was it my wrists? Why can’t I remember?

I close my eyes, forcing myself to kneel instead of crouch, trying to block out the shaking in my arms.

“All your effort is going here.” He had placed his hand… where? Upper arm, I think. “Instead of here.” His grip had shifted – to my wrist. I’m sure of it. That means I need to let go of the tension, keep my movement steady.

Easier said than done.

I rub the sticks together, forcing my breathing to stay even. My shoulders ache, my palms burn raw. Still nothing. My hands are too unsteady. How did I get it to work before?

No. I’m not doing that again.

I shake my head, shake out my arms, then try again.

If Katniss were here, she’d have this fire going in under a minute. She always had a talent for that – one of many I could never replicate. Her ability to find humour in the darkest situations. The way she moved through the trees like she weighed nothing. The way she never seemed to see what everyone else saw in her.

A flicker of warmth brushes my fingers.

I gasp, cupping my hands around the tiny flame as if it’s the most fragile thing in the world. Quickly, I lower it into the nest before I can do anything stupid to snuff it out. The fire catches immediately, spreading across the twigs, curling around the kindling.

I stare at it for a moment, half convinced it’s some dehydration induced hallucination.

But the warmth is real. The fire is real.

And so is the thin coil of smoke rising into the air.

The sight of it snaps me back. I don’t have long.

I slide my pack off my shoulders, moving fast now. First my canteen. Water first, then food. I place it over the fire, watching as the flame licks at the metal. While it starts to boil, I reach for the tightly wrapped parcel of squirrel, my fingers steady, my mind already planning my next move.

The easiest way to cook this, I think, is to skewer it. I can hold the meat over the fire while my water boils, saving time and energy. The longer I keep the water boiling, the safer it’ll be. Every extra second reduces the risk of something in it killing me.

I gather a few thin sticks from the forest floor, testing each one for flexibility. Too brittle, and they’ll break under the weight of the meat. Too fresh, and they’ll burn before the squirrel is cooked. Once I find a handful of sturdy ones, I take my knife and start threading rough cubes of meat onto them, pushing the pieces close together. It’s slow, methodical work, but I like that. My hands know what to do even while my mind drifts.

By the time I’ve used the last scraps, I have a small collection of skewers lined up beside me. Even if I don’t cook them all now, they’ll be easier to carry this way.

I shift closer to the fire, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of flames. Holding a skewer just above the embers, I rotate it slowly, watching as the meat darkens, the fat sizzling as it meets the heat. The smell is sharp and gamey, but my stomach clenches in anticipation all the same.

Despite everything, it feels almost peaceful.

The trees around me stand impossibly still, their dark silhouettes stretching towards the sky. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood and damp earth. I shift my weight, settling into a cross-legged position. Not the safest way to sit. Not the easiest to get up from if something goes wrong. But right now, I don’t care.

Right now, I don’t care. Right now, I just want to exist in this moment.

And then, a dangerous thought crosses my mind.

Maybe dying here wouldn’t be so bad.

I exhale slowly, watching the flames flicker in response. I’m happy, aren’t I? Or at least, as close to happy as I may ever get again. I’ve seen what happens to Victors. I know what this game turns people into. If I somehow made it through, what would be waiting for me on the other side?

Alcohol? Morphling? Nightmares that never fade.

Maybe an arrow to the back wouldn’t be the worst thing. The pain would only last a second. I could go quietly, with the trees above me and the fire’s warmth on my skin. I could let it happen.

But then I think of Nicole.

Her face flashes in my mind – sharp, vivid. I see her smile, the way she used to tug on my sleeves when she wanted my attention. The way she fought tooth and nail to get back to me when our positions were reversed.

No. I won’t give them that victory. I won’t let them take anything more from me. I will make our name mean something.

I tighten my grip on the skewer and bite into a cube of meat. It’s chewy, slightly overcooked on the outside, but it’s food. It’s fuel, and right now that’s all that matters.

With my other hand, I grab the canteen, lifting it from the fire with careful fingers. The water inside bubbles, sending wisps of steam curling into the air. Safe enough.

I plant my foot into the dirt and smother the embers, grinding them beneath my heel. The fire hisses and crackles, the last of its warmth fading into the air.

I shoulder my pack and move on.

The next bite of meat releases a trickle of liquid on my tongue, warm and salty. It isn’t water, but it soothes the dryness in my throat, coats my mouth enough that I feel like I can breathe again. My body recognises it as sustenance, a promise that I’m still alive, still fighting.

And now, I have drinkable water.

I set the canteen back into the side of my bag. It needs time to cool, half an hour at most. I can wait that long.

Something settles in my chest, a flicker of something close to hope. It’s small, fragile, but it’s there. If I can’t get out of here for myself, then for Nicole. For Peeta. Hell, maybe even for the poor District 9 boy. Maybe if I survive, his death will mean something. Maybe then the guilt won’t be so heavy.

Or would making it out of here only make it worse?

The thought lingers as I walk. I try not to let it, but my mind wanders in the quiet. It always does.

Would Ma and Pa be proud of me? Would they be watching me as closely as they did Nicole?

I already know the answer.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister, Kestrel?” Their voices are still sharp in my memory. It was a question asked constantly as a child.

“Your sister doesn’t fight, why can’t you be more like her?”

“Nicole isn’t so rude, why can’t you learn from her?”

“Kestrel, can you just try to be more like Nicole?”

And now it would be: “Kestrel, your sister never killed anyone. Why can’t you be more like her? This isn’t how we raised you.”

I could argue survival until my lips cracked, until my throat bled raw. It wouldn’t matter. It was never enough for them. I was never enough for them.

The thought stings, but it drives me forward.

I want to get back to District 12. Not for home, not for whatever is left of what I once had. I want to sit by their graves, trace my fingers over their names in the stone, and prove to them that maybe, just maybe, I was worth sticking around for.

But if I die here, who will tell them?

A lump rises in my throat, thick and uncomfortable. I swallow it down and force my feet to keep moving.

Are Cinna and Effie still watching?

I’ve all but given up on Haymitch, but maybe I still have someone rooting for me. I have to have someone. I can’t be alone in this, can I?

Maybe Katniss and Gale are glued to their screens, maybe they’re cheering for me. The thought is weak. Unconvincing.

Or maybe Haymitch was right all along, and there’s nothing left for me to return to.

Notes:

Wrote this instead of my dissertation not even sorry

Chapter 23: The Gift

The forest feels different now.

I move with steadier steps, the ache in my limbs dulled not by relief, but something like purpose. I’m still thirsty. Still starving. Still caked in blood, grime, and the sticky sheen of sweat. But for once, I feel like I’m not just waiting to die. I’m surviving. Not thriving, not fighting- just surviving. And in this place, that feels like a kind of triumph.

I don’t know how long I walk. Time in this forest has no edges – it slips past me like mist, impossible to hold. The only clues are the shifting shadows above, the sun bleeding westwards through the thick canopy. That and the weight in my body, heavier with each step, even as my mind lightens.

Eventually, I find a ridge, a smooth rock warmed by the sun, overlooking a stream that slices the undergrowth. The water glimmers, so bright it doesn’t even feel real. Like something from a dream I’ve already forgotten. Too beautiful to belong in a place where children die.

I sink onto the rock, cross-legged and pull my canteen from my bag. The motion sends a wave of soreness through my joints, but I welcome it. Pain means I’m still here. Still in this body.

I tilt it to my lips and sip. It’s not cold. Not refreshing by any stretch of the imagination. It tastes like smoke and metal. But it’s clean. My throat struggles to accept it at first. It’s the first clean drink I’ve had in this place. It coats my throat, trickles down and settles warm in my stomach. I breathe out, shaky and slow, as if that sip relieved something more than thirst. A weight lifts, and I realise. I’m not dying. Not yet. I resist the instinct to drink the whole thing. Back home, they taught us better. Drink too fast and you’ll throw it up. You’ll be worse off than before. Small sips. Patience. Even now, in this hell, I cling to that lesson.

I close my eyes. Let my legs dangle over the edge. The sun hits my skin, and it feels like a memory of something I can’t name. The stream murmurs below, steady and soft. The world doesn’t feel kind, not exactly. But in this sliver of stillness, it doesn’t feel cruel either.

I should have kept walking this morning. If I had, I’d have found this water sooner. But I couldn’t have known. I remind myself that, I say it like a prayer. I made the best choice I could. And now… maybe I stay close to this stream. Maybe I follow it. I’ll never be too far from water if I do, and I can let it carry me forward like it carries everything else.

But this place never lets you hope for long.

A scream rips through the air. Raw, pained, afraid. Human.

It spears through me, slicing through the momentary calm. I’m standing before I even think, breath caught in my chest. My heart thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else. That scream was close. Too close.

But… no cannon. Whoever it was, they’re still alive.

I shove my canteen into the side pocket of my bag, fingers fumbling and clumsy. I duck into the shadows beneath the trees, every inch of me coiled tight with dread. I crouch behind a gnarled root, every sense straining.

Silence.

Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

But then, a sound. Small. Fractured. Like the whimper of a wounded animal. Or a child. It draws me like a thread through the ferns. And then I see her.

Rue.

She’s crumbled on the ground, arms clutched around her stomach, slick with blood that doesn’t stop. Her tiny frame is shivering. Her mouth is open but no sound comes, just broken breaths and a sob that barely escapes. She looks up at me.

Her eyes, wide and dark, hold no fear. Just recognition. Resignation. Like she already knew it would be me. Like she’s known all along what kind of person I am, and still, still she trusts me with this.

“Please…”

It’s not a demand. Not a cry. It’s barely more than a breath, but it hits me like a punch to the gut. I drop beside her. The ground is damp with her blood, and it soaks into my trousers, my knees. I barely feel it.

I take her hand. So small and so impossibly light. It feels like holding a bird with broken wings. I can’t speak at first. My mouth opens, but nothing comes. My throat is burning, my vision blurring. She doesn’t cry. Not like I would expect her to. But I do.

Tears spill down my face as I press her hand to my cheek. It’s all I can offer. The tiniest piece of comfort. Warmth. A human touch. Something.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry…”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry. She just nods. Once.

Permission.

My hand finds my knife, but I don’t look at it. Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t feel as real. I lift her head with one hand, gently, like she’s made of glass. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.

I slide the blade as hard as I can muster across the back of her neck. I feel the resistance of muscle and bone, then a release. I know I’ve done it right when her body goes limp and the cannon fires above. The sound doesn’t even make me flinch.

I lay her down softly, like she’s sleeping. Like she might wake if I’m not gently enough. Her blood is on my hands. On my arms. It soaks into me, into everything.

This is how we kill animals back in 12. One swipe to sever the brain stem. It stops the body from being able to breathe, from being able to stay conscious. From the heart from being able to beat. It’s quick and painless, they say. Humane, they say. But nothing about this feels humane.

I stay there for a long time. I don’t move. My body is cold, even in the sunlight. My soul feels hollow. I just killed a child with my own hands and called it mercy.

When I finally stand, I feel less than I did before. Like something inside me died when she did. The entirety of Panem know what I did. And that I wept like a child while I did it.

How many people are staring at their screens, calling me a monster? Will they understand my motives, or am I the girl that just killed the youngest tribute in the game? The one that was already dying. If I had left her, she would have died for sure, but whoever started it did not go deep enough or large enough to kill quickly.

She may have been laying there for days, bleeding out slowly, in agony the entire time. I believe I made the right choice.

If it had been me, I would want someone to put me out of my misery. To end it quickly so that I can go home and so that my family could bury me while there is still blood left in my body.

Not that I have a family to return to, but I’m sure she does. And I can only pray they believe I did the right thing.

The sky darkens without warning, as though someone has thrown a blanket over the entire arena. A sudden gust of wind barrels through the trees, whipping my hair across my face and nearly knocking me off my feet. Leaves scatter around me in a frenzy, and the temperature plummets so fast it leaves a chill crawling over my skin.

Then the thunder comes. It cracks like a gunshot right above my head, sharp and violent, the kind that rattles in your bones. The Gamemakers are stirring the pot again. Maybe to drive the remaining tributes closer together. Or maybe to punish me. To remind me that nothing belongs to me, not even grief. I’ve had my mourning, now I have to move.

The rain begins as a soft mist clinging to my lashes, but within seconds, it’s a deluge- thick, relentless sheets that blur everything together into a smear of grey and green. The ground quickly turns to slick mud beneath my boots, sucking at my steps as I try to move away from Rue’s broken body.

I don’t want to leave her.

Even now, even after everything, the thought of her lying there alone, cold and soaked through, tears something in me wide open. The blood on her shirt is already washing away, replaced by streaks of red-tinged rainwater. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t keep her warm. I can’t keep her safe.

All I can do is survive.

I press one arm across my face to block the rain and stumble forward, blind and breathless. Every drop feels like needles on my skin. The water rushes into my eyes, down my nose, into my mouth, and I choke on it, gasping. It’s like trying to breathe underwater, like the storm is trying to drown me where I stand.

Somewhere behind me, lightning flashes, blinding white, and the thunder follows immediately. Too close. I don’t look back, I just run. Or try to. Each step feels like I’m dragging my legs through wet cement, and every root, every rock is a trap waiting to snap my ankle.

A tree limb cracks high above me. I look up too late.

A heavy branch breaks off and crashes down, missing me by inches, but another clips my shoulder hard enough to send me sprawling. I hit the ground with a sickening crack, my head bouncing off the earth. Stars explode in my vision.

For a moment, I don’t move. I can’t move.

Pain blooms in my temple, my shoulder throbs, and my ears are full of the roar of wind and rain. The weight of everything – the storms, the arena, the loss – it presses down on me like I’m being buried alive.

But I have to move.

I grit my teeth and push myself up, fingers clawing at the mud. My hands close around the strap of my bag, and I drag it free, not even checking if it’s still intact. My vision swims, but I force myself upright, stumbling.

If I stay here, I’ll die.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe they’re trying to flush us out, to force encounters, or maybe they’re just bored and want entertainment. I don’t know if this storm is meant for me or if the others are out here too, just as lost and soaked and scared as I am.

But I do know one thing. I’m not ready to die. Not yet.

The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it worsens. Like the sky has split open and is pouring all it has straight onto me.

I stumble through the trees, soaked to the bone. My clothes cling to my skin like a second, freezing layer. Mud splashes up to my knees. Every breath I take is shallow, panicked. My boots squelch with each step, and more than once I slip, falling to my hands and knees, scraping my palms on roots I can’t see. My shoulder screams in protest every time I use it to push myself back up.

The wind howls through the forest like an animal, low and cruel, bending the trees until I’m afraid they’ll crack and fall. Branches lash at me from all sides, thin ones whipping at me, and heavier ones that hang low and wet and heavy. One smacks me across the cheek, and I hiss through my teeth, staggering sideways.

I can’t see more than a few feet ahead, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. It doesn’t matter. I just need somewhere. Anywhere. Some place out of the open. Some place where I won’t freeze or drown.

The lightning flashes again, and for a split second, the forest lights up like it’s midday. In that blinding flicker, I think I see a figure, staring back at me. Another tribute? An animal?

I freeze. Hold my breath, try to listen. But all I hear is the wind and the rain and the frantic thudding of my own heart. By the next flash, any trace of any figure is long gone.

My bag is getting heavier with the weight of the water soaking into it, and I don’t even know if anything inside is still dry. My knives, thank god, are still strapped to me. They’re the only thing that feels real right now. Cold metal pressed against my hip and thigh.

My throat burns again, raw from breathing in nothing but cold air and rain, but I don’t stop moving. I can’t. It feels like if I stand still for even a second, the arena will swallow me whole.

Another flash.

This time the thunder comes before the lightning, which makes no sense. It takes me too long to realise I may have imagined the sound. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’m starting to lose it already.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, water flying from my hair. My legs are shaking now, not from fear, but exhaustion. Cold. My fingers are numb. My body is past the point of trembling. I’m not even shivering anymore. Just… sluggish. Distant.

Then, through the curtain of grey and green, I spot it.

A gap in the earth. Low, half-covered in moss and brambles. A shallow rock overhang, barely more than a crawl space. But it’s something. It’s shelter.

I crash towards it like a drunk, falling to my knees, scraping myself raw to pull back the vines and duck inside. The space is cramped and uneven, the floor rocky and damp, but I’m out of the rain. The wind howls just outside the mouth of the little alcove, but in here, it’s still.

I’m safe, at least for now.

My breathing comes in ragged gasps, and I slump against the cold stone wall, letting my eyes close. The sound of the storm outside is distant now, like the whole world has been muffled by this little cocoon of rock and darkness. I peel of my soaked jacket with shaking fingers, the effort monumental, and drop it beside me.

My body aches everywhere. My temples pound with each heartbeat, and my skin is starting to feel too tight, like it doesn’t fit right. I can’t tell if it’s fever, or cold or exhaustion or all three.

And still, part of me is afraid to fall asleep.

Afraid that the storm was never the danger, that the real threat is still out there, waiting for me to let my guard down. But I don’t have the strength to move. Not yet. Not anymore.

As I rest my head back, it feels like it might split in two. Pressure builds behind my eyes like something inside is trying to claw its way out. My stomach twists, heaving, and it takes everything I have not to throw up.

I breathe deep, slow, deliberate inhales through my nose, out through my mouth, trying to fight the thick saliva flooding my tongue. The nausea doesn’t ease, but it doesn’t get worse either. That’s a win. I’ll take it.

Fingers shaking, I reach for my bag. Opening my eyes only makes things worse. My vision sways and splits, and I feel like I’m stuck in a tide, moments from going under. Where is it?

Where is my water?

I dig blindly through the bag, panic crawling up my throat. My fingers scrape cloth, rope, leaves – everything but the canteen. No. No, no, no. I can’t have lost it. Not now. Not after all this.

My pulse spikes. My hands tremble harder. I’m going to be sick.

Then I remember. The side pocket. I put it in the side pocket.

It’s such a stupid thing. So small, so simple, and yet I’d forgotten it completely. Like my brain isn’t working right anymore.

I fumble the canteen out with both hands and unscrew the cap with the slowest care. I can’t afford to spill a drop. I bring it to my lips and sip, slowly. Gently. The taste is the same as before: smoke and warm metal. But it’s mine, and the relief washes through me just enough to breathe again.

Still shaky, I reach for the half-eaten squirrel skewer. My fingers are clumsy as I tear a cube off and bite into it. It’s tough and cold, but food is food. Maybe it’ll help settle the churning in my stomach. While I eat, I force myself to go over my supplies. I need to know I still have everything. I line it all up, one by one, doing a silent inventory:

• Six knives on my belt, plus the one at my side makes seven.
• The length of rope – untouched.
• The dried meat pouch, four strips left.
• The medicine tin, half used by its previous owner.
• The water canteen – nearly full, thank god.
• Six squirrel skewers. Well. Five now.

Nothing important lost. Nothing that’ll kill me, anyway. I let out a breath and let my fingers drift to my wrist, half out of habit. Skin. Only skin. My heart drops and I freeze, the memory of throwing away the bangle tearing at my mind.

For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t think. The storm outside rages on but it’s only background noise now.

Maybe it meant nothing to Haymitch. Maybe it was something he gave to me without thinking. But whether I like it or not, it meant something to me. It was warm. Solid. Proof that I mattered, even just a little, even if just at the time. Proof I wasn’t alone.

I should have held onto it tighter. Not because it was useful, but because it made me feel human. But I discarded it in a moment of anger like it never meant anything. And now it’s gone. Another piece of home I’ve lost to this place.

I stare at my bare wrist like it might magically reappear. Part of me wants to go back. To retrace every step, crawl through the mud and branches until I find it. It’s probably half-buried by now, snagged on a twig or swept away in the storm. But maybe not. Maybe it’s still there, in the exact same spot I left it, waiting for me to come back for it.

I shift to stand. But then a gust of wind barrels through the trees outside, scattering leaves in every direction. The storm hasn’t fully passed. It’s just taking a breath. The canopy creaks ominously overhead, and thunder rolls again in the distance, low and threatening.

No. It’s not worth it, not now.

The bracelet meant something, sure, but it’s not water, or food, or a weapon. It won’t keep me alive. If I go looking for it now, I might not come back. And I’ve done too much, endured too much, to throw it all away for sentiment. Even if part of me wants to.

The exhaustion finally catches up to me, slamming into my chest like a wall. My whole body aches, my temples throb with each heartbeat, my arms feel like dead weight, and the fatigue in my bones is louder than any thunder.

I drag myself back fully beneath the rock overhang, curling into the smallest version of myself I can manage. The stone offers a bit of shelter from the rain still pouring down, though the ground beneath me is damp and cold. Still, it’s enough. Enough for now.

I shift myself into the best type of laying position I can manage, and rest my head on my bag. I’ll keep my hand near my knife, just in case.

The last thing I remember before sleep drags me under is the sound of distant thunder echoing across the trees around me.

When I wake, something is different.

It’s lighter now. Pale blue light seeps in through the canopy, painting the rocks in soft shadows. The storm is gone, passed silently in the night, and it its place is the hush of a calm morning breeze. The kind that used to drift through the fields outside the fence when I went first thing in the morning, back when mornings still meant relative safety.

I sit up slowly, muscles groaning in protest, joints stiff from the cold, the dirt. My body feels like it’s made of stone, but something tugs at my senses. Something that doesn’t belong here.

Sweetness.

Faint. Almost imagined. My first thought is that I’m hallucinating, that my mind has finally cracked under the pressure, but then I see it. Just at the mouth of my cave, caught on a crooked root, is a flash of silver.

A parachute.

My heart lurches. I’m crawling before I even register the movement, the rush making my vision blur, but I keep going. I reach for it with shaking fingers, half afraid it will vanish. The parachute leads to a small tin, no larger than my palm, polished like a mirror and sealed with care. My hands tremble as I pry it open.

Inside, nestled in folds of soft, dark velvet, tied with twine like a gift, is an even smaller bundle. I undo the knot with slow, unsteady hands, as if rushing might break the moment. I peel back the cloth, and my breath catches in my throat.

Chocolate.

Ten small, perfect spheres, each one wrapped in foil – gold, red, blue, green, like the ornaments you see on the Capitol trees on television around mid December. I stare for a long time, not quite believing. They look absurd here. Ridiculous. Like they’ve fallen out of someone else’s life and into mine by mistake.

For a second, I want to laugh. Then cry. My mouth waters before I even reach for one.

The gold wrapped one calls to me first. My fingers shake as I peel it open, layer by delicate layer, until the dark, glossy surface is exposed. I place it on my tongue like a sacrament. It melts instantly.

Rich, velvety. Sweet in a way I’d forgotten sweetness could be. The centre is creamy, smooth, like silk. For a second, just one, perfect second, I forget where I am. I forget the blood under my fingernails, the weight of Rue’s final breath on my hands. I forget the games.

I close my eyes. Let it melt. Let myself just feel it.

And I imagine Haymitch.

I imagine him watching, grim and silent, glass in hand. I imagine him seeing me make it this far, starving, exhausted, broken, and choosing this. Not water. Not medicine. Not Firestarter or purification tablets or something useful. Chocolate.

A reward. A congratulations. Maybe even pride.

It means he knows I’ve done the hard part on my own. That I’ve hunted, fought, survived. It means he thinks I can keep surviving. That I don’t need him to save me. Just… to remind me that I’m still human.

Tears gather in my eyes and this time, I don’t push them away. Because for the first time in days, I taste something that isn’t dirt or blood or fear. I taste kindness. I taste hope.

So, I let myself enjoy it. No guilt, no rationing. Just one small, perfect moment of joy in a world built to crush it.

I’ve earned this.

Notes:

I keep telling myself if I write one more chapter then I can focus on my dissertation but that isn't happening

Chapter 24: The Loss

I stay curled up there for a while. Too long, in my opinion. Isn’t that a common rule? Don’t stay still for too long. I told myself that. Was it yesterday? The day before? I’m not entirely sure, all the days seem to be blurring together in here.

How many days have I been here? It feels like weeks, but I think it’s only been a few days. Three? Four? I try to count back. Peeta, day one. The boy from 9, day 2? Or was he day one as well? Rue… She was yesterday. So that make three, I think, though it scares me that I’m not certain. It’s all caught up in a tangle of fear and desperation. I didn’t think this would happen so fast. Still, I force myself to take my knife and carve three lines roughly into the cave wall. My hand slips once, and I almost drop the blade. The lines are crooked, shallow. Barely legible. But it’s something, and something is better than nothing. Something to tether me here. To prove I haven’t completely lost myself to this place. Not yet.

When I’m done, my fingers drifts back to my wrist as they’ve done so many times before. To the space that my bracelet used to be. And the absence hits like a punch that makes me nauseous.

It’s gone. I threw it away on purpose. I know that. I remember the way it left my fingers, the way I had flung it like it had betrayed me, like I wanted to hurt it before it could hurt me. At the time, it had felt like power. Like I was shedding weakness. Like I didn’t need him, or anyone for that matter.

But now? Now the bare skin there feels… wrong. I press my thumb to the spot, trying to feel something even close to comfort. But there is only the heat of my skin and the whisper of regret pumping through my veins.

I have to go back for it, don’t I? What other choice do I have?

It’s proof. That Haymitch is out there. That he saw me, that he’s watching me. Maybe even that he believes in me. That he hasn’t given up. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I was wrong about a lot of things. My chest tightens. It’s dangerous, how much I want to believe that.

I’m collecting my few possessions together before I can even force myself to decide otherwise. My heart is overriding my brain, and in a place like this, that’s dangerous. But I don’t have the willpower or desire to stop it. So, I don’t. My brain is screaming at me that this stupid bangle is not worth my life, but I can’t bring myself to listen to it.

When I exit my small shelter, the first thing I do is stretch. After a night cramped up, my muscles are stiff and uncooperative, but it feels nice. Pins and needles dance across my skin, and the tension in my muscles scream to be released. At first, my small overhang of rock had been a sanctuary, but it quickly turned suffocating. Claustrophobic. And now the fresh air feels like I’m breathing for the first time in days.

The air is still damp, but the sun is warm on my face. Leftover rain trickles from the trees above, having gotten caught on the leaves during the downfall. Despite everything, this place never ceases to be beautiful. That’s what makes it so cruel.

This will just be a quick look, I tell myself. I’ll go back to where I threw the bracelet away and if it isn’t there, I’ll move on.

Liar

I made the choice to dispose of it, after all, even if it was in a moment of dehydration-fuelled rage. I remember the moment I threw it away. Was that yesterday? Or was it day one? Still, my fingers trembled, and my vision was blurred with rage. I had told myself it was nothing.

That passing thought reminds me of my full canteen, so I get it out and take a sip, as if to prepare myself for the journey ahead. I’m not even sure how far away my destination is. Or what direction. But I’m determined to find it. I pull out a skewer too to eat on my journey. Even if I don’t necessarily feel hungry because of my adrenaline, I need to keep myself fuelled.

Is this even just about the bangle anymore? Was it ever?

I also decide to take my hair from the now messy bunches that hang limply from my head. They’re tangled and wet and they’re making me desperately uncomfortable, so maybe the sun can dry my hair a little more with it down. At least then I might be able to do something with it.

And then, with nothing left to do, I set off.

At first it feels like I know the way. I see a tree I recognise, a slanting hill I’m sure I’ve trekked, a familiar bend in the path. But then something shifts. A root I don’t remember, a patch of moss that looks wrong. And suddenly, I’m not sure anymore.

I must walk for hours, based on the positioning of the sun and the shadows. I finish off the skewer, and another one, and half empty my water, but still nothing. I slow to a stop, my heart pounding in my chest from exertion.

The forest is quiet in that eerie, watching way. No birds, no winds. Just the sound of water dripping, and my own breath, growing heavier. I turn in a slow circle, scanning the underbrush, the trunks, the earth. I’m looking for… I don’t know. A landmark? A feeling? Something.

But the ground all looks the same. Damp, soft, littered with fallen leaves and broken twigs. I crouch, brushing my hands along the dirt, searching for some sign that I’ve been here before. A scuff, a footprint, anything. But there’s nothing. The storm has washed away any semblance of human life, leaving just silence and the itch of panic beginning to coil in my lungs.

It was right here, wasn’t it? Or was it further down the path? Past that rock? I remember throwing it, but where was I? It was in my hand and then it wasn’t. Where did it land? I heard it land, right?

I keep moving, half-tripping over roots, slipping on the dampness. My boots are caked in mud. My breath is becoming increasingly shallow, but I put it down to physical effort and exhaustion. I’m not even sure what direction I’m facing anymore.

I pass the same bush twice. I know it because of the way the leaves curl at the edge, like they’ve been burned. The first time, I pause to examine it. The second time, I curse under my breath and feel something tighten in my throat.

This is stupid. It was just a bracelet. Just a dumb piece of metal.

But that’s a lie. And I think my body knows it, because my chest starts to ache, and my fingers won’t stop twitching. I find myself crouching again, digging through leaves, clawing through the dirt like maybe it got buried in the storm. Like maybe it’s hiding from me.

I tear through ferns and turn over rocks. I scrape my knuckles raw on bark and thorns. At some point, my fingers start to bleed from the effort of upturning the ground. I don’t care. I need to find it.

Because if I find it, maybe I haven’t ruined everything. Maybe I can still fix this. Maybe he’ll still be proud of me. Maybe he’ll still welcome my return or mourn my death. Maybe I can still carry some piece of softness in this place that wants to tear me apart. But the forest stays silent. The bracelet doesn’t appear. If it’s truly gone, does that mean the version of me that mattered to someone is too?

And slowly, my knees sink into the mud. My hands fall limp in my lap.

I’m lost.

Not just in direction, but in something deeper. Something I can’t name. It washes over me. This thick, choking sense that I’ve messed up in some irreversible way. That I’ve lost the one small thing that really mattered. That I threw it all away and I can’t take it back.

I press the heel of my muddy, bloody palms to my forehead and feel the sting of tears I didn’t plan to cry. They fall anyway. Soft, then sharper, then all at once.

I double over, pressing my forehead into the mud as my hands move to clutch at my chest, as though my clothes are suffocating me. As though I need to reach into my heart and fix it manually to make this pain go away.

My fingers dig into the earth now.

At first, I just need to feel something. Something real. Something that won’t slip away. But then my hands start moving on their own, tearing through moss and mud and damp, rotting leaves. I claw at the ground like the bracelet might be hidden underneath it, like maybe if I dig deep enough, if I tear hard enough, I can take it back. Undo it. Pretend it never happened.

But it isn’t here. It’s gone.

My breath catches, and something breaks loose inside me. The scream rips out before I can stop it.

It comes from somewhere deep – buried, animal, wrong. It tears up my throat like it’s trying to shred me on the way out. It becomes abundantly clear this is about more than just some stupid bracelet, but I can’t stop it. My hands curl into fists and slam into the dirt. Again, and again, and again. My skin breaks open, coating the mud in deep red, but still, I can’t stop. I can’t.

Another scream rakes its way free. I press my head further into the ground and let go like the forest deserves to hear it. Every broken, splintering piece of me. The sound scatters through the trees, swallowed by green and sky and nothing. At this point, I don’t even care if another tribute finds me. Let them put me out of my misery like I did to Rue.

The sobs come hard and fast. Ugly, wrenching, painful. Years of built-up agony now being released now that the dam is broken. I can’t breathe through them. I gasp, choke, try to inhale, but my lungs stutter and spasm. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out now, just ragged air and a shattered rhythm. My face is soaked. I don’t know if it’s tears or blood or rain or mud or all of the above.

My chest hurts. My ribs feel like they’ve been cracked. My stomach twists and tightens like I’m going to be sick.

I curl into myself. Smaller, tighter. My fingers are buried in dirt and blood. My legs are shaking, knelt in the mud. I can’t stop shaking. My throat is raw, my body feels hollow.

The forest is still. No silver parachute, no sign. Just me, alone, broken open in the dirt. And the bracelet is gone. And I think a part of me went with it.

My fingertips burn where the skin is torn open, but I barely register it through the ache blooming in my chest. There’s dirt caked beneath my nails from clawing through the earth, mud streaked up my arms like bruises.

I don’t know how long I stay there, sobbing into the forest floor. My throat grows hoarse, my sobs thinning into hollow hiccups, but the tears keep coming. Every part of me feels unbearably heavy. Like the forest has pressed itself into me, into my bones, my breath, my blood.

I don’t want to move. I don’t think I can.

But something shifts.

A crack- barely there, a whisper in the hush of trees and distant birdsong. Not the wind, not an animal. Footsteps. Slow, soft, measured.

My heart seizes like a snare just snapped shut.

I press my forehead to the damp earth. Stay still. Don’t breathe. But I feel it. That tightening in the air, that awful, unnatural hush that falls over the woods when something smarter than you is hunting.

Another step. Closer. Deliberate. Not careless, not clumsy. Someone is taking their time. Someone is savouring this.

I clench my jaw until my teeth ache. My limbs go rigid.

If you’re going to kill me, just do it. Just end it. Fast, let it be fast, let it-

But then-

“Deep in the meadow.”

My head jerks up so violently it feels like my spine might snap. The voice is soft. Female. She’s singing my song.

And the dread… it doesn’t rise, it crashes into me. A wave, a weight. A chokehold of knowing.

“Under the willow.”

I turn, and she’s there. Brennan.

Bow drawn, arrow aimed between my eyes. Her smile is ice stretched thin over her teeth. Her head tilts, curious, almost playful. Like a cat watching a bird struggle under its paw. I can’t move, I can’t even think. All I can hear is my own blood roaring in my ears.

This is it. This is the moment. Broadcast to every home in Panem. My death, wrapped in ribbons and sung like a lullaby.

Will they pity me, the districts? Or turn their eyes away from the screen, unwilling to see the soft, broken girl at the mercy of a predator?

Is Haymitch reaching for another bottle? Has Katniss already burned my name from memory?

I’ve failed them. I promised I’d be strong. And now I’m here, trembling, filthy, sobbing into the dirt. Nothing but a cautionary tale.

The Capitol loves tributes like me. It proves the games still work. That they can snap us in three days flat. That no matter the fire in our eyes, they can snuff us out like candles.

I think of something Cinna said. Something I repeated in front of millions.

When the canary stops singing, danger is coming.

I was meant to be the canary. A warning. A symbol. A promise. And now, I’m going quiet. I’m losing my voice. I won’t let her of all people take it.

I force the words out, nothing more than a rasp, a whisper wrapped in cracked breath.

“A bed of grass…”

She freezes. The bow dips, barely, but enough. Her eyes sharpen, no longer gleaming with triumph, but calculation. I can see the wheels turning behind her gaze. This wasn’t what she planned. It’s off-script. And she hates that.

I lift my head, a fraction, just enough to look her in the eyes.

She could kill me. Why hasn’t she? Maybe she wanted me to beg for my life before she shot me. Maybe she wanted me to scream and plead and try and fight. Maybe she likes the chase.

I won’t give her the satisfaction.

“A soft, green pillow…”

I push myself upright, bit by bit. My knees shake, my spine screams, but I rise. Just enough to not be pitiful. Just enough to look like something worth hesitating over. She’s still watching. Still silent.

I can feel the string of her bow like a line pulled taught between us. One flick, and I’m gone. I breathe in, shallow, unsteady.

“Lay down your head…”

Brennan’s lips twitch. Not a frown, just… stillness. That awful, unreadable stillness. Like she hasn’t decided what I am yet. Threat, or entertainment?

Then, she speaks. A whisper, like the wind trying not to be heard.

“What are you doing?”

It’s not curiosity, it’s a challenge. A warning. She’s losing her grip on the scene, and she knows it.

I stare at the arrowhead, just inches from my face, and answer her with steel in my voice, even if it’s wrapped in shaking.

“What are you doing?”

My voice is low, intimate. Aimed like a knife. And for one suspended second, I swear I see it. Doubt. She was so sure I’d be an easy kill. Now? She’s not sure of anything. I shift to sitting, slow and deliberate. My hands are behind me in the dirt, propping me up, aching to twitch towards my blade. But I don’t move. Not yet.

The air crackles, the forest holds its breath. And so do we. She doesn’t lower the bow, but she doesn’t shoot either. We just stare. Two predators caught in the same trap, breathing hard, blood humming in our ears.

Then, she moves. The arrow loosens.

I dive. The ground slams up into my side, stealing the breath from my lungs. I land hard, shoulder-first, dirt in my mouth, cheek dragging through leaves. The arrow misses by inches She’s already on me, dropping the bow, knife drawn. Then I realise, she wants this up close.

I scramble back, panic crawling up my spine, fingers fumbling for my blade. There’s no time to think, only react. Only survive. Her foot slams into my ribs and I grunt, choking. She lunges, and I twist so that her blade hits the mud beside my head.

I lash out blindly. I kick her off of me and to the floor. She gets up much quicker than I can, hair wild, face flushed with bloodlust.

“Come on…” She snarls, circling. “Sing for me now, little bird.”

Her words are poison. I want to spit back, but my throat is too dry. I lunge at her, but she catches my arm. Our bodies crash together in the dirt, tangled limbs and metal flashing in the low light. I get a cut across her thigh, and she hisses. Deep enough to bleed, but not enough to slow her.

But then she grabs a fistful of my loose hair and yanks. My head snaps back and I cry out, neck exposed, the world spinning. Her blade drags down the right side of my face. Fire. White-hot. I jerk. It’s not deep, but it’s deliberate. I gasp, a sharp, wounded sound, forcing the scream to catch in my throat. Blood blooms and spills warm down my jaw.

“Now they’ll never forget your face…” She says, her voice low and bitter, like broken glass, her hand still in my hair, her grip iron. “Not even after they scrape it off the arena floor. That’s what you wanted isn’t it…?”

“Are you done?” I gasp, pushing myself as best I can away from her. But she still has a grip on my hair, and now I feel the cold metal against my throat. My ears ringing, and her face appears inches in front of mine. We’re both breathing hard.

Blood… sweat. Dirt. The taste of metal on my tongue? Is this how I die?

“I should kill you.” She breathes, pressing the knife harder, which makes my face screw up.

“Then do it.” I rasp. Because that’s the only thing I have left. Something flickers behind her eyes. Conflict. Cold. Like she’s fighting herself. A hesitation that makes no sense. A crack in her armour she doesn’t want to be there. Maybe she thought this would be easier. But now she’s close enough to see the fear in my eyes, and maybe, just maybe, something else. Is this why she chose a long range weapon? So, she didn’t have to get close enough for second thoughts?

She doesn’t move. For the first time, I realise she’s bleeding from injuries I didn’t give her. Her nose is bloody and awkwardly crooked, her eye half shut from a previous scrap. Her hands are trembling. We’re both exhausted. Broken. And maybe she sees it now.

Her blade lowers, her eyes scanning my face. Something shifts. Not mercy. Not pity. Something raw, worn. Familiar. Recognition.

She steps back. One, two paces. Blade still up, but her breathing is rough, but her eyes flick over me one last time, unreadable.

“Next time.” She mutters; voice hoarse. “When you can put up a fair fight.”

Then she’s gone, vanished into the trees, just like she came. I don’t know which scares me more. That she spared me, or that I don’t think she knows why.

I collapse back into the dirt, limbs refusing to hold me, shaking. Drenched in adrenaline. My heart is still hammering like it hasn’t realised I’m not dead yet. Next time.

I raise a trembling hand to my cheek and pull it away, looking at the red now coating my palm.

I shouldn’t be alive. But here I am, living on borrowed time.

Notes:

Shorter chapter because I am actually surprisingly focusing on my dissertation for once (I'm not)

Chapter 25: The Brick House

I know that I tried to push on. But I also know that I collapsed. Possibly from shock, possibly from exhaustion. Possibly from something I’m not able to comprehend. I remember the air being torn from my lungs as the world gave way beneath me. I remember the wind, how it screamed past like it was trying to catch me, cradle me, soften the blow. As if the world itself wasn’t ready to let me go. But I don’t remember the impact. I think I hit my head but… I never felt it. Everything was just quiet.

There was a hum. Not a sound, exactly, but a feeling. Like the ground itself was breathing beneath me, alive and waiting. Though waiting for what I’m not exactly sure either.

My ears were ringing, I think. Or maybe that’s just a lie I told myself to fill in the gaps. I can’t be sure. And maybe I should be afraid that I don’t remember it all, that the pieces of myself are slipping through the cracks. But my mind doesn’t let me be afraid. It shields me. Sedates me. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

When my eyes finally open again, I’m not in the arena.

The walls around me are made of soot-blackened brick, uneven and radiating warmth. A fire burns low in a stone fireplace I know I’ve never seen before, yet something in me remembers it anyway like a dream I’ve lived once and since forgotten. The air smells like coal smoke and rabbit stew, thick and fatty, with the unmistakable sweetness of cornbread – something that hasn’t existed in my world for a very long time.. The heat reaches out, fingers crawling up my arms, softening the cold that has lived inside my bones long since Peeta’s final breath.

The room is more or less empty, besides the fireplace, and a handful of pictures scattered across the mantle place and walls. I can’t quite make them out. Faces blur like someone has swiped over the fresh photographs and smudged the ink. Blotches of deep red splatter across a few of them. Over a dark-skinned girl, and a blonde-haired boy. Peeta and Rue, I know without a doubt, even if I can’t make out their faces.

A tattered coat hangs beside the fireplace, arms and tail blackened and burnt. Scraps are sewn onto the fabric, making it look like a patchwork blanket. My pa’s coat, I think, though I didn’t see him wear it much. I believe it was meant for special occasions. We didn’t have much of those.

I’m in a chair. Slouched, but upright. I’m not in pain; not like I expect to be with all things considered. The cushion beneath me is worn and familiar, like the ones from my ma’s living room before everything went so, so wrong. And across from me, in the other chair, is Haymitch. He’s not drunk. He’s not looking at me bitterly. He’s not the haunted, half-broken man I’ve known thus far. He looks… rested. No. Settled. There are still lines on his face, deep trenches carved by grief and lack of sleep, but his eyes are calm. Clear. He meets my gaze and doesn’t flinch. Not even a little.

“You’re late.” He says, his voice echoing too deeply, like it isn’t coming from his mouth, but from somewhere inside the walls, or the fire, or the hollow space in my chest. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

I blink once. Twice.

“Am I dead?”

He huffs out something halfway between a chuckle and a sigh. “If you were, you think it’d be me waiting here? I’m sure there are other people you’d rather see.”

I almost say it. You’re wrong… I want to tell him he might be the most important person left. That sometimes, surviving this awful place only feels bearable because I imagine getting back to him, even if he’s too drunk to care. Even if he barely remembers my name by the time I return.

But the words won’t come. Some fragile instinct says to keep them inside.

So instead, I look to my hands. Blood dries into the creases of my knuckles, flaking like old paint. Some of it mine, not all of it. It’s hard to say who the rest belongs to now. My stomach curls, but it is distant. No sickness, no panic. Just the fire behind me, crackling low and slow. I realise now I can’t feel my own heartbeat. That should terrify me. It doesn’t.

“You’re not real.” I say, and my voice sounds like a stranger’s – hollow and too far away. It comes out almost like an accusation. Like I’m mad at him for not really being here.

Haymitch tilts his head, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Neither are you.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Weighted like a trap.

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

His gaze softens, and something flickers behind his eyes. Firelight or memory, I’m not sure. Maybe both.

“Why do you think I’m here?”

I don’t have an answer. Not a real one. But something tumbles out of me anyway.

“Because I need you.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, something breaks. Not loudly or dramatically like I might expect. Quietly, like glass cracking beneath snow. No sobs, no tears. Just an ache so deep it feels like it’s been waiting years for me to notice it.

Haymitch doesn’t recoil. He just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You’ve needed someone for a long time.” He says. “You just didn’t let yourself.”

“You told me to be ruthless.” I say quickly, as if that justifies all my actions. It doesn’t.

“I did, and I meant it.” He nods. “But I never said not to feel. I never said not to hold onto something when it gets dark.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out. My breath catches. The bracelet. The one he gave me. The gold is dull now, battered, misshapen in places, but whole. Still whole.

He gave it to me the morning of the Games. He was struggling with withdrawal then, and half out his mind, I think, but even then, his hands didn’t shake nearly as much as they do now. “Come home.” He had said. Maybe he was mocking me, maybe he wasn’t. But I wore it anyway.

“I lost that.” I whisper.

“You did,” He murmurs. “But not all that is lost is gone forever.”

I don’t take it. I can’t. I’m afraid that it will vanish the second I touch it. That he will. So after a moment, he tucks it away again and the burn in my chest makes me wish I had held onto it.

“You’re not staying, are you?” I ask him. His smile is a sad thing. Tired. Soft.

“No, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m gone. You know that.”

“Then what does it mean?”

He stands up and moves to crouch in front of me, placing a hand on my knee. It’s warm. Real. It sinks deeper than my skin.

“It means you still have something to fight for,” He says gently. “Let our next meeting be real, hm?”

I want to beg him to stay. I want to wrap my fingers around his coat and not him go. But I don’t. I just nod.

And then the edges of the room begin to peel like a photograph held above a flame. The walls darken and the fire shrinks to embers.

“Don’t let them take everything.” He says as the world dissolves. “Not this. Not you.”

Then he’s gone.

I wake with tears drying on my cheeks and the faint smell of coal smoke still clinging to my skin. For a moment, I pray I’m still in the brick room. That if I open my eyes, he’ll be there. Whole, steady, waiting.

But above me, the ceiling is stone. Jagged and wet with remnants of the storm. Shadows crawl across it, shaped by flickering light from a dying fire. My back aches from the cold, and my head is pounding so much my vision is blurred and doubled. My breath is shaky is the damp air. A shallow cave, just deep enough to hide inside.

My fingers twitch against something abrasive. Bandages?

My face and head are wrapped. My hands too. Neat, careful work. Done with urgency, but precision. Someone helped me. Someone tried to save me. But who?

My muscles groan as I shift. I let out a sound I can’t help, a rasp of pain escaping between cracked lips. A figure stirs by the cave mouth. She’s facing away, sitting perfectly still, the firelight outlining her sharp silhouette.

Brennan.

The sight of her is a jolt to my chest. Her bow is propped beside her, always within reach. She doesn’t turn at my noise, but I know she hears it. She always does.

“How long have we been here?” My voice scrapes out, dry and frayed. She doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then:

“Long enough for me to regret it.”

I stare at her. My fingers twitch again, brushing the fabric wound tightly around my knuckles.

“You did this?” I ask.

She snorts. “Don’t sound so grateful.”

I push myself up with a hiss of pain. “Why?”

Finally, she looks at me. Her eyes are hard, but not empty. She rises and crosses the space between us, crouching low. Close. Her own wounds are bandaged, her nose reset, her brow stitched, skin mottled with fresh bruises.

“I didn’t do this for you.” She hisses. “You aren’t special.”

She says it like she wants me to flinch. I don’t. Instead, I wait, which seems like it only serves to piss her off.

“I did it,” She mutters, voice much colder now, “To make sure you live long enough for me to kill you properly.”

Something shifts inside me, a quiet quake. She leans in, her face inches from mine. Her breath smells like smoke and iron and ash. And anger.

“You don’t get to die like that. Not curled up in your own blood and tears. That is not justice. That’s mercy.”

Her voice trembles, but not with fear. With fury. With something deep and messy that I’m not sure even she has control of.

“I want you to feel it.” She whispers. “All of it. The weight, the hurt. You earned this death, Eyrie. I earned it.”

She pulls back, eyes gleaming like shards of glass.

“I won’t let you rob me of that.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. And somehow, in all of this, in the sting of her words, in the weight of her hatred, I know that she’s the one who held my bleeding face in shaking hands. Who crouched in this cave and tore strips of cloth to stop me from slipping away.

She saved me.

Not out of kindness. But because killing me mattered too much to leave to fate. She didn’t want somebody else to stumble across my unconscious body and secure an easy kill. She wants to do this her way.

Mercy in this place isn’t soft. It’s sharp, and ugly, and real.

I know I should be afraid of her. But I’m not. I think I understand her too well for that. I don’t respond to her earlier words. What can I say? There’s nothing that could make any of this right. The silence between us stretches thin, heavy with things unsaid and things we’ll never be able to say.

The cave smells faintly of blood and smoke, the fire snapping low at our feet. I shift slightly, feeling the tug of bandages across my head, the raw sting of half-healed wounds beneath them. God, it hurts, but it’s a sharp, grounding kind of pain. A reminder that between everything, I’m still alive.

I glance at Brennan. She hasn’t moved much, except to reach for her bow once or twice when a sound outside pricked at her ears. She hasn’t looked at me again.

“What… did you do to me?” My voice is raw, barely more than a whisper.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stares into the fire like it holds the answers to something bigger. Finally, she exhales through her broken nose and mutters, “I used your medicine.”

I blinks, disoriented. My thoughts feel slow and jumbled, like someone has scrambled them. “What medicine?”

“Capitol-grade salve.” She says, her tone clipped, almost annoyed. “Found it in your bag. You must have gotten it in a sponsor gift.”

My heart skips. I remember now- the tiny metal tin I found when I killed the poor district 9 boy. I had almost forgotten it was there, so against using it since I didn’t know what it was.

“That’s what it was?”

She nods, shifting to face me more directly. “You were half-dead by the time I came back to you. Smashed your head in on a rock, and my god, do you bleed. Not to mention your hands. I don’t even know if it’s worth wasting my time on you if you’re this much of a nutcase, but still.” She gives a small hum. “But I wasn’t about to spend hours hoping you’d heal the normal way.”

I look at her, my thoughts swimming now. She senses this and continues.

“If I’d known about the extent of the side effects I probably wouldn’t have bothered.”

My pulse quickens. “The side effects?”

She rubs her hand over her face, like she’s too tired for the conversation.

“You’ve been out for a day and a half. Kept twitching, muttering things. Fever shot up so high I thought your brain might melt. You were crying in your sleep, screaming… You couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. I thought about letting you go more than once.”

I stare at her. “I dreamed…” My voice trails off. What exactly did I dream? Haymitch. The bangle. His advice and his promises. Somewhere in the mix I also feel like I may have seen my sister and heard the tune of a song I haven’t heard since childhood, but those memories are fleeting and hard to grasp. Still, it all felt real. Too real, like I was walking through a dozen different lives all at once.

“Yeah, that’s what it does,” She mutters. “It makes the wounds close up fast, but it burns through you like acid. Vivid hallucinations, nightmares. Full-body tremors. I had to pin you down more than once. And god help me, you almost clawed the bandages off. You weren’t even awake.”

I glance down at my arms, noticing for the first time the faint angry red marks around my wrists. Her doing, probably, to keep me from hurting myself.

“Why?” I ask, “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around her bow, the string creaking softly under the pressure. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet.

“Because you don’t get to go out like that. Not after what you did. You humiliated me. You tore down my entire life’s work in a matter of minutes. I will not be shown up by someone from 12 of all places. So no, you don’t get to go out like that. Not from infection or blood loss or some dream that makes you claw your own veins out. When you die, it’s going to be because I made it happen.”

There’s no heat in her voice, just a cold certainty. Like she’s already imagined it a hundred different ways. I close my eyes for a moment, the firelight dancing against the inside of my lids. My body aches like I’ve been burnt from the inside out. Maybe I have.

“I didn’t ask for this.” I whisper.

She lets out a bitter laugh. “None of us did.”

The silence returns, stretched taut between us like a wire. I’m not sure who is more likely to snap. She shifts to sit with her back to me, eyes on the mouth of the cave again.

“You’ll feel off for a few days.” She says. “Headaches, muscle cramps, maybe more dreams. If you start seeing things, don’t talk to them and let me know. I’ll tell you if they’re real or not. And don’t get cute and try to run. I’ll shoot you before you even reach the trees.”

My throat is too dry to reply, so I just nod. As the fire cracks low, and Brennan sharpens her arrows without ever looking back at me, I lie in the dirt, wrapped in pain and silence and guilt, and wonder which will kill me first.

We remain in silence for a moment, then she breaks it.

“Who’s Haymitch?”

Her voice is low. Not curious. Sharp. Surgical. Like she’s already cut open the word and is watching to see if I’ll lie about what spills out.

My mouth is so dry. I press my lips together to buy myself a second, but the name tastes like poison in the back of my throat.

“I heard you mumbling.” She continues. “Kept saying it over and over. Like it really matters to you.”

I shift upright slowly. Every joint in my body groans in protest, but I grit my teeth and do it anyway. I won’t lie down while she looms over me. I’ve been prey long enough.

“He’s…” I start, then stop. What is he? A mentor. A drunk. A mirror I hated looking into. A man who looked at me like he was counting down the days until I’d be just another ghost in his long line of dead kids. And then… not.

“He’s District Twelve’s Victor.” I say finally. “My mentor. That’s all.”

Brennan’s eyes narrow. “You dream about all your mentors like that?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. She wouldn’t understand. No-one would, not unless they’d sat across from him and heard the way he didn’t say the things that mattered the most. The silences he handed me like loaded weapons. The way he gently pushed food across the table towards me without looking me in the eyes. The way he noticed everything, even when he pretended not to.

“You called out for him.” She hums, “You cried.”

I flinch. She saw it, of course she did. Which means so did the entirety of Panem.

Her expression doesn’t soften, but she sits down. Cross-legged, elbows on her knees, like we’re two kids at a sleepover and not enemies trying to survive each other. The flames crackle faintly in the background.

“I had a fever the first night.” She admits. Her tone is too even for this sort of conversation. Too monotone. “Dehydration, I think. I dreamt about my brother. My eldest one. Dreamt he came to slit my throat. Told me I’d disgraced my District.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not sure I’m meant to say anything at all. But she doesn’t let it settle into the air, before she speaks again.

“I’ll give you another few hours, then we have to move.”

“Why?” I ask. She rolls her eyes.

“This cave isn’t enough. The Gamemakers will get bored soon, things have been really slow while you’ve been out. We need to get somewhere more secure.”

I go to protest, but she shoots me a look that makes me stop immediately.

“Just… rest, okay? You need as much energy as you can, I want to get as far from here as possible.”

I nod slowly. My body aches still. My mind still wanders. I can’t figure her out at all. She wants to kill me, I know that, yet she’s nursing me back to health and telling me to get rest. I don’t know if I trust her enough to sleep, but she could have killed me a hundred times over by now, and yet I’m still alive.

“I’ll be ready.” I say.

She smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll see.”

The fire has nearly gone out now. Its glow is nothing more than a sullen heartbeat in the dark, pulsing against the damp stone walls. Smoke curls faintly upward, clinging to the low ceiling like a ghost unsure where to go. I lie flat, cheek pressed to cool dirt, bones aching like they’ve aged a decade overnight.

Brennan sits with her back to the wall, arms resting on her knees, head tilted just slightly, enough to keep me in her periphery. Her bow is still within reach. Always. A quiet threat disguised as routine.

The cave isn’t much. Just a jagged hollow in the rock, barely taller than we are sitting down. Moss creeps in around the edges, fed by tricking water from the last storm. The floor is uneven, littered with twigs and grit and tiny shards of shale that dig into the skin if you’re not careful where you lie.

It smells like smoke, blood, and wet earth. Like the aftermath of something we were never meant to survive.

Somewhere, near the entrance, water drips from a crack overhead. A steady, metronomic rhythm. Like the arena is trying to count us down.

I shift onto my side, my muscles twitching in protest. The ache in my head has dulled to a low throb, but the bandages still tug with every movement, soaked in places I don’t want to think about. My hands are stiff and wrapped so tight I can’t feel much except pressure.

I glance towards Brennan. Her face is all shadow now, all sharp edges.

“You’re not sleeping?” I rasp.

She doesn’t look at me. “I don’t trust you not to die on me.”

I let out a dry sound that might’ve been a laugh if my throat didn’t feel like it had been scraped raw. “You’ll be devastated if I go peacefully.”

She finally turns her head. “You’re not funny.”

Neither of us smile.

The silence after that settles like dust. Heavy, getting into the cracks of things. I watch the fire shrink to embers and wonder if I’ll ever be warm again. Real warmth. The kind that doesn’t come with smoke in your lungs and a knife at your back.

“I think I dreamed of my sister.” I say, surprising myself. “While I was out. But it was all twisted. She was in the Capitol, dressed in something awful. She kept telling me over and over I had to win.”

Brennan doesn’t react for a long time, then, almost too quiet to hear:

“Sometimes the nightmares feel more honest than the memories.”

I nod, though she can’t see it.

Outside, wind rattles through the brush, and something howls far off in the distance. Animal or tribute, it’s hard to tell. My chest tightens, but I don’t move. Brennan’s fingers tense around the curve of her bow, but she doesn’t rise.

For now, this cave is still enough. Cold enough. Safe enough.

We are two broken things bound together by violence, pain, and unfinished business. But I can’t help but think how nice it is to have company again.

And so, we just wait, together, apart, for morning to come.

Notes:

Guess who finished their dissertation!!! I wish that meant more time for writing but alas it means more time for my full time job

Chapter 26: The Descent

Summary:

This chapter contains mentions of near death experiences and derealisation / depersonalisation! Also very vague mentions of vomit. Proceed with caution!

Despite how much my entire body burns, despite how every joint screams with each sluggish movement, and how my vision swims with every turn of my head, I decide that now I need air. Not because I’ll collapse if I don’t get it. Not because the fever boiling under my skin is driving me out. But because I need a break. A moment away from this cave that is too small, too close, too dark. The air in here presses in on me like hands around my throat. I need sky. I need space. Even if it’s just a few minutes.

“I’ll go refresh our water.” I tell Brennan.

She stiffens immediately, the tension coiling through her shoulders like a bowstring.

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’m not going far.” I keep my voice steady. Controlled. “You can watch me.”

She doesn’t like it. Of course she doesn’t. But she’s a realist, like me. She knows we need water, and she knows I’m not going to get very far in this state. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t make it ten feet before collapsing into a heap of pathetic irony. Eventually, with a sigh and a furrow that refuses to leave her brow, she hands me her canteen.

“Don’t be long.”

She plants herself right at the mouth of the cave, her bow across her lap, but her eyes fixed on me like a hawk waiting for the twitch of a mouse. I nod and turn away, forcing my legs to cooperate as I limp through the undergrowth towards the stream.

Despite the ever-present weight of her gaze boring into my back, the cool air on my face feels like a relief I didn’t know I needed. The forest is cloaked in morning mist, soft and grey, curling around tree trunks and hovering over the damp ground. Water droplets cling to my skin like dew on dead leaves. The air smells like wet earth, sweet rot, and something older, something the Games can’t sterilise.

I’m not well. I know that.

My steps drag. My coordination is shot, and the dizziness hits in waves, like my head is bobbing in stormwater. My skin burns with a heat that isn’t from exertion, and I keep swallowing against a raw, acidic taste in the back of my throat. But I refuse to let that show.

I already looked weak when I passed out and cracked my skull on a rock like some amateur. When I got myself half-killed because I couldn’t stop the bleeding from a stupid, unnecessary wound. When Brennan, my enemy, my rival, decided to save my life out of what she called spite, and I let her.

I was vulnerable then. I should be dead. But no more. I am strong, I am capable. I am still here.

The stream greets me like a familiar stranger, quiet, glassy, barely moving. I crouch beside it slowly, every joint protesting, and look down. My reflection stares back at me from the shallow water, warped slightly by ripples and silt.

I barely recognise myself.

I’m bandages. Bruised. My hair is a tangled mess of blood and dirt. One cheekbone is yellowed from an old bruise, my lips cracked, my skin pale beneath the fever. But my eyes. They’re still mine. Still sharp. Still there.

I’m alive. Right?

I lower the canteen into the water, watching the current curl around it, clear and cold and indifferent. Then, without warning, the flow seems to slow. Gradually at first, the rapidly, like someone turned off a valve upstream. Like the arena itself is running out of energy. The soft babble becomes a sluggish gurgle, then silence.

I blink. Straighten. My breath catches.

The sky above me dims, just a shade darker, like the clouds are shifting fast. Too fast. But I glance up to see no clouds. No sun either. Just a thick, weighty grey that presses in all directions. Then the wind comes.

It slips between the trees like it doesn’t belong here, sharp and wet, too cold for this time of day. It carries something with it. Not just chill, but sound. Faint.

A whisper.

Low and wet, like breath dragged across opened wounds.

My spine stiffens and I rise, clutching the now half-filled canteen. My balance wavers, and I catch myself on a tree trunk, fingers scraping against bark. I force my breathing to steady.

Someone is watching me.

I spin around fast, too fast, and my vision blurs. Brennan is still there, just as I left her, sitting at the cave mouth, her posture rigid, her hands clenched around her bow. Her eyes meet mine, her jaw tight. She sees me. But her eyes aren’t the ones bothering me.

No. These eyes are lower, closer. Primal, like something is crouching just beyond my periphery, ready to pounce. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I turn slowly, listening. Nothing.

And yet… the forest shifts.

The trees aren’t swaying in the wind anymore. They’re leaning. Tilting towards me. The mist thickens at my feet, swirling like it’s alive, coiling around my ankles. I try to back up, but the ground feels strange, softer, like sponge or wet cloth, like it wants to pull me in.

I grip the canteen tighter, but the cold metal burns in my hands now. Wrong. Everything is wrong.

I try to call out to Brennan, but my voice catches, my throat suddenly dry. My body locks. Fight or flight. And I’m not sure which one I’ll choose. Because something, or someone, is very near.

And they are not behaving like a human. They are not moving like anything I’ve ever known. They are waiting.

It is as my eyes are locked with Brennan’s that a low growl cuts through the mist. Not like the whisper from before. This is guttural, animal. Wet with hunger. A sound pulled from the depths of something ancient and wrong.

I freeze, blood turning to ice. The mist curls around my ankles like fingers, and for one impossible second, I swear the forest holds its breath with me.

Then, it exhales.

Something slams into me from the side, pure weight and velocity. I don’t even see it, just a shadow with teeth and rage. My knife is only halfway out before I hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud.

Pain tears through my shoulder as it crashes against the stones beside the bank, a jolt so violent it leaves me breathless. My knife goes flying, vanishing into the undergrowth with a clutter. The canteen bounces once before rolling into the stream and disappearing. I don’t see where. I don’t care where.

Because this thing is on top of me.

A wolf. No. Bigger. Wrong. It’s shaped like a wolf if someone had built one from memory and hatred. Its fur is slick and clumped with rot. Patches are missing, revealing dark, glistening flesh beneath. Its eyes are deep gold, too intelligent. Too aware. And they lock onto mine with recognition. Not curiosity, not hunger. Judgement.

Its claws rake down my chest in a burst of agony, tearing through my jacket like paper. I scream, high and hoarse, but the sound dies before it leaves the trees, as if the forest itself is choking on it. My back arches, every nerve lighting up with fire. The pain is white-hot, screaming through my ribs, my spine, my fevered skull.

Its breath hits my face, warm, sour, wet, and metallic. Like blood and bile and something worse. Its muzzle is inches from mine, its lips peeled back in a snarl that reveals too many teeth, jagged and gleaming, stained with blood. Spit strings between them and drips onto my neck, hot and sickening.

I punch it. I kick it. I scratch at its face with dirt-crusted nails. It barely flinches. My arms feel heavy and useless. My fever blunts my movements like I’m moving through mud. My heart is galloping, but my limbs are crumbling.

But this thing doesn’t kill me. It plays with me.

With a sudden jerk, it bites into my jacket, not my skin, not yet, and hurls me like a doll. The world flips, green and grey and white, until my back smacks something wet. The stream. Only it’s not a stream.

It’s wide, too wide. A black, glistening mouth that stretches endlessly beneath me. It was never this deep, I know it wasn’t. But the water opens up beneath me like the earth has cracked and filled with ink. I hit the surface hard, back-first, with a crack like splintering glass.

Cold envelops me.

The shock punches the breath from my lungs so fast I don’t even have time to scream. The water is freezing, like it has come straight from ice, slicing through my clothes and skin and bone. It clamps around me, pulling me in. Then the weight follows.

A dark blur crashes into the water above me, and the mutt is there again, in the water, under the surface with me. I don’t know how. It doesn’t matter. Its claws grab at my jacket, my shirt, my body. It’s dragging me down, and fast.

I kick and flail, bubbles spewing from my mouth, but my limbs are useless. The cold is already sapping the strength from my muscles. I try to fight, to twist out of its grasp, but it’s like being pinned by iron.

My lungs convulse, screaming for air. I clamp my mouth shut, trying to force myself to the surface, but I don’t even know which way is up. Everything is dark, muddied. Spinning. And then, a mistake is made.

My lips part in reflex, and water floods in.

It’s cold, brutal. Burning. It crashes down my throat like broken glass. My chest spasms, seizing. My body tries to cough, but there is nowhere for the water to go. My lungs are full. I choke, but it’s silent. My mouth opens again, another scream that never comes.

I’m drowning.

And it hurts. God, it hurts. It’s not peaceful. It’s not quiet. Not like Haymitch promised me it was. It is violent and it is terrifying. My chest is on fire, every muscle spasming in revolt. My vision is flickering, filled with blinding light and red splotched and the black edges of unconsciousness. My brain is screaming. Get out get out get out. But my arms won’t move. My legs won’t respond. The cold has devoured everything. I reach for something, anything, but there’s only water and dark and pressure. So much pressure.

I can’t help but think of Nicole. She died like this. In so much pain and confusion. Her lungs burned like mine do. Her body spasmed just like mine. We will go out in exactly the same way. What a legacy.

Where is Brennan in all of this? Is she enjoying watching this struggle? Has she deemed this a deserved way to die? Or is she above surface, facing off more of these awful creatures. Maybe she’s already dead and I’m soon to follow. I’m not sure I’d hear the canon down here.

Then I see it again, the mutt again, inches from my face. It’s jaw gapes wide, impossibly wide. I scream, and more water slams into my lungs. The pain is unbearable. My thoughts fracture, flashing between everything I am, everything I want, and everything I’ve ever taken for granted.

The mutt bites down. I feel it, its teeth closing around my ankle, slicing through skin and muscles. I feel the pain, white-hot. My body spasms again, but it holds me still.

The world grows smaller, and the light fades/ My body is heavy, hollow. My thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. There is no air. No warmth. No me. Only pressure and pan and silence.

And in my last moments of lucidity, I think, maybe this is what I deserve.

Maybe this is what I deserved all along.

Darkness swallows everything. It’s warm, at first. Peaceful. Like sinking into something soft and endless. The water, the cold, the panic, they all feel like echoes now. Like distant memories. A storm that has passed. My body floats somewhere far away. Detached. Forgotten. Maybe this is what Haymitch meant. This is the painless part. Drowning is painful, dying is not. I think I understand now.

Then, something tugs.

A sharp jerk on my arm- too rough, too sudden. My shoulder erupts in searing pain. Well… what I think should be searing pain, but it’s distant and muffled. I think I’d scream if my throat wasn’t sealed shut with water.

I want to cry out. To move, to fight. Anything. But I’m trapped inside my own skin. Every limb is numb. Every thought flickers and dies before it can take shape. The dark, heavy warmth I was sinking into is gone, ripped away by a howling cold, by air, by pain that slices like glass.

I’m being dragged. I don’t know where, and I don’t know by who.

What I do know is that my body is a dead weight, sagging through grasping hands. My legs flop uselessly. My head lolls, and the world spins. Sound crashes back into me all at once, splashes, breath, frantic shouts. A voice I almost recognise, distorted like it’s bouncing off the inside of a nightmare.

Then, light.

It punches through my eyelids, cruel and blinding. Too white. Too real. I flinch, or try to, but my body barely jerks, like it is not even my own. I can hardly feel it, like it is far too distant to be mine. Like I am hovering somewhere far above it, unable to influence it in the slightest. But the pain stays. I am not nearly lucky enough to be disconnected from that.

I’m not in the water anymore, I know that. I feel mud against my cheek. Grit in my teeth. My mouth tasted like blood and bile and stream water. I want to spit, scream. Breathe.

But I can’t. A sob tries to claw its way out but dies just as fast. The thought was there, the desire to scream for help, but my body stays just as uncooperative.

Hands grip onto my shoulders and roll me onto my back. I am overwhelmed by the cold, the sudden rush of sensation. My lungs pull in – nothing. Not air, just fire. I should be convulsing, gagging, coughing, fighting for my life. But I can’t. My ribs stab inwards like they’re collapsing. Maybe they have.

Then? Lips. On mine. Hot, desperate, and human.

A breath is pushed into me, hard and urgent, filling my chest with molten. I spasm and cough uselessly. Then hands begin pounding at my chest with a brutal rhythm. Each compression is a jolt, sharp and unbearable. It feels like my ribcage is being shattered and rebuilt with every push.

Why is this happening? I’ve seen this action done before. It is used to bring people back from the dead. When they aren’t breathing, and their heart isn’t beating. When they are otherwise gone. But I’m not dead. Am I? I’m still here, still thinking and feeling and knowing.

Again, a mouth meets mine. Another breath, too much, too fast. My lungs seize like they’re rejecting life itself. Then my ears pop like they’ve turned on for the first time.

“Come on Kestrel… dammit… please… come on…”

That voice. Brennan.

Her panic is the only thing that cuts through the fog. She sounds broken, like she’s already mourning me. Or perhaps mourning the chance to kill me herself.

More pressure; more pain. My body jerks like a puppet with tangled strings. I’m drowning all over again, but this time in light, in noise, in pain. My head whips to the side and I am forcefully pushed over off my back.

I cough. Once, then again. Water explodes from my lungs in a violent rush, soaking the dirt. I gasp, and air floods in, sharp and stinging. I heave, retch, choke, vomit. Every breath is a war. Every inhale tears at something raw inside me. But I can breathe.

I can breathe.

Tears sting my eyes, or maybe it’s just more water, I can’t tell. The world is spinning, and everything hurts. My ribs, my throat, my chest, my heart. It is all burning like it’s been set ablaze.

I blink, and the shape hovering by my side pulls into focus through the blur. A face, pale, streaked with mud, eyes wide with terror and relief. Her hands are still on me, still trembling like she’s not sure if I’m alive.

That makes two of us.

I try to speak, but it just causes more spasming in my lungs, more burning in my chest. But I think she understands anyway. The look she gives me… it breaks something in me.

It’s like she’s seeing a ghost. Like she just dragged me out of the grave with her bare hands. Her lip is split, her hair dripping with the same water that was previously in my lungs. Her breathing is unsteady. She looks terrified and furious all at the same time. I want to speak again, to tell her I’m okay, but I’m not. I don’t even know if I’ve made it back all the way.

All I know is this: she brought me back. She saved me, again. And I don’t know whether to thank her or apologise.

The world is slow to return. It doesn’t crash back in all at once, it leaks in through the cracks. Sound comes first, distant, muffled, like I’m under the water again. The rush of wind in the trees, a voice, shaky and breathless. A whimper. Mine?

Then, sensation. The bite of cold air against my soaked clothes. The sting of grit on my lips. The throb of pain behind my eyes, in my ribs, deep in my bones. Every second stretches long and slow and cruel, like time itself is reluctant to start again. Each breath carves through my chest like a blade, but the pain is proof. I’m here. I’m alive.

I try to sit up, but the world seems to slant, and the bile rises before I can stop it. My body arches, spasming from the agony that lances through my veins. I collapse back into the dirt, gasping.

Immediately, hands are on me, strong, firm, and familiar.

“Easy… Easy, don’t move, Kestrel. Not yet.”

Brennan’s voice comes again, close and fragile, her hands hovering over me as if she’s afraid I’ll shatter under them.

“You’re okay…” She continues in a hushed whisper. “You’re safe…”

But I’m not, and I think we both know that. The second I can form words again; they rush out of me as urgently as the water from my lungs.

“You… Are you okay?” My voice is little more than a rasp, raw and broken. I try to force myself upright again, but my limbs are leaden, soaked and useless. “The mutt – did it get you? Did it-“

Brennan blinks, her mouth falling open slightly.

“What?” She asks, barely audible.

“The mutt.” I repeat, voice rising with urgency, with fear. “The wolf… It came out of nowhere, it attacked me, it dragged me into the water-“My whole body is trembling violently, my hands clawing at the dirt as if I can still feel it pulling me down. “I thought you were- I thought…”

Her face has gone sickly pale, and she doesn’t speak for a long moment. She just looks at me like I’m something fragile, or dangerous. Or both.

“Kestrel.” She says softly. “There was no mutt.”

I freeze, and my brain stutters like it has skipped a beat.

“What?”

“You-“ Her throat bobs as she swallows. “You walked over to the stream. You were moving weird, slow, like you weren’t really there. I kept watching you, I swear I did. I thought maybe you were just dizzy from the fever or something, I don’t know… but then you… you stepped wrong… you just… fell in.” Her hands curl into fists in her lap.

“No.” My voice breaks on the word. “No, it grabbed me. It scratched me-“

My hands move to the scratches on my chest. But find nothing. My jacket and shirt are perfectly intact. No rips, no claw marks, not even a scratch.

“It was real” I cry, “I felt it slam me into the ground. Its claws, it… I felt them tear into me… I was bleeding! I-“

“There was no blood.” She says quickly. “Not fresh, anyway. Just your old wounds, and some scrapes from the fall. I swear to you…”

She shifts; her face haunted.

“I ran the second I saw you fall in. I couldn’t see you under the water, it was like you’d just vanished. You didn’t come back up… I jumped in and you… your ankle was caught in a weed or something. You weren’t breathing when I pulled you out… You had no pulse-“ Her voice cracks. “I thought I was too late.”

I look at her. Mud is smeared across her cheeks, clumped in her lashes. Her knuckles are raw. She’s soaking wet and shaking. Shaking because of me. Because of something I thought I saw. Something that wasn’t there.

I stare past her now, at the trees, the mist, the surface of the pond that I hadn’t even acknowledged before I fell in. It’s glassy and undisturbed, as if it had never tried to kill me. As if I didn’t almost die inside it.

It doesn’t make any sense. I remember everything, the snarl, the heat of its breath, the claws on my chest, the tugging at my ankles. I remember the change of the sky and the wind and the feeling of being watched. How can something so vivid be false? How can something that hurt so much not be real?

I can’t breathe, not from the water this time, but from the horror. My own mind turned on me. My own body tried to kill me.

“I saw it,” I whisper. “I swear I saw it.”

Brennan reaches out, brushing some wet hair from my face. Her hand lingers, gentle, trembling.

“I believe you thought you did,” She says, voice soft, aching. “But I was watching the whole time. There was nothing there, Kestrel. Just you.”

Her words splinter something in me. I close my eyes, and the cold seeps in deeper now. Not from the pond, not from the wind. From inside me. From a place no warmth can reach.

My mind lied to me, and I believed it. I don’t know what’s worse, that it happened at all, or that it could happen again. The next time, there might not be anyone around to save me.

I feel the heat rise behind my eyes, but I grit my teeth, biting it down. I don’t want to cry, not now, not in front of her. Not when I already look like I’m breaking apart at the seams. But I am breaking. And the tears come anyway. Silent, relentless.

I don’t know whether I’m mourning what almost happened… Or what this means about me. About the girl I’ve become in here. Brennan seems to sense this, and she wraps her arms around me, like I’m something delicate. I tell myself that she’s just trying to preserve my warmth. Nothing else. Still, I let her.

The silence between us is thick, too full, too raw. Her breathing is uneven against my shoulder, and I don’t know who’s clinging to whom anymore.

We’re supposed to hate each other. That’s the way this works. Tributes don’t hold each other like this. They don’t cradle the bodies of their rivals in shaking arms, whispering them back to life. They don’t save each other from drowning, not unless it’s for strategy Not unless it ends with a knife in the back.

But this doesn’t feel like strategy. She’s made it clear that she wants to kill me, but this doesn’t feel cruel. It isn’t clean and calculated. This isn’t anything I can name.

I feel the beat of her heart against mine, the weight of her hand still over my ribs. She could feel the moment they stopped moving, could measure the seconds I was dead in her arms.

And yet, here she is. Still holding me like I might vanish again.

I shift slightly, and she pulls back, just enough to look at me. Her face is pale, her expression unreadable. Wrecked. She’s seen too much of me now, the worst parts, the broken parts.

We lock eyes, and something flickers between us, something scared and soft and complicated. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes. She says nothing. Me neither. Because I don’t know what to say to a girl who I might have to kill. Who is dead set on killing me. But who brought me back from the dead. Instead, I drop my gaze to her hands, still stained with dirt and blood. Not mine. Hers.

“You jumped in after me,” I say, my voice hoarse. “You didn’t hesitate.”

She exhales through her nose. “Yeah well. You keep making a habit of doing stupid things, and I’m making a habit of regretting getting involved.”

A crooked, almost-smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. It falters just as quickly as it came. I should laugh. I should say something biting back, something that resets the lines between us. But I can’t. I’m too tired. Too hollow. Too aware of the way the trees seem to lean in too close now, the way the mist breathes just a little too loud.

I look past her shoulder and freeze, because it’s standing there. The mutt, just at the edge of the treeline, half-veiled by the fog. Its fur is slick and black, eyes glinting, watching. Waiting. Exactly how I remember it.

I blink, and it’s gone. Just trees and silence take its place. My heart stutters, my breath catches in my throat, sharp and stinging. I press my hands against the ground to steady myself, pretending I didn’t just see something that wasn’t there. Again.

But Brennan sees my reaction. Her brows draw together, her voice cautious.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” I lie.

She watches me too long for comfort. I wonder if she can see it, whatever is happening inside me. The hairline fractures that are turning into deep cracks. I’m starting to wonder just how much of this instability is being caused by the medicine she gave me. I wonder if she’s afraid of me now. If I should be.

“Your fever’s not breaking.” She says finally. “You’re still burning up.”

Maybe. Or maybe this is just how I am now. I shift away from her, just enough to put space between us. Not much, but enough to breathe. We sit in silence again, surrounded by wet leaves and rising mist, the pond behind us like a mouth that almost swallowed me whole.

“I don’t get you.” She says quietly after a long pause. I glance over. She’s looking at her knees, arms wrapped around herself now.

“You’re brave, but reckless. You’re weirdly kind. And sometimes you look at me like I’m the last person on Earth you’d trust, and then you nearly die. Twice. And you wake up worried that I’m the one who got hurt.” Her laugh is dry and bitter. “It’s like you don’t know what side you’re on anymore.”

“I don’t.” I whisper. The words escape before I can stop them. She looks at me, and this time her expression softens.

“Me neither.” She says.

And that… that’s the most terrifying part. Because for all the ways I should hate her, for all the rules we’ve broken just by caring, I don’t want to let go of this moment. I don’t want to pull away. But I do.

Because the Games are still going, because this closeness can’t mean anything. Because if she’s not the one who kills me, someone else will. And I’m not sure which would hurt more. I glance at the trees again, but there is no sign of the mutt. Just shadows, but they’re not empty anymore.

Something in me has shifted. Split. The hallucination felt too real, and now I don’t think I know where the line is. Between reality and fear. Between Brennan being ally or enemy. Between surviving and unravelling.

The games didn’t just take Peeta, or Rue, or anyone else that has died so far. They haven’t just taken my sleep and my safety.

They’re taking me too, bit by bit, and I don’t know how much of me is left.

BOOM

The sound splits the air. It rolls through the trees like thunder, no, louder than thunder. Heavier. Like the sky itself has broken open.

I flinch so hard it jars my chest, sending a spike of pain through my lungs. My breath stutters. My body reacts before my brain catches up, and I curl in on myself, hands clutching at damp fabric, at earth, at anything to hold me here.

A canon.

Somebody is dead.

Another name, another face, another life erase with that same merciless boom. I don’t know who it was, but I’m sure I’ll see it in the sky tonight. Maybe I won’t. Maybe the fog will swallow the face like it will the body.

My heart is racing. Fast. Wrong. It feels like it might take off and leave the rest of me behind. Brennan turns her head upwards towards the sound, lips pressed into a hard line. Her fingers silently move to my wrist, pressing against them. She is silently checking my pulse, I realise. Despite my flinch, and my heavy breathing, she is checking that it wasn’t me.

It could have been me. It should have been me.

I taste the lake again, the mud and bile and blood. Feel the water in my lungs, the pressure on my chest, the moment the world stopped.

My eyes sting again. What if it wasn’t real? What if I imagined all of it, right up to the edge of death?

But I know that I didn’t imagine Brennan’s reaction, her calling my name like it meant something.

“Do you think that was…” I start, but the names die in my throat. I’m not sure who I thought it could have been. I don’t even know what districts are left anymore.

Brennan just shakes her head. “Does it matter?”

It should. It should matter. Every death should mean something. But the truth is, I don’t even know how many of us are left. Eight? Seven? How many ghosts am I carrying now?

I close my eyes and Rue’s face floats behind them. Still. Gentle. Forgiving. Then the boy from 9 takes over. I didn’t even know his name. Then Peeta. I squeeze my eyes tighter until sparks bloom behind my lids.

“Stop it…” I whisper to myself. “They aren’t here.”

But my body doesn’t listen. It remembers too much. The screams, the warmth of freshly spilled blood. The way they all looked at me.

Another dead tribute. Another story cut short, another name I may never know. I try to picture their face, the one who just died. I circle through the tributes who I think are still alive. But all I see is my own, eyes wide, lips blue. Floating.

No mutt, no claws, just me. Falling. Failing.

“Kestrel?” Brennan’s voice is cautious now, like she’s afraid I’m about to break. Maybe I am. “You okay?”

I press a hand to my chest and count the beats, trying to breathe.

The canon echoes in my head, over and over and over. I don’t say anything. Because the truth is, I don’t know how to mourn someone when I’m not entirely sure I’m still alive either.

Notes:

Sorry gang, my full time job has been full time jobbing. I also went to Disneyland Paris for my 21st birthday so I've been so so busy. Slightly longer than normal chapter just to make up for it!

Chapter 27: The Turmoil

The fog moves like it’s alive, slithering low across the moss, curling with purpose, like it’s hunting. It clings to the ground and coils up the trunks of trees, crawling along branches like vines with cold, unseen fingers. It fills every hollow, every ditch, every breath. I hate it. I hate how it swallows the world and yet makes me feel exposed, like there are eyes out there, buried in the mist, tracking me with the patience of a predator.

Everything is wet. The air, my clothes, the earth beneath me. Dampness leeches through the sleeves of my jacket and soaks into my skin until even my bones feel waterlogged. My breath comes out in ragged bursts, each one a cloud that vanishes the second I try to focus on it, as if the forest itself is refusing to let me see clearly. No stars, no wind, just a silence that crushes the air in my lungs and wraps itself around my ribs like a vice.

And Brennan… Brennan has been gone too long.

She said she was going to check the stream, maybe the lake. Said she’d look for roots or watercress or anything that wouldn’t taste like ash or acid. She said I should rest. That I was burning up again. She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead, so cool and sure, and told me I needed to sleep. But how can I sleep with this inferno inside me?

It’s not just fever. It’s wildfire. Raw and consuming. A blaze behind my eyes that turns the edges of the world to smoke. My head pulses with the beat of something too loud and too close. Shadows bend and bleed into each other, dancing just beyond the reach of my vision, never still, never clear. And underneath it all, like a splinter under skin, is the certainty that something is watching. That I’m not alone.

I rub my eyes hard, trying to smear away the ghosts, but they cling tighter the more I try to wipe them clean.

There’s a whisper crawling beneath my skin. It’s been there for days, I think. I told myself it was the salve burning, the medicine Brennan gave me distorting the world as she said it would, but what if it isn’t? What if the hallucinations and the fever aren’t side effects anymore? What if they’re just… me now?

“Brennan?” I call, barely louder than the stream lapping not far in front of me. She had suggested I dip my toes in to try and cool myself down, but the thought made me nauseous, the risk of drowning again far too real. Still, it’s the only thing that feels real right now.

I receive no answer.

I spin, slowly, every muscle braced. My fingers curl instinctively around the knife at my hip, though I don’t remember grabbing it. The forest is too close, the trees leaning it, thick with threat. And the fog, damn the fog, it makes everything feel like a trap.

A twig snaps, sharp and sudden behind me, or to my left? I can’t tell.

“Brennan?” My voice is a whisper now, pleading. Then another sound, a gasp. Wet and sharp, and cut off. Followed by a struggle, not even a scream. Just the awful sound of someone trying not to die.

I don’t think. I run.

Branches tear at me, thorns rake my skin. Roots catch at my ankles, and I stumble, but I don’t care. I shove myself forward, like momentum is all I have. The fog parts for a second, just long enough.

She’s on the ground. Brennan. She’s twisting, kicking, one arm raised to block, but there’s something looming over her. A figure, warped in the mist, shifting, monstrous. My breath catches, my thoughts fracture.

Mutt.

It has to be. There’s fur, matted and black, crawling up its arms. There’s a glint of a blade, moving too fast, too wrong. My vision goes red.

The mutt’s limbs twist in a struggle, a frantic dance where if I focus on one, another slips away into the shadows. It’s impossible, none of it should be real. But Brennan is real, and she’s terrified. The bow she dropped lies just out of reach.

 My skin prickles. My mind screams. Mutt. A mutt lunging for her while she’s unarmed. The creature snarls, teeth too long, eyes too wild, yet the form twists and shifts. Human and not, too many limbs, too many faces.

A scream tears free from my throat. Mine. And I throw myself at the beast, knife first, heart pounding with pure, raw adrenaline. My blade slices across its arm, and it snarls, unnatural, broken, painful, but there’s something hauntingly human beneath the growl. It doesn’t matter. Brennan rolls away with a cry, clutching her shoulder. Blood splatters the mossy floor – Hers? The mutt’s? I don’t stop to think.

The figure twists, trying to flee, but I’m faster. Or maybe I’m just more desperate. Red blots the edges of my vision. I strike again. We fall hard to the ground, tangled and grim. The thing thrashes beneath me, but I hold on tight, knife plunging deeper into flesh, bone, then flesh again. It chokes, something ragged, strangled, and then stillness.

 “Kestrel?” I spin around, heart leaping in my throat. Brennan. She’s sitting up now, eyes wide and shining, one hand pressed to her bleeding shoulder. But her gaze isn’t fear. Not even close. It’s awe. She looks at me like I did something impossible. Something brave and wild.

 “I… I didn’t see him until it was too late-“ She breathes, voice cracking. “He came out of nowhere, he must have been tracking us or something- I tried to fight him off but-“ Her words falter. She looks down at her shaking hands. “You saved me.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My heart still pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest. My hands shake, soaked with still-warm blood.

And then I look down. There is no mutt. No snarling beast. Just a boy. Pale and thin, probably starved like the rest of us. His jacket bears the patch of District 3, torn and faded. No claws, no wild eyes. Just a slack hand holding a dagger, and eyes closed forever. Because of me.

Because I thought I saw fur and teeth, and not something human.

“You didn’t even hesitate.” She whispers, “You ran at him like you didn’t care what happened to you.”

I want to say I didn’t, that it wasn’t courage. I want to scream that it was madness, that I didn’t save her, I lost control. I thought I saw the beast again, and I let it steer the blade. But I can’t say that, because if I do, she’ll stop looking at me like I’m something good. Something worth saving. So, I say the only thing I can:

“You’re the only real think I’ve got left in here. I’d like to keep that.”

We go back to the stream in silence.

She lowers herself carefully onto the moss, jaw tight, breathing shallow. Her shirt clings to her, soaked through with blood. Still, she doesn’t say a word. Just peels the fabric back from her shoulder, flinching as it tears from the wound. The skin beneath is raw and angry. I sit there, useless, my hands twitching in my lap. I want to help—but I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll do it wrong. Afraid of what these hands have just done.

Brennan doesn’t flinch. She dips a torn strip of fabric into the stream, then begins to clean the wound. Her lip trembles at the sting, but she doesn’t make a sound. Her movements are steady, sure. Her fingers glisten with blood, but they never slip. She binds the fabric tight around her arm with the kind of practiced ease that makes it look like she’s done this before.

Then she turns to me.

“Let me see your head,” she says softly, but there’s no room for argument.

I hesitate. My body feels strange—disconnected, like it's just a shell I happen to be sitting in. But slowly, I lean forward. She reaches up and peels the bloodied bandage away, exposing the torn skin beneath. Cool air licks across it, and her hands move with a gentleness that feels foreign. Not because I doubt her, but because I don’t know how to accept it. Her fingers find mine next. She sees the cuts there—small, but deep—and wraps them again, slow and careful.

Her touch is light. Deliberate. An unspoken vow: I’m still here. I still choose you.

She shifts behind me, brushing dried blood from my scalp with water. I barely feel it.

The forest begins to drift.

Colour drains from the edges of my vision. Sound warps—the stream becomes a distant murmur, the trees nothing but blurred shapes. I can’t feel my fingers. Then my arms. Then my legs. My body is still here, but I’m not in it anymore. I’m behind glass, screaming without a voice, watching myself from some unreachable place.

I blink. The world smears. Brennan’s hands feel like they’re a mile away.

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. Panic claws up from inside me—but it’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else entirely. I try to speak, but the words stay stuck in my throat, heavy and thick and useless.

The fog isn’t just around me now.
It’s inside.

Then—her voice. Low, urgent.

“Kestrel.”

I barely hear it, but my eyes find hers.

She’s crouched in front of me, scanning my face, reading every flinch. She’s scared—not of me, but of what I’m slipping into. Of how close I am to the edge. Then her hand touches my face. It’s cold. Damp from the stream. Real.

“Focus on me,” she whispers, and somehow… somehow, I do.

That one touch roots me again, anchoring me to this moment. To her.

I still don’t respond—I don’t think I know how. My fingers twitch, like they’re trying to reach for something that isn’t there.

“You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me... just Brennan.”

Her eyes search mine, worry carved into the lines of her brow. Then she cups my cheeks in both hands.

“Feel that? That’s me. My hands are cold, yeah? That’s the stream water. I’m here.”

“I…” My mouth works, trying to form the thought before it slips away. “I didn’t know—” The words shake as they leave me. “I thought-”

“I know,” she says, nodding slowly. Her voice is calm. Soothing. “You thought I was in danger.”

“No,” I breathe. “It wasn’t bravery. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t even there… I was somewhere else. I was—wrong.”

I blink again, desperate to clear the fog, but it clings to me like smoke in my lungs. My thoughts are scrambled, directionless.

“I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”

Silence.

I brace for her to laugh. For her to roll her eyes. To call me crazy and leave.

But instead, she sits beside me, pressing her shoulder gently against mine.

“I’m real,” she says. “You’re real. That stream? It’s real too. Cold as hell. You wanna check?”

A flicker of panic jolts in my chest. I shake my head quickly, trying to banish it. To change the subject.

Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out something small—black, edged in gold. A feather.

“I found this while I was gone,” she says, holding it up. “It reminded me of you.”

I turn to look at her. Her expression is soft. A quiet smile touches her lips.

“That whole… symbolic motif of yours used to piss me off,” she says. “The canary thing? It felt like you were trying too hard. Like you wanted to be something you’d never live up to.”

She places the feather in my hand. My fingers close around it instinctively.

“But now…” she continues, “I’m not so sure.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she shakes her head gently.

“Miners don’t survive because they’re brave. Or strong. Or skilled. They survive because a tiny bird warns them first. A bird that sings until the air turns sour.”

She curls my fingers around the feather, her hand resting lightly on mine.

“You’re my canary, Kestrel. Whether you believe it or not. You’ve kept me alive—one warning at a time.”

I stare at the feather. It feels weightless. And yet, it grounds me more than anything else has in days.

“I’m hardly singing,” I murmur.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “You’re still breathing. And that’s plenty loud enough for me.”

I fall quiet, eyes fixed on the gold-tipped feather in my palm.

A long moment passes. The stream hums softly beside us, the trees sway gently overhead.

Then, barely a whisper—

“Will you remember what he looked like? If I forget?”

Her answer is immediate. Steady.

“Yeah,” she says. “I promise.”

Time crawls forward, dragging me with it. I can’t sit still, not with the air this heavy, not with my thoughts this loud. My hands need to move. I need to be useful, don’t I?

The sky’s bleeding red now, like it’s dying slowly above the treetops. The light slants low, syrupy and golden, and I can feel the ache starting to bloom behind my eyes and in the hollow of my knees. I shove it aside. There’s still too much to do, too much I’m trying not to feel.

I kneel beside our makeshift firepit, fingers trembling as I strike flint against stone. Brennan found the flint, said it would help, and maybe it does, but the wood’s wet from the rain that poured all afternoon. Sparks flare and die in the moss like fireflies drowning in a flood. My palms are raw, skin peeled open and smeared with soot and blood, but I press on. Harder.

I have to get this fire lit. We can’t boil the water without it. If we can’t boil the water, she could get infected. If she gets infected… she could die.

So, I strike again. And again.

Brennan’s only a few paces away, legs folded underneath her, shirt stiff and dark with dried blood. I don’t look at her, but I can feel her watching, eyes hot and hollow, the way they always seem to be. She hasn’t spoken in hours. Not since she tried to make me stop, to rest. I couldn’t, so she stopped trying.

She’s sharpening her arrows with a flat stone, slow, rhythmic. Her fingers trace each barb like she’s memorising them. I can’t tell if it comforts her, or if it’s a warning. Maybe both.

I’m too close to her. I know that. She still has every reason to kill me, and maybe she still wants to. And yet, I’m clay in her hands. It makes me sick how fast I’ve become soft. Weak. I promised I wouldn’t be.

I promised Cinna. Haymitch. Effie. Peeta.

What happened?

I strike the flint again, harder this time. My hand slips, and the edge bites my thumb. Blood wells up instantly. Good, maybe it means I’m still here.

My mind runs laps behind my eyes, retracing every misstep. Maybe it started when I threw away the golden bangle Haymitch gave me. That was the moment, right? But I wouldn’t have thrown it if he’d just sent me some water. He knew I was dehydrated. He had to know.

But maybe I should have been grateful. Should have waited, shouldn’t have snapped.

So really, it is my fault.

And round and round it goes. Every path, every thread, every sharp little thought leads back to me. It always does.

And maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.

The fire finally catches. It stutters at first- just a sputter of flame clinging to damp bark, but then it grows, slow and greedy, curling into itself with a faint crackle. Smoke bleeds upwards, ribboning into the canopy. I don’t move. I just watch it, half convinced it’s a hallucination.

But it’s real.vThe fire is real.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It escapes in a shudder. My arms drop to my sides, suddenly too heavy to lift. My scraped knuckles pulse with each heartbeat, raw and bloodied, but the pain feels distant now. Somewhere outside of me.

Brennan shifts. I don’t look at her, but I hear her movement—the soft crunch of leaves, the creak in her knees. She approaches quietly, a pot of water cradled against her chest. She had collected it at some point, though I can’t exactly recall when. I can smell the stale moss in it even before she kneels beside me.

“You did it,” she murmurs.

I don't answer. I can’t. My throat’s tight. I want to cry from exhaustion, but I won’t give her that. I won't give myself that.

Brennan leans forward, placing the pot on a flat stone near the fire. The water hisses when it touches the heat. She doesn’t speak for a while, just watches the pot like it might boil faster under pressure.

“You should drink something,” she says eventually.

“I’m fine.”

Her voice is steady, but lower. “No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m—”

She cuts me off, gently but firmly, by pressing the canteen into my hand.

“Stop fighting me,” she says, eyes hard now. “Just this once.”

The plastic is cool against my skin. I stare at it. I want to hurl it into the trees, to spit out every piece of vulnerability she’s trying to force back into me. But my hands are too weak. My legs are numb. And my lips are cracked like dry riverbeds. So, I unscrew the cap. Slowly. Mechanically.

The first sip is shallow. Barely a mouthful.

And then—My body remembers. The water hits the back of my throat and something snaps inside me. The memory crashes in like a wave—
Cold water choking my nose. Fingers clawing for the surface. Weight dragging me down. The mutt’s shadow above me. The taste of blood in the river.

I jerk back, coughing violently. The canteen slips from my hand and splashes into the moss. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning again.

“Kestrel—!”

I scramble backward, arms flailing behind me, heels digging into the dirt as I try to get away from it—from her. My vision tunnels. My chest is locked up, lungs spasming, the forest spinning in and out of focus.

Brennan’s voice pierces through the panic, firm and low but not shouting.

“Hey—hey. You’re okay. What’s going on?”

She’s in front of me now, hands raised, not touching me but close. I shrink away, tears burning behind my eyes, gasping like a fish out of water.

“Look at me,” she says, and I do—barely. Her face is steady, even as mine collapses.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly. “You’re here. You’re here with me.”

“I thought-,” I rasp.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t want to drown again.”

“I know,” she repeats, softer now.

And then she does something I didn’t expect. She leans forward and gently places her hand over my heart. Just enough pressure to anchor me. Her palm is warm. Solid.

“Feel that?” she says. “That’s your heart. Still beating.”

I nod, shaking, unable to look away.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she whispers. “I’m trying to keep you alive. That’s all.”

I close my eyes. The panic is starting to slip away, chased by her steadiness, her voice. I want to fall into it—into her. But the guilt rises too. Thick and cold.

“I don’t deserve that,” I breathe.

“Too bad,” Brennan says. “You’ve got me anyway.”

I exhale shakily, and when I open my eyes, hers are still there—watching, waiting, choosing me.

“I hate that you’re nice to me,” I whisper. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Her mouth quirks in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Yeah, well. I hate that you never give yourself a break. So, we’re even.”

A long pause stretches between us. I glance down at the spilled canteen beside me, then back to her. Her hand is still on my chest.

“You can try again,” she says. “When you’re ready.”

I nod.

But this time, I don’t say I’m fine.

Notes:

It's literally been so long and I've been so so busy and I miss writing!! So have a shorter chapter while I plan out the next few for you!!

Chapter 28: The Understanding

When I next wake, I don’t know how much time has passed. I don’t even know if it’s actually morning. The air inside the cave is heavy and still, a muted twilight of shadows and dim hues that offer no clarity. My eyes flick open to the sight of stone, mottled grey and green. My first thought isn’t where am I, but when am I?

I wish I could tell myself what day we’re on. I wish I had some scrap of certainty, some tether to a number or a rhythm, but it’s gone. Time has liquified, slipping between my fingers like the streamwater I once cupped in my palms. It’s all blurred now, days bleeding into one another, warped and distorted at the edges like the ripple in a lake. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this hell. A week? Less? More?

Maybe if I’d made more effort to keep track, scratched days into rock, counted meals, noted the moons, I’d feel more anchored. Maybe if I’d been less consumed by fear, grief, desperation, I’d have kept a clearer grip on the calendar of my own unravelling.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m lost. Not in the woods or in the arena, though that too to some degree, but in myself. Lost in the gaps where memory fails, where sequence disappears, where everything is out of order and out of reach.

The Games usually run between a week and two right? That’s what they say on the broadcasts, that’s what I’ve seen from previous years. If I could tell myself that I’ve made it through seven days, I could dare to hope it might be ending soon. But in my bones, it feels like only three, maybe four days at most. My body aches with exhaustion, but the timeline my mind clings to is feeble at best.

I try to rewind.

Losing Peeta, that was day one, of that I’m certain. The first boy I killed… District 9 I think? I can’t remember his face, only the blood on my hands and the way his body crumpled like something hollow. That was night one, or was it night two? The boy from District 4 by the fire… The one Brennan killed with zero hesitation. Was that the same night? Before? After?

Rue. Rue was day three, I’m almost sure of that. But then again… The storm. That had to be day two, because I’d just filled my canteen from the lake, hadn’t I? The sky broke open before I had time to grieve or drink.

The more I try to untangle it, the more the timeline resists me, fogging and fragmenting. My memories feel waterlogged, like pages torn from a book and dropped in a lake. Blurred ink, smudged edges, context gone. I’m trying to find my way through dark, silty depths, and the harder I look, the less I see.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe knowing the date, the duration, was only ever a trick to keep people sane, and I think I’ve slipped past sanity days ago. I’ve stopped measuring myself by reason. I’ve already been eaten up by this place, consumed by its silence and its horror and its constant demand for blood.

So, what does it matter if I’ve lost time?

It doesn’t.

I push myself upright from the cramped corner of the cave where Brennan insisted that I sleep. My back aches from the cold stone, and my limbs feel like they’ve aged decades. She’d made me lie here, pressed into the shadows, beneath the slight overhang, while she took position by the mouth of the cave. I hadn’t argued, I didn’t have the energy. Whether it was to protect me, or keep an eye on me, or both, I don’t know. Part of me suspects she just didn’t trust me not to do something reckless.

She’s gone now. Or at least, she’s not in the cave.

The absence of her body, her warmth and her watchfulness, leaves the space strangely hollow. But I know she won’t be far. She never is. Lately, she’s barely let me out of her sight. I keep telling myself it’s because of the near drowning, because she’s afraid I’ll shatter again like I’ve done so many times before. But something inside me whispers darker things.

She wants to keep me close so she can be the one to end it. I humiliated her, I know I did, so she’s waiting for her turn to reclaim control, to take me out when she’s good and ready. Maybe she’s softening me up, wearing me down with kindness until I forget I’m still a target.

Or maybe I’m just going mad, poisoned by my own paranoia.

Either way, I’ve made a spectacle of myself more than enough. If she wants me broken, I’m already halfway there.

I step carefully out of the cave, ducking beneath the jagged lip of rock, blinking as sunlight slices into my eyes. The forest is awake. Quiet but alive. The filtered gold of morning dapples the trees, and for a moment, I’m stunned by the beauty of it all. It’s sick, how something so brutal can wear such a lovely face.

Then I see her.

She’s by the stream, maybe twenty yards off, her back to the cave. She’s rolled her trousers up to her knees and hung her jacket from a branch. Barefoot, she sits on a smooth boulder by the bank, her toes dipped in the cool water. Her body is loose, unguarded, tilted back slightly to let the sun wash over her skin, a deep brown turned golden by the daylight.

Her hair is unbraided. I’ve never seen it like that before.

Thick, coiled curls fall freely around her shoulders, damp and glistening in places, dark ringlets sticking to her collarbones and back. She must have rinsed it, maybe bathed outright in the stream. The sight of her, not just relaxed but at peace, makes something inside me go still.

She turns her face towards me, and light clings to the droplets on her cheeks and lashes. There’s no fear in her expression. No suspicion, just a softness I don’t understand.

“Good morning!” She calls, her voice low and warm, like the sunlight itself as it pours through the canopy. It takes me much longer than it should to answer. My throat feels dry, my mind too slow to catch up to the moment.

“Good morning…” I say, though it sounds like someone else’s voice coming out of my mouth.

And for just a heartbeat, I forget we’re in a place designed to kill us. I forget the blood, the paranoia, the mud-slicked grief of everything I’ve done. For just a second, it almost feels like waking up somewhere safe.

I make my way down the slope towards her, each step deliberate, the soles of my boots grinding into the soft earth. The stream babbles beside us, deceptively cheerful. I stop just short of its edge, the memory of icy water closing over my head flickering in the back of my mind like a warning. My stomach knots. The rush of it, the tug, the silence below. I still feel it in my lungs.

I don’t go any closer.

Brennan glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes flickering down to the space I’ve left between myself and the stream. She doesn’t say anything about it, not yet. Instead, she pats the flat stone beside her.

“Come sit…” She says simply.

I do. The rock is still warm from the sun, and I let myself sink down slowly, curling my legs beneath me. Close enough to feel the mist where the stream breaks against a cluster of stones, far enough that my boots don’t even get wet.

I glance at her, at the droplets on her shoulders, the steam rising subtly off her skin as the sun dries her and something inside me twists. She looks like someone from another world, a world that’s whole. A world that never taught people how to kill each other.

She turns to me now, her brows furrowing slightly. Then, without asking, she reaches out and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. Her skin is cooler than mine, not cold, just grounded. I flinch before I can stop myself. But I don’t pull away. Her palm rests there a second longer, warm and steady.

“Hm…” She murmurs, pulling her hand back. “Your fever’s breaking, that’s good. You look better, more colour in your face.”

I blink at her, surprised by the way the words soften something in my chest. It’s been far too long since someone said I looked better. Most of the time, I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.

“How do you feel?” She asks, her voice low. There’s no edge to it, no tests, just a genuine question, like she actually wants to know. I stare at the stream a moment longer, watching the water coil around rocks like fingers around a throat.

How do I feel?

“Lighter, I think… in my chest… my hands aren’t shaking so much anymore… I’m not so cold all the time. I think that’s a good sign…”

A small smile crosses her lips, and she traces the water’s surface with her toes.

“Well, I’ll take not freezing to death as a win for the day… Small victories.”

I let out a shaky breath, a humourless little laugh escaping before I can stop it.

“Small victories,” I repeat, the words feeling strange but welcome on my tongue.

Brennan’s gaze flickers, just the barest crack in the armour she wears. She leans back on her hands, eyes tracing the way the sun ripples across the water.

“Yeah,” She says softly, “and some days that’s all you get.”

For a moment, the weight between us feels a little less suffocating. The river’s gentle murmur fills the silence, carrying away the worst of the ache in my chest. A dragonfly skims low over the stream, its wings catching the light like glass. I watch its dance, weightless and oblivious, and for a fleeting second, I envy it. The simplicity of its existence. Just survive, just float. No blood on its tiny hands, no countdowns in the sky.

Brennan shifts beside me, adjusting her seat on the stone. She’s not watching the water anymore, she’s watching me. Not in the wary, guarded way she used to, but like she’s trying to commit this version of me to memory. The one who isn’t trembling, or sobbing, or dragging herself out of fevered nightmares. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear.

“Ten left…” She murmurs, “Including us.”

The number hangs in the air like a warning and a relief. I glance at her.

“That few?”

She nods. “I’ve been keeping track… Counting cannon fires and lining it up with the pictures at night. I’m positive I’ve counted right.”

I try to summon a face for each fallen tribute, try to feel the weight of their loss, but it’s all smudged now. Blurred by time and heat and everything else I’ve buried to stay alive. Eight other tributes feels impossibly small. It means the worst is yet to come, but it also means we’re still here.

“So, what does that mean?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from someone steadier than I am.

“It means the Gamemakers are letting us stew. Waiting for us to wear down, get sloppy. But it also means we’re not in a rush. We’ve got time… not much, but enough to rest. Heal.”

She nudges me lightly with her shoulder, not hard, just a passing pressure.

“You don’t need to push yourself today. We’ve earned a little stillness.”

The word earned feels foreign. Like a language I haven’t spoken in a long time. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them, letting my chin rest atop them.

“I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong.” I admit.

“Well,” Brennan says, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh, “nothing is going wrong right now. You’re warm, you’re breathing. I haven’t had to slap the madness out of you in at least twelve hours.”

I glance at her, startled, then laugh. Actually laugh. It surprises us both. She smiles.

“Welcome back.”

The ache never leaves me completely. But for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t have claws.

We sit there in silence for a while, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled. Just the stream whispering over the rocks, the occasional chirp of something feathered overhead, and the soft rustle of wind through the trees. My heart isn’t hammering, my skin isn’t on fire. And Brennan, she’s still beside me. I glance over.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing right now? If you weren’t here?”

She snorts, but not unkindly. “All the time.”

She shifts, pulling her feet from the stream and curling them beneath her, arms looped loosely around her knees. Her skin glows where the sun catches the water still clinging to her. She looks younger like this. Softer.

“I’d probably be training,” she says eventually, staring off into the distance. “I mean, I was always going to come here eventually. If I didn’t volunteer this year, I would have done next year. It would have been my last chance.”

Right. She’s a career. Through all of this, I had completely forgotten her status. The power she holds over the rest of us. I had let myself believe she was like me, thrown into this scared and unprepared, but she isn’t like me. She chose this.

“So, you’re seventeen?” I ask, slowly putting the pieces together.

“Freshly.” She nods. “I was sixteen when I volunteered on reaping day. My birthday is the 12^th of June; the day they launched us into this place.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Happy birthday to me.” She says dryly, raising one hand in mock celebration.

“You’re young.” I say, then look over her for a moment, still processing. She feels older, worn down. But now, in this light, with her loose curls and her voice small, she looks her age. Just a kid, like me. “I thought careers were usually eighteen.”

“They are… I pulled a few strings to get here.”

I look at her again. “What does that mean?”

She shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal, but the motion is too practiced, too controlled.

“Means I convinced the right people to let me train with the older kids. Enter the arena early.”

“Why?”

She finally turns to meet my gaze, and something flickers in her eyes – something old and aching. For once she isn’t trying to hide what’s behind her eyes, there’s no practiced calm, no dry humour. Just a hint of something raw, tired and wounded.

“Do you know what it feels like,” She says slowly, voice almost breaking, “to always be the youngest? The afterthought? The extra?”

I blink, caught off by the bitterness in her tone. I was half expecting some spouted arrogance about being the best, about wanting to show off. I say nothing, letting her continue.

“My brothers…” She laughs under her breath, but there’s no humour in it. “All three of them are Victors. Golden boys. Born with swords in their hands and charm in their teeth. People in our district still talk about their Games like they were legends. My parents walk into a room and get treated like royalty. Not because of anything they did, but because they raised the Capitol’s favourite sons.”

She draws her knees tighter to her chest, arms wrapped around them like armour. Her voice goes quieter. “And then there’s Brennan-the-bonus. The girl who grew up in a house she didn’t earn, wearing clothes bought with blood she never shed. No one ever said it out loud, but I saw it every day in their eyes. Their silence.”

I stay quiet. I can feel it, the weight of that silence. The kind that fills a home and leaves no room for breath.

“My parents didn’t want me to volunteer.” She goes on. “Said our family had given enough, that I should just be grateful. Stay safe. Let the glory die with my brothers.”

She presses her lips together, hard, and then finally exhales. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t be the one that got left behind, who lived in their shadow for the rest of my life. I thought… if I went in early, if I fought my way out like they did, maybe they’d finally see me. Maybe I’d matter.”

The last words hang between us like smoke, fragile and burning at the edges.

“You do matter” I say softly, before I can stop myself. She doesn’t answer right away, just stares down at her hands, at the half-healed blisters on her knuckles, the scars on her wrists, marks from training, from survival, from years of trying to be enough.

“I don’t want to be a legend,” She says eventually. “I just want to stop being invisible.”

She doesn’t look at me, not right away. Her eyes stay fixed on the ground, on some point far away I can’t seem to see. Maybe it’s her past, maybe it’s whatever future she imagined before the games. Whatever it is, it’s got its hands tight around her.

And I don’t want to just sit here in silence, not when she’s handed me something that delicate, that bare. I want her to know she’s not completely alone here. So I speak, even though the words feel like glass in my throat.

“I get it,” I say softly. “Not exactly, but… close enough.”

She turns slightly, just enough to let me know she’s listening.

“My sister was reaped four years ago. I think you know that, based on the comments you made before we came in here.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, a slight frown crossing her lips. Guilt, I think.

“Her games were basically erased from history, despite how hard she fought. They don’t show it anymore because of the flood.”

She lifts her head now, her gaze steady but soft. It’s a look that tells me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She knows the flood, and she knows about my sister, and that’s all I need to keep going.

“And when she died…” My voice wavers, despite how hard I try to keep it steady. “My parents couldn’t take it. My ma stopped eating, my pa started drinking. Like the world had taken everything dear from them. Then one day… they just stopped. One day they were just… gone.”

There’s a pause, only the stream speaking now. It’s the type of silence that tells me she wants me to keep going, so against all my better judgement, I do.

“I was twelve then. And suddenly, overnight, I was invisible. Not just in my house, but in my whole district. People pitied me, sure, dropped bread off at the door, told me how strong I was, how brave I was being, but that stopped in time too. Everyone knew I would never amount to the things Nicole was… the golden child. I was told my entire life to be more like her, and then my parents felt like I wasn’t even worth sticking around for.”

The memories weigh heavy, but sharing it out loud, here in the open, takes some of the power away.

“So yeah,” I finish quietly, meeting her eyes. “I know what it’s like to grow up in someone else’s shadow. To live in the ruins of someone else’s story.”

“I’m sorry-“Brennan whispers, but I shake my head, cutting her off.

“Don’t be. It’s… a complicated thing, I think. As far as I’m concerned, I lost my parents long before they actually passed. Finding them dead was just… something final.”

“You found them?” She gasps, and it makes me realise that I left a key detail from my story, one I would have much rather kept hidden.

Still, I nod. The memory feels like daggers across my entire body, the lump in my throat near suffocating. I clench my fists tightly, trying to keep my breath steady. I’ve told myself for years that I don’t care anymore, yet every time I have to talk about it, my body betrays me.

“They hung themselves.” I say simply, because what else is there to it? What more can I say? I still remember vividly the day I came home, extra tesserae in hand. I had been so excited, since we had been struggling for food since Nicole’s passing. I had always had extra tesserae, claimed it as young as I could, since Nicole didn’t, but ma and pa had stopped working, so money was short. I did what I could, but not many people trusted a twelve-year-old with any serious work.

 It had gone to waste that month, scattered across the kitchen floor where I had dropped it. I think it may still be there. I know I didn’t clean it up.

“Oh Kestrel…” Brennan sighs.

“Don’t pity me.” I snap, much harsher than I intend to, but she doesn’t seem upset by my outburst, just leaning back, watching me. “I am not some… poor helpless orphan. They could have coddled me after my sister’s death, protected me with everything they had, but it wouldn’t have stopped me getting reaped. Their failure made me stronger. It’s why I’m still alive.”

I don’t look at her. I can’t bare to see the look she must be wearing. That mix of shock and pity and sadness that everyone wears. I saw it on Peeta, on Haymitch, on everyone in my District. I refuse to see it on the one ally I have in here now. It is a look that makes me feel weak, and I am anything but weak, despite how this arena has made me feel. I have lost my mind time and time again, and I am still here, trying to claw it back. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

A silence falls between us again, and Brennan begins to trace her toes in the water again, making figures of eight with her right foot.

“For what it’s worth,” She mumbles after a few moments, “I think you’re worth sticking around for.”

I glance up at her, chewing on the inside of my cheek with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t bleed. It’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in far too long, and it leaves me stunned.

“I don’t think you’re invisible.” I reply after a moment in the most genuine tone I think has ever come from my own mouth.

We both tip our faces towards the sky, and I can practically feel the understanding between us. In this moment, we aren’t enemies built to kill each other, we are two girls just trying to prove a point to the world.

I just hope one of us succeeds.

Notes:

I miss writing so muchh I really need to find more time for it

Chapter 29: The Inferno

It can’t be more than an hour after our last conversation when the air shifts. Brennan has just polished off her squirrel skewer, along with the half of mine I couldn’t stomach, when the sky begins to darken. Not in the way it does at dusk, slow and forgiving, but sudden, as if someone has pulled a heavy curtain across the arena.

She stiffens at once, bow already in hand, quiver sliding over her shoulder with a movement so smooth it feels rehearsed. The sight sends a cold ripple down my spine. Brennan never moves without thought. If she’s preparing, it means she expects something.

“Something’s happening.” She breathes so low it almost blends with the hush of the trees. “Grab your bag.”

There is no room for protest in her tone. I lurch to my feet, heart thudding hard enough that I feel it in my throat, and rush to the cave where my meagre supplies are tucked. My fingers fumble against the straps, clumsy in my haste. Every second feels stolen.

That’s when it hits me. A smell.

It rolls in slow, curling into my nostrils before I fully register it, sharp, acrid, unmistakable. My stomach drops as recognition snaps into place.

Burning.

I freeze mid-step, the pack clutched against my chest, and glance back. Brennan’s eyes are already on mine, wide and dark, mirroring the same realisation. She inhales once, quick and shallow, then whirls to scan the tree line. The bowstring creaks as her fingers tighten.

Maybe it’s just a campfire left unattended. A torch abandoned. Some unlucky tribute careless enough to let the smoke give them away. That would be the rational explanation. But nothing about this feels rational.

The smell thickens, saturating the air until it coats my tongue with bitterness. Heat pricks faintly at the back of my neck, carried on a wind that seems to rise from nowhere. And then?

Boom.

The first canon fires.

The sound rips through the silence like a blade, reverberating in my chest, stealing the air from my lungs. One more tribute gone, but from what?

Brennan jolts upright, every muscle taught.

“Get ready to move.” She snaps, already pulling me towards her with a sharp tug of my sleeve. I stumble forward, the cave forgotten, our little camp already feeling like a death trap. Somewhere out there, a fire just devoured someone whole, and I get the feelings the GameMakers have only just begun.

“I thought we had time,” I gasp, stumbling after her, my pack thudding against my spine with each desperate step. My chest is tight, breath ragged as if the smoke has already found me. “You… You said we had time, Brennan-“

Her grip on my wrist is iron.

“I was wrong.”

The words are low, clipped, but the tremor in her voice betrays her. She doesn’t make mistakes, not like this.

We break through the first stretch of trees and that’s when I hear it. The roar. Distant, but swelling, like the growl of something impossibly huge waking from a long sleep. The wind carries the crackle of flames, the snap of branches surrendering.

My lungs seize. It’s coming.

Brennan whirls, scanning the horizon, calculating escape routes I can’t even process. The bow in her hand looks pitiful against the oncoming monster. She curses under her breath, the sound swallowed by the growing roar.

The smoke finds us next. A thin, grey veil that stings my eyes and scratches at my throat, making every inhale an increasing battle. I clutch my pack tighter, as if it could shield me from the fire’s hunger.

Somewhere beyond the treeline, another explosion rocks the ground. Not a canon this time. A fireball? An engineered detonation? The GameMakers aren’t just letting the blaze spread, they’re feeding it, urging it forward, pushing us like livestock.

I stumble again, nearly dragging Brennan down with me.

“We… we can’t outrun this.” I choke, the words scrape raw from my throat.

“Yes, we can.” She snaps, shoving me upright, though her eyes betray doubt. “We have to.”

For the first time since the games begin, I see it. Fear etched across Brennan’s face. And that terrifies me more than the fire ever could.

Branches whip against my arms as we tear through the undergrowth, sharp lashes of pain that I barely register over the heat pressing at our backs. The forest isn’t alive anymore, it’s being devoured, turned into something monstrous, a breathing, snarling wall of flame that seems to chase us with purpose.

The smoke is everywhere now, clawing down my throat, scouring my lungs until every breath feels like swallowing fire. My mouth is dry, cracked, useless. I try to cough, but it only rips at my chest, stealing air I don’t have to spare. The roar behind us growls louder, deafening, a tidal wave of sound swallowing everything. Birdsong, leaves, even thought itself.

“Faster!” Brennan shouts, though her voice is shredded by the smoke, hoarse and fraying at the edges. She yanks my arm with such force I nearly fall, dragging me over snarled roots and tangles of brush. My legs feel like they’re splintering beneath me, my muscles screaming for rest I can’t give them. My pack slams into my back with every stride, so heavy, so useless, but I clutch it tight against me, the only piece of order I have left in a world crumbling into chaos.

A burst of flame explodes to our left, so sudden it feels alive, a beast lashing out. It spills across the ground like liquid light, racing up bark and clawing at leaves, leaving the forest shrieking as it burns. I flinch sideways the heat blistering across my cheek. For a heartbeat I swear my hair has caught, but Brennan shoves me forward before I can check, her palm hot and slick with sweat.

Her bow is clutched in her other hand, useless here, but she refuses to let it go. It’s as much a part of her as her own heartbeat. Her face, usually all sharp focus, is wet with sweat and smeared with ash, her freshly braided hair half unravelled from the panic. She looks to me like a soldier marching into hell.

The smoke thickens, swallowing us whole. It coils around my head, fills my eyes with acid tears until every blink feels like glass. My lungs seize, pulling in less and less oxygen with each ragged inhale. The world narrows down to the faint shimmer of Brennan’s quiver as it bobs in front of me, the single thread tethering me to survival. If I lose sight of that silver glint, I’m gone.

Then…

The ground shudders. A vibration runs up through my soles, sharp and warning, and before I can process it, the crack splits the air. A tree gives way, collapsing with the sound of bones snapping. It crashes between us with a thunderous roar, its trunk ablaze, sparks spraying outwards in a deadly shower. I throw my arms up, skin sizzling from the rain of embers.

“Brennan!” I scream, my voice shredded, ripped from my throat. The inferno devours the sound whole.

I lunge forward, desperate, but the wall of fire has already claimed the space between us. The heat surges at me, searing my skin until instinct forces me back. I squint through the flames, barely able to make out her silhouette, hunched, coughing, hacking against the smoke, her bow still clutched like it matters.

“Keep moving!” She yells, words wracked by coughs, her figure flickering like a mirage in the smoke. “Don’t stop, Kestrel! Run!”

She reaches towards me, just for a second, and then another tree buckles and falls, slamming down with a scream of tearing wood. The earth shakes under my feet. Sparks burst into the air like fireworks, blinding me, scorching the side of my face. I cry out, staggering back, blinking through tears that only make the sting worse.

Her shape is gone.

The fire surges higher, walls of flame hemming me in on every side. It doesn’t just burn, it hunts. It lunges and twists, the wind feeding it, driving it forward until I can almost hear laughter in the crackle, cruel and deliberate. The GameMakers’ hands are everywhere here, sculpting the blaze into a living predator.

I spin, frantic, my chest heaving. My lungs are screaming for air that doesn’t exist. I can’t see her, I can’t hear her. Just fire, smoke, the collapsing wails of the forest as it dies around me. The heat presses from every angle, suffocating, demanding I move before it swallows me whole.

“Brennan!” I scream again, voice raw, but it dies at my throat and receive nothing back.

I turn in circles, searching for the glint of her quiver, the outline of her braid, anything. Anything. But all I see is fire, leaping, writhing, mocking me.

I’m alone.

The moment Brennan vanishes, the panic comes clawing in, savage and immediate. My chest locks tight, lungs spasming as if I’ve already drowned. The sensation is all too familiar. I stumble backwards into the smoke, eyes darting wildly for any glimpse of her, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to tear itself free.

She’s gone. She’s gone, she’s gone-

No.

The word cuts through the hysteria like steel. She told me to run. She told me to move. If I freeze now, if I give in, I’m finished.

I drag in a breath and nearly collapse coughing, my throat scraped raw, vision flashing black at the edges. The smoke presses down on me, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around my head like a noose. For a dizzy, spiralling moment, all I can think is I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t-

Training. The thought spears through the fog. That useless lecture in the Training Centre, the one I didn’t think would come in handy, suddenly matters more than anything in the world. Scraps of instruction float back.

Smoke rises. Stay low. Cover your mouth. Damp cloth if you can.

My body obeys before my mind catches up. I drop to my knees, pressing my chest against the earth. The dirt is scorching through the fabric of my trousers, but the air here, still thin and dirty, is much cooler. It fills my lungs just enough to keep my conscious.

I claw at my backpack, but come up empty. My dwindling supplies hold nothing useful to me here. No spare cloth, no miracle. My fingers immediately seize the collar of my own shirt, and without thinking, I wrench. The fabric tears jaggedly beneath my fists. Again. Again. Until the front of me is in ribbons, my sports top visible beneath the tatters, the skin of my stomach bare and stinging under the heat. I don’t think modesty takes priority over my life anymore.

The sound of the cloth ripping is drowned out by the fire’s roar, but to me it’s thunder. Desperate. Necessary.

I shove a strip against my mouth and nose, but it’s dry, useless. I wrack my brain for ideas and remember a patch of moss near the collapsed tree. It’s a pitiful solution, but the best I have. I crawl, scraping my elbows bloody as I drag myself across the dirt, and slam the cloth down into the damp patch. The fabric darkens, only slightly, but enough.

I press it over my face and inhale. The air is still foul, bitter, acidic, but it doesn’t sear quite as viciously as before. It’s a thread, but a thread is enough to hold onto.

Around me, the world howls. Trees snap and collapse, their branches clawing the ground as flames devour them. The heat is relentless, crushing, so heavy it makes my head swim. My panic surges again, urging me to run blind, to fling myself in any direction just to move.

But that would kill me. I know it.

I bite down hard on my lip, metal flooding my tongue. The pain is sharp, grounding, dragging me back from the edge of surrender. My body trembles with terror, but I force my arms to pull me forward, belly pressed to the earth, inching like prey under a predator’s nose.

“Don’t stop, Kestrel. Run.” Brennan’s voice echoes, sharp, commanding.

But where?

My eyes scour the smoke, stinging and burning, searching for the faintest gap, a pocket of air, a thinning of the inferno where the fire hasn’t yet reached. My breath rasps through the damp cloth, shallow and desperate, but steady enough to keep me alive.

If I lose control, if I let the fear drive me, I’m finished. The fire wants me, the GameMakers want me.

I can’t let them win.

The air presses tighter the lower I get, as though the fire itself is leaning on me, shoving me into the dirt. Every inhale through the damp cloth feels stolen, fragile, a line about to snap. My chest heaves, ragged, lungs clawing for more than the smoke-choked scraps I can give them.

The world has shrunk to inches. The ground beneath me is hot, gritty, digging into my bare skin when my shirt once was. Ash rains from above, powdering my arms, slipping into my hair. The fire isn’t just around me anymore, it’s inside me, in my throat, in my eyes, branding me with every breath.

I crawl, elbows scraping raw, vision tunnelling until all I see is dirt and flame. My body wants to bolt upright, run, but I know if I stand, I’ll drown in the smoke before the fire ever reaches me.

A sound rips through the blaze. A scream. High pitched, ragged, torn from a throat so raw it could only belong to someone who knows death is already on them. Female, for sure.

My blood turns to ice. My head jerks up too fast, and I cough violently, nearly choking on the smoke. Brennan?

“No-“ I rasp into the cloth, but the fire steals the word before I even hear it myself. The scream cuts off in an instant, swallowed whole by the roar of the blaze. And then…

BOOM

The canon fires. The sound splits me open. My vision shatters with it, a rush of spots and black edges dancing in front of my eyes. My whole body lurches forward like I’ve been struck.

“Brennan”! The name tears from me, muffled against the cloth, half sob, half plea. My voice breaks on it, raw, as if the fire has stolen even the strength of my cry.

I receive no answer.

The trees scream as they fall, branches splitting in white-hot sparks. Ash and embers whip through the air like a storm of needles. The walls of flame sway closer, and the smoke funnels tighter, hemming me in until the world shrinks smaller and smaller, like I’m being buried alive.

I can’t see more than a few feet ahead. The smoke coils in every direction, blinding me, choking me, pressing into my skin. It’s too close. Too close. I claw at the earth, dragging myself forward, nails tearing against roots and stone, as if distance alone can hold back the truth of what I just heard.

But the thought lodges like a blade. That scream was hers. And the canon?

I bite down on my lip so hard it splits, blood running warm down my chin, trying to anchor myself against the spiral. I don’t know for sure it was Brennan, I can’t know. The arena wants me to believe it was. They want me broken, alone, easy to finish off.

But the image won’t leave me. Brannan burning, bow clutched in her hand until the end, her voice ragged as she calls my name one last time. The fire surges again, snapping at my heels. I keep crawling, half blind, half dead already, but moving. Because stopping means believing.

And if I believe she’s gone, then I’m gone too.

My arms give out, and I collapse hard into the dirt. The impact rattles through me, leaving my ribs aching, my skull swimming. My chest heaves, dragging shallow, broken gasps through the damp cloth, each one burning worse than the last. The smoke presses down like a living thing, heavy and suffocating, a predator crouching on my back. I can feel it filling me, pressing into every crack of me, smothering thought, smothering life.

My vision flickers, black spots, dizzy spirals, and the scream I heard moments ago still rips through me, replaying again and again until I’m sure it’s etched into my bones. And then the canon, that hollow, final note that seems to reverberate inside my chest as though it belongs to me.

It could have been Brennan.

The thought is a knife in my lungs. My body curls into itself, wanting to disappear into the dirt, cling low to the oxygen scraps down here, to crawl until my elbows give out and the fire takes me quietly.

It would be easier.

But something ignites inside me, hotter than the blaze around me, sharper than the smoke tearing through my throat. A voice that doesn’t belong Brennan, or Haymitch. Not to Peeta or Effie or Cinna. But to me. Raw, defiant, unyielding.

You are not dying here. Not like this.

The Capitol is watching. They’re drinking this in, every stagger, every cough, every time I fall into the dirt like an animal brought to heel. They want me pitiful, they want me to crawl, to cry, to choke quietly until my body gives out and the anthem carries me away. They want me small.

I won’t give them that.

A sound rips from my throat, not a sob, not a scream, but something primal, a raw cry that burns my chest even more than the smoke. I slam my palms against the earth, muscles trembling, and shove upwards. My arms quiver, my knees scream, my lungs wrench with every shed of air, but I rise. Inch by inch, shaking, stumbling, but upright all the same.

The world pitches around me. The forest is no longer trees but towers of fire, pillars of orange and white, bending and snarling as though the flames themselves are laughing at me. Smoke churns in black clouds, swirling with sparks that rain down like a mockery of snow. My body is a wreck, hands cut open, skin streaked with blood and ash, my shirt torn to ribbons and clinging damp to my ribs.

But I stand.

For a heartbeat, I almost believe I’ve been reborn in this inferno, some new creature carved from ash and flame, stripped of weakness, unbreakable.

I drag the strip of dampened fabric higher, knotting it tight around the back of my head with fingers that barely obey me. The cloth bites into my raw skin, but it steadies me. It makes every breath feel like defiance.

And then I run.

Not crawling, not stumbling. Running.

The fire lunges, roaring behind me, snapping at my heels like some colossal beast, but I tear through the undergrowth faster than I ever thought my body could endure. My pack weighs me down little by little, but I welcome the weight, It’s proof I’m still here, proof I can still carry what I need to survive.

The smoke whips at my face, searing my eyes until tears spill down and blur the world, but I don’t stop. My lungs are burning coals, agony with every inhale, but I drive forward anyway, narrowing my eyes against the sting until the trees become streaks of fire and shadow.

Every stride is pain, every breath is war, every second is borrowed. But beneath it all is iron.

I will not stop. I will not die here.

Branches lash at me, cutting new lines into my skin, but I rip free and push harder. Roots reach for my boots, trying to drag me down, but I leap them. Embers scatter across the path like a minefield, but I run through them, heat licking at my ankles, and keep going. The fire rages around me, and I rage back with every pounding step.

For the first time since the games began, I feel something close to power. Not because I’m killing, not because I’m winning, but because I’m refusing to lose.

The Capitol will see this. They’ll see the girl who crawled through the dirt and rose against an inferno. They’ll see the bare skin, the ash-streaked arms, the blood glinting under firelight. They’ll see me carved down to my core, raw, burning, unyielding, and they’ll cheer. They’ll call me strong, they’ll call me fireproof, they’ll call me worth their money and their time.

But I don’t run for them.

I run for Brennan. For the memory of her hand yanking me forward, for the flash of her braid through the smoke, for the sound of her voice commanding me to live. I run for the hope that she is out here somewhere, also fighting, also surviving.

I run because I need to believe she is not the scream, not the canon, not ashes on the wind. I run because if she is alive, she’ll be running too.

And if she’s not? Then I’ll carry both of us through this fire.

Notes:

It's been so long since my last chapter I'm so sorry!! Work caught up to me then I went on holiday and I've barely had time to write! This chapter is one I've had planned for ages and really enjoyed writing

Chapter 30: The Parachute

The fire doesn’t chase me forever.

At some point, I don’t know when, the roar fades, and the heat loosens its grip. I stagger out of the choking wall of smoke into a wasteland of ash and silence. The trees here are blackened skeletons, reaching up like charred fingers. The ground crunches under my boots, every step sinking into layers of soot that cling to my legs.

The air is still heavy, acidic, but it no longer sears. It’s almost worse. Too quiet, too still, like the whole world has been smothered.

I stop, chest heaving, the damp fabric over my mouth stiff with ash. My lungs drag at the air greedily, but it’s not enough. My head swims, my arms tremble. The adrenaline that carried me this far begins to bleed out, leaving only the raw edge of exhaustion.

Safe. My mind whispers. This is safer.

But it doesn’t feel safe.

I force myself to move, though my legs threaten to fold with every step. Each stride is a negotiation with numbness and pain: go, don’t stop, don’t let the world tilt you under. My throat is raw, a sandpaper canyon where air fights its way down, and the water in my pack feels heavier than any weapon I’ve ever carried. I drop to my knees like a concession and fumble the bottle free, fingers slick with soot and blood.

The first swallow is heaven and hell. The water, cool, simple, slides over my tongue and finds the scorched places, and for a dizzy, sacred second, my body remembers what it is to be unburned. Then the heat of my throat rebels, and I gag, coughing until my ribs rattle. I choke down another mouthful anyway, because wanting to survive is louder than pain is.

Every drop down my throat makes my mind swim, makes me remember the terror of being held down, of drowning and being unable to surface myself. I want to stop, want to spit out the water on my tongue, make myself vomit up the liquid in my stomach, but I can’t. I’m beyond dehydrated, and I need to push back on the fear that keeps trying to sneak in. That doesn’t make it easy though, and I struggle to swallow.

When the coughing lets up enough for me to think, I set the bottle beside me and look properly at myself for the first time. The sight anchors and terrifies me both. My arms are a map of damage; mottled and red, blistering like tiny white moons rising where embers kissed me. The cuts along my palms are blackened with ash, and when I flex my fingers, a hot, electric pain shoots through my knuckles. The remnants of my shirt hang in ragged tatters, dark with soot and sweat. Smoke clings to my hair in gritty dust that I’m not sure I’ll ever wash out.

I touch a burn with a single fingertip, testing. Heat answers me, angry and bright. It stings, but it doesn’t scream. Not yet. That little assessment steadies me more than I expect. No infection, no tendons torn. I can still move, I can still aim, I can still think.

Something like pride coils in my ribs, sharp and stupid. The Capitol will like the picture of me rising from fire, blood and ash braided into a narrative they’ll devour. I should hate that thought. Instead, a thin, private smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Let them watch. Let them see what I can do.

Practicality comes next. I tear another strip from the ruined shirt with hands that shake but obey. The fabric is dry and rough. I dunk it in the last of my water and press it to the worst burn. Pain explodes- bright, white- so bad I want to cry, but I clamp my jaw until my teeth ache. Pain is information, pain tells you where to bind, where to be careful. The sting floods my vision with stars, then dulls to a hot throb. I tie the strip tight enough to keep the burn subdued, but loose enough to not cut off circulation. Old training comes forward, and I’m forced to think of the first aid training I underwent with Peeta.

I push that thought away.

Sitting back, I breathe through the damp cloth and look up at the ruined trees. The landscape is a graveyard of black spires and ash fields. Silence sits on it like a lid. Nothing moves, not a rustle. Not a bird. It’s the kind of quiet that presses a person inward until the edges of their mind begin to curl.

I force myself to name priorities out loud. Saying things aloud has always steadied me when my head threatens to drift. Water. Shelter. Brennan. The syllables land like stakes. Water and shelter can come together. I can find somewhere safe near to a stream or a lake. A better place than here to clean my wounds and reevaluate. And Brennan? Another necessity and a soft, dangerous hope that I don’t let myself indulge in for too long.

I stand and test my weight. My knees wobble, but they hold. Each motion sends a hot ache through the tied fabric round my upper arm. My throat rasps with every breath, but the world is not tilting. Good. That means my basic circuits still work. I check for all my weapons, half expecting to have lost some knives somewhere along the way, but find all six still attached to my belt. I count them like counting prayers.

A plan forms. Not a grand strategy, but the sort that keeps you alive: find shallow water to rinse off the worst of the ash and refill my canteen, fashion a better dressing if I can find some better materials, pick a sheltered hollow or rock overhang that the fire missed, move only at dusk when smoke hangs low and the GameMaker’s cameras might favour dramatics over practicality. Avoid obvious game trails. Funnels mean ambush. If I can, I’ll move towards higher ground where the wind might clear and where I can see oncoming threats. If I find Brennan, we regroup and move fast. If I don’t, I survive, and I survive for her.

I let those words fall like twigs onto a fireplace. Survive. For her. Saying them aloud stells me in a way silence cannot. It’s not bravado, it’s a contract with whatever of me still thinks in plans.

But under the metronome of practical thought, a quieter, darker thing scratches at the edges. The silence here is too perfect. Once, the quiet would have soothed me. Now it presses like a hand over my mouth. Fleeting things twitch at the corner of my vision, a shape that might be Brennan’s braid caught on a blackened branch, a shadow that resolves into nothing when I turn. Once I start to listen, the ash seems to whisper in the emptied air. Sometimes I hear a faint, familiar voice, Brennan’s maybe, or perhaps Katniss, urging me on, and when I turn, there’s only open air.

I press my nails into the palm of my hand until the sharp sting cuts through the fog of it. The pain is small, honest. It brings me back to the map in my mind. Water, shelter options, compass points. The madness at the edges of my mind hums like a distant bell, present but not yet ringing loud enough to drown out my reasons.

I pack my bottle away, sling my pack onto my back, check my knives once. I move with the deliberateness of someone who knows every second counts and who refuses to make a mistake that will hand them to the Capitol as entertainment. Brave, level-headed, surgical in my small motions. And beneath that calm, a little frayed, like an old rope that still holds, but with threads beginning to tear.

I take one last look at the ash-ruined clearing, breathing cold smoke into the damp cloth over my mouth, and walk towards the nearest hollow where water should collect. Each step is a promise: to Brennan, to myself, to the part of me that refuses to be reduced to a show girl.

If the world wants a spectacle, I’ll give it a spectacle. But I’ll do it on my own terms.

The ash thins the further I walk, until the black powder underfoot gives way to grey soil. The skeletal trees surrender to patchy survivors, their bark split and blackened, scarred but somehow still standing. It feels like stepping out of a nightmare and into its charred aftermath. No longer burning but ruined all the same. My boots crunch through layers of soot that puffs up with every step, and the silence presses down on me so thick it feels like a weight.

Then, faintly, I hear it. The hush, the lap. Water.

My head snaps up, and I stagger forward, lungs raw, dragging me towards the sound like a moth to flame. I push through the half-burnt pines, their branches drooping with soot, and there it is.

A lake. Wide, dark, rippling under the fading light. The far shore is impossibly green, untouched, like the fire dared not cross it. Here, on my side, the water mirrors the dull orange sky, broken only by drifting flecks of ash. A long shelf of stone curls out over the surface, sheltering a narrow strip of bank beneath. A natural hiding place. A refuge carved by time, waiting for me. It feels deliberate, a gift too perfectly placed. And I don’t question it, because I can’t afford to.

I collapse to my knees at the water’s edge. My canteen rattles in my hands, nearly empty. I plunge it into the lake, watching bubbles surge up like it’s sighing with relief, then wrench it free and seal it tight. Instinct claws at me to drink immediately, but memory rises like a demanding voice in my head. Dirty water kills just as fast, if not faster, than dehydration.

So I force myself to move, even though every muscle begs me to stop. My hands shake as I gather the smallest, driest branches the fire left behind. My palms are already red raw, so I can only manage to produce feeble sparks with my two sticks. But the sparks leap, and the sparks are enough. Soon, a discreet flame licks at the pile, no bigger than my two fists. I crouch low, shielding it, back pressed against the stone shelf, watching as orange light shivers across the rim of my canteen set to boil. Smoke curls upward, faint, shy, nothing that would betray me to the sky.

After an agonising wait, the water is ready, and I pour some onto cloth strips and steel myself. The first touch to my arm is like plunging into acid. White hot agony sears through me, blinding, so sharp it wrings a sound from my throat that doesn’t even sound human. I clamp my jaw and force myself to continue, dragging the material over every blister, every cut. The water runs pink, then grey, then finally clean. By the end, my vision swims, my breath comes in shudders, and I want to curl into the dirt. But when I look down, my arms are raw and red, but clean. Still mine.

I bind them again, tighter this time, and for a moment I just sit, watching the fire dance. It’s strange, how something that nearly swallowed me whole can also save me. Here, in this controlled circle, it isn’t a monster. It’s warmth, it’s protection. It’s survival. I almost forget to fear it.

Then, a small chime, carried on the wind.

I jerk my head up as a silver parachute cuts through the dusk, gliding silently until it settles into the dust just beyond the firelight. My heart stutters, a drum too fast for my chest. My hands tremble as I crawl forward, every nerve on edge, and tug the cord loose. The lid snaps open.

The smell hits me first.

Tangy goats cheese, like the type Prim used to make from her goat. I bury deeper. Crumbly tessera crackers, and nestled beneath them, a scatter of small, red berries. The kind that stain your fingers pink, the kind we used to pluck from bushes along the Seam, laughing as the juice ran down our chins.

I freeze, because this isn’t random. This isn’t survival food. This is ours.

This snack was a ritual. Katniss, Gale, me, huddled together on hunting trips, sharing scraps and stories. Food that belonged to us, to District 12. Food that tasted like the best thing in the world to our starving bodies. Like safety. Like the part of me I thought I’d already lost to this place.

My hand hovers over the berries, terrified they’ll vanish if I touch them. When I finally let my fingers brush them, they’re real. Soft, warm from the parachute, staining my skin the way they always did. My eyes sting, my throat tightens and I blink hard, refusing tears. Because for Haymitch to have sent me this, Katniss or Gale must have told him, which means they’re watching. They’re rooting for me. To me, this small gift says: Come home.

And then I see it. Not one portion. Two. Two bundles, neatly wrapped.

The air rushes from my lungs. Haymitch. The man you are.

The realisation crashes through me like a thunderclap. This isn’t just a gift to keep me alive, or a token for the cameras. It’s a message from Haymitch. Brennan is alive, she’s still out there. Go find her.

Something shatters inside me, not in despair, but in defiance. For the first time since the fire, since the smoke, since I thought I heard her scream, something sharp and reckless fills me. Not fear, not pain. Hope.

I press one bundle tight against my chest, the cheese soft a crumbling against my skin, and whisper so lowly the cameras may not hear me.

“We will eat this together.”

The other, I tuck deep into my pack, hidden and protected, saving it for the moment I can place it in Brennan’s hands. Because I will. I have to.

The Capitol will eat this up. The camera will catch every detail: the girl from District 12, blackened and bloody, cradling food from home like it’s sacred. They’ll spin me into a story, a symbol, a survivor worth their money.

But they don’t understand. Because this moment isn’t theirs. It’s mine. Ours.

The smell of the goat’s cheese lingers sharp in the air. I allow myself one berry, breaking it in half with my teeth, and the juice bursts bright, staining my lips the same way it used to stain my fingers when I was younger. The flavour is so vivid it feels like a hand reaching straight through the years, pulling me back into the woods outside District 12.

I can see it- The forest before dawn, the fog still clinging to the underbrush, the quiet that wasn’t silence but safety. Gale crouched low by his snare, grinning as he held up a rabbit we’d caught, the dew on its fur sparkling in the dim light. Katniss beside me, already sorting berries into a pouch with her careful fingers, her face serious but softer when she thought nobody was looking. And me, perched on a flat rock, tearing a cracker in two and passing it out like it was some grand feast.

We never had enough, not really. Goat’s cheese was a rarity, when Prim’s goat had been fed well enough to produce the milk. Crackers meant more tesserae, meant more coal dust on our hands, meant hunger stamped deep into our bones. And yet, those mornings, crouched together with crumbs on our lips and laughter muffled by the trees, it felt like we had everything.

The memory pulls me so hard I almost forget where I am. I almost forget that the world around me is scorched black, that a cannon sounded only hours ago, that the fire still smoulders in my throat. I lean into it, clutching the cheese tighter against my chest, and let myself sink into the ache of remembering.

I remember Katniss laughing once, a rare occurrence, when I stained my whole chin red with berry juice. The sound had startled both Gale and me, because she so barely laughed back then, not like that. It was soft and unguarded, and it made the world feel lighter, even if just for a heartbeat.

I remember Gale pretending to gag when I offered him the last bite of my cracker, rolling his eyes but taking it anyway. He always pretended like he was too good for my leftovers, but he always ate it like it mattered. Like every piece we shared meant more than the food itself.

And I remember the way my stomach never felt full, but my chest did. Because they were there, and for a little while, none of us were alone.

The memory cuts sharper now, against the silence of the arena. My chest heaves, not from smoke, but from the weight of my realisation. That they’re out there somewhere, watching me from those Capitol screens. Forced to see me struggling and fighting for my survival. Without them.

I whisper all of their names under my breath, like an oath. Katniss, Gale, Haymitch, Brennan, Peeta.

The cameras might catch it, might replay it, might spin it into something noble or tragic. But the truth is quieter. It’s the only way to remember who I am.

The berries leave my fingertips sticky, and I rub the stain into my burns without thinking, marking myself in red. It looks almost deliberate, like war paint, like I’ve claimed this pain as mine. My reflection in the lake wavers with the ripples of firelight, eyes hollow, cheeks blackened, lips stained red. I look like someone else altogether, like the Capitol’s version of me, but underneath the filth, I still feel like the girl on the rock with the crackers and the goat’s cheese, listening to her friends laugh in the quiet dawn.

The memory is both a wound and a lifeline. It hurts, but it steadies me. Reminds me that I’m not just running for myself.

I pop the other half of the berry into my mouth, and whisper into the empty woods.

“I’m coming home.”

Then, I lift my chin towards the dark sky, knowing the Capitol is watching, and dare them to take that from me.

It is now that I make myself a vow. A vow sharper than the pain in my arms, stronger than the fire in my lungs. I’ll survive, I’ll go home.

I will rise from this arena and I will right all that is wrong.

Notes:

Gang I've been so tired to be honest, I'm trying desperately to write more because I enjoy it so muchh

Chapter 31: The Lamb

Summary:

TW for this chapter: Gore and derealisation / depersonalisation

The world has narrowed to two things: the ache in my legs and the sound of my own breathing. Both feel wrong. Too loud, too sharp. Not mine.

I’ve been moving for hours, maybe days. Time feels like something the arena has chewed and spat out, unrecognisable now. My calves burn; my throat is sandpaper. The cuts littering my body have dried into stiff, blackened lines that pull with every movement. My hair, crusted with soot, keeps sticking to my cheeks, and every time I try to wipe it away, I smear more ash into the sweat.

The forest is dead. It smells like burnt sugar and hot metal and something sour underneath – something rotting. And I am alone. I’ve been alone so long that the silence has its own voice. It whispers things that are half memory, half hallucination.

She left you.

She’s already dead.

You’re too late.

You killed her.

I press my hands over my ears, but the sounds are inside my skull, vibrating like thin strings pulled far too tight. My heartbeat is erratic, stomping itself into my ribcage. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t remember the last time I slept properly… long before the fire, at least. Since before I ended too many lives to count. Since before the world started tilting sideways.

My vision swims and I have to steady myself on the nearest tree.

“Kestrel.”

It’s barely a whisper, barely a breath, drifting between the trees. My head jerks up so fast my neck cracks. I don’t expect to see her, not really. But the disappointment still burns at my chest when there is nothing but the distant hiss of cooling trees.

Then again, closer this time.

“Kestrel… please.”

I shake my head. It’s not real, the voice doesn’t belong to one distinct person, a hazy blur of everyone I’ve ever cared for. My mind is cracking and it’s taking me with it. I decide to take a moment to clear my head. I know where I am. I recognise a section of stream that I used to refill my canteen. I grit my teeth as I note that they’ve pushed me right to the brinks of the cornucopia. I’m hidden by a thin layer of trees, and I don’t believe that they’re enough to shelter me. The fire is acting as a wall, and I know I cannot turn back. So those are my choices? Burn to death or suffocate in the fire, or die a painful death at the hands of another tribute?

Do I have time to stop and refill my water? Unlikely. I’d  still have to boil or purify it before I could use it, and collecting to purify later is just as dangerous. It would be easy to forget that the water was contaminated in the heat of the moment.

“Kestrel.”

I need a plan, and I need one now. I can’t think, there’s nowhere to go, and I can’t find my one ally. I’ve been forced right into the centre of a lions den. I’m in no state to fight, I need to regain my strength first.

“Kestrel.”

It’s not fair! Aren’t they just meant to let the games play out? It’s meant to be fair, right? May the odds be ever in your favour? Survival of the fittest?

“Kestrel!”

The voice in my head is so persistent that my head actually snaps round, about to cry into the nothingness for a moment to think, but all words and all thoughts escape me, because stood behind me in Brennan, and I realise it wasn’t in my head at all. That’s not the problem. Behind Brennan is Cato, holding onto her tight with his dagger pressed tightly into her throat. I can see the tint of crimson on the blade tip, and I find myself praying it isn’t hers.

For a moment, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Have I finally lost it?

She opens her mouth as if to say my name, and Cato’s grip snaps tight, yanking her back against him. The blade bites harder into her throat. Brennan whimpers, a tiny, choked sound, and her eyes lock onto mine, pleading, terrified. Begging me to move, to act, to be someone who can save her.

I can’t… Every muscle in my body is stone. If I breathe too loudly, he’ll do it. If I blink wrong, he’ll do it. If I move-

She dies.

“Come now, Songbird,” Cato croons, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Don’t feel like singing?”

A growl scrapes up my throat, feral and shaking. My fingers ache to reach for my knives, but even the thought of it makes Brennan suck in a thin, strangled breath. He’ll kill her before I even finish the motion. We’re locked – him with the blade, me with the terror.

“Let her go.” My voice cracks, but I push through it. “Let her go and you can have me.”

The offer leaves me before I can think, before I can weigh it. It’s just there, raw, honest, desperate.

“Noble, aren’t we?” He purrs, quick and smug, the confidence of someone who’s never needed to second-guess a thing in his life.

“Something like that.”

His eyes flick between us, calculating, the way a predator measures which limb to rip off first just for fun. I think for a second he may be considering my offer. He knows the stats, everyone does. I’m the eleven, Brennan’s the six. I’m the Capitol’s shiny new toy, The Canary – a title I never asked for but was presented with, nonetheless. And he hates that; oh he hates it. It must curdle inside him like spoiled milk.

“You did this, you know.”

His smirk widens as he presses the blade deepens, drawing the faintest tremor of red from Brennan’s skin. The sound he makes is half laugh, half growl, ugly and delighted.

“Shut up.” I spit, because I can feel my own pulse pounding in my teeth, and I will not hear him out right now. I cannot.

But he keeps talking, of course he does. Monsters always do.

“She begged for the chance to kill you.” His voice is a serrated whisper in the smoke-heavy air. “Begged. Said it would be easy. Quick.”

Brennan jerks, trying to pull away, but his arm locks around her like a steel trap.

“So, we let her go.” The bitterness in his smile turns venomous. “And she never returned.”

His face twists. Anger blooms dark and hot beneath his skin.

“She left us.” He says like it’s an unforgivable sin. “Left us. For you.”

“Let her go.” My voice trembles with fury and fear I can barely swallow.

“She’s a disgrace!” He roars suddenly, split flying, mask cracking. “She made us look weak! Made me look weak. And you- “His eyes burn into me. “You make us all look weak, canary.”

He spits the last word like its filth, like it’s poison on his tongue.

Brennan tries to speak again, just a breath, just the beginning of a word, and Cato yanks her back so sharply it knocks the sound out of her. His knife digs in, a bead of red trailing down her throat like a warning.

“Kestrel-“She croaks.

“No talking,” Cato snaps, shaking her like a misbehaving dog. She gasps, her hands clawing at his arm. “Not unless you want me to slice you open right now.”

“Stop!” I choke out, “Please. Just stop.”

My fingers twitch towards my blade again, but he sees it instantly.

“Ah-ah.” He shifts his hand slightly and Brennan whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. “Try it, Canary. Try it and watch how fast she drops.”

I force my hands open, empty, shaking. I want to scream; I want to run at him. Instead I stand there, helpless.

“Let her go.” I say again, voice shaking. “Let her go and you can have me.”

Cato laughs- really laughs. It echoes strangely against the trees. “Listen to you… offering yourself up. It’s cute, really it is.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know.” He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle piece he can’t decide where to break first. “That’s what makes it so pathetic.”

Brennan’s breath hitches. I see her eyes flick towards me. Fear, apology, pain – what does she have to apologise for?

“You think I want you?” Cato sneers. “You think you’re worth more than her? Is that it?”

“Cato-“ Brennan rasps, voice barely a thread. He clamps a hand over her mouth, forcing her chin up with the blade.

“She begged, Songbird,” He says, voice low, almost intimate with cruelty. “Begged for us to give her the honour of killing you. Swore she’d bring your head back before nightfall.”

I look into Brennan’s eyes again, and now there is guilt swirling in the mix.

“She didn’t mean it-“ I whisper.

“Oh but she did…” He returns.

“Please.” I beg. “Let her go. Take me. Take the kill, take the glory. Whatever you want, just-“

“What I want,” he says, leaning close to Brennan’s eat until she shudders, “is to show the whole of Panem what happens when someone makes a fool out of us.”

“Cato don’t” She pleads, muffled and desperate.

“You left us,” he spits into her hair. “For her.”

“That’s not!” Brennan wheezes as he removes his hand. “I was going to-“

“Shut up!” His shout cracks the air. She flinches, trembling under his grip. “You think they didn’t laugh at us? At me? Because one of the strongest- one of the feared ran away to protect the coal miner from the big, bad careers?”

His eyes snap back to me, blazing with fury. “You. You made us look weak.”

“I didn’t-“

“You exist. That’s enough.”

Brennan gasps, trying to squirm free again.

“Quiet,” He snarls, grabbing her jaw so hard her teeth clack together. “You don’t get to die with dignity.”

I feel something tear inside me – panic, fury, grief, all clawing up my throat.

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice cracks. “Cato please-“

“Oh I want to.” His smile is slow and poisonous. “And I want you to watch.”

Brennan’s lips form my name, her eyes find mine, pleading, apologising, loving, terrified, all at once.

Cato’s hand moves.

 Brennan falls.

For a heartbeat I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Her body drops like someone cut the strings holding her upright, knees buckling, hands flying to her throat as blood pours between her fingers.

My breath stops – everything stops.

The world collapses into a soundless, airless bubble. No fire, no trees, no arena, just Brennan. Falling.

My ears ring, shrill, sharp, drowning everything else out. Something inside me snaps and then freezes. Not grief, not rage, something colder. Something absolute. My hands go still, my thoughts go still, my heart goes still.

Cato inhales to gloat, to laugh, to savour it, and that’s when I move.

I don’t feel my arm pull back, I don’t feel my fingers release the knife. I don’t feel anything at all. The blade leaves my hand like it’s been waiting its whole life to be thrown.

A single, clean, perfect motion.

A thud. His breath catches, his grin dies on his lips.

I don’t even watch him fall.

Because the world slams back into motion all at once, sound, heat, panic, blood, and I’m already dropping to my knees beside Brennan, everything pouring back into me like a tidal wave too late to save anything.

My hands cover hers, applying pressure to her throat and I can feel her eyes watching me.

Her blood stains the beautiful flowers below a sickly crimson and the grass turns quickly sodden and damp.

She tries to speak, but only a gargled breath escapes her. I don’t think it would be possible to speak at all in her condition, and trying would do nothing but cause more damage.

“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” I’m a liar. I know it and she knows it but still the words fall out repetitively. I’m no longer sure if it’s her or myself that I am trying to convince.

Her eyes are wide, and I can say for certain that I have never seen anyone look so scared in their life, not even during the reaping. I guess there is a difference between being handed a death sentence and dying, right?

She coughs and my clothes get sprayed with sticky, warm blood that soaks through, staining my own skin below. It turns my stomach, but I have to keep a brave face, I know I do.

A cannon fire startles me, and I look to my left, where Cato is lying, unmoving, his body pale and lifeless. I did what had to be done. It wasn’t my fault.

I cup Brennan’s cheek and run my thumb along her face, wiping away stray tears. The sight of her crying fills me with a rage that I almost don’t know how to contain, and I have to take a deep breath to compose myself.

My bag slips from my shoulders, and it is then that I am reminded of my supplies, so I throw the bag down to my side and rummage. I take my canteen, tipping the last of my water on a piece of cloth, dabbing softly at the slash. Brennan hisses and tries to move away, but I hold her steady. I do try to be more careful though as I gently apply medicine to her wound with shaking fingers, before wrapping it in my one and only bandage.

“See… all better…” I whisper, as if the sound of my voice may be enough to make the damage any worse.

Her hand moves until it finds mine and I give it a squeeze. She is trembling as she squeezes back, and her grip is weak. I don’t break eye contact but in my peripheral vision I can see blood already soaking through the bandage.

Brennan’s gaze is softening, becoming cloudy and she isn’t quite looking at me anymore.

“Are you tired?”

It seems like a stupid question to ask but when she nods, I feel like I know exactly what I need to do. There is nothing else I can do now but let her go.

It is the will of the game, after all.

“You should rest… we need all the energy we can get. I’ll take first watch, hm?”

I have to keep my voice as steady as I can, but still it shakes. But she nods again and a few moments later, her eyes close. She isn’t gone yet. She’s still holding my hand with as much strength as she can muster, and I can tell that she knows she is dying.

What a scary thought. I always wished that my own death would be quick and painless. I think everybody wishes for that. Going in your sleep must be a nice way to go, just going to rest and slipping away without knowing any better. But these games are cruel and there is no chance for a peaceful end. A peaceful end would be boring, so they eliminate all possibilities of that.

I lean forward and place my lips against her forehead, then shift to place my own forehead against hers.

“You can go… You’ll stop hurting, I promise… Go get out of this hell hole…”

I can only image the pain she is in, but she’s not showing it. She’s brave and strong and I find myself wishing I was like her more. Holding her own even in her last moments.

Her grip loosens slightly but I stay where I am, despite the strong discomfort in my legs and side.

Colour begins to drain from her face, and her breathing is beginning to shallow with each breath taking more and more effort through her severed windpipe. I lean back, staring down at her for a moment before placing my lips against hers. All of the tenseness drains from her body, and I feel a slight smile tug at the corner of her lips, before she lets out a breath and her head tilts itself away from mine.

The sound of the cannon makes my throat burn and this time I am sure I am going to vomit.

The world is still for a moment as I sit back, staring at her lifeless form. The birds are not singing, and the trees are not rustling and for a moment I’m sure my own heart is not beating.

 I clench my jaw and blink away the wetness in my eyes as I brush the hairs out of her face. I never got a chance to appreciate her beauty and now it feels almost wrong to. She had a subtle softness of beauty. Like the soft sun rays on the flowers in the summer, or an open patch of lush green grass in a meadow. But, as with the summer, subtle beauty doesn’t last, and it is gone before you can fully appreciate it.

She is gone and I never appreciated her.

She is gone.

I turn now and my eyes land on my pack, the one emptied in a hurry and see my food bundles spilled out across the dirt. We were supposed to eat these together.

With trembling hands, I collect the most intact bundle, and I place it in her still warm hands. I don’t know the symbolic meaning behind my actions, or if there even are any. I just know that half of it was hers, and she should still get to have it. Right?

I push away the thought that it’s a waste, that they’ll discard of it in the hovercraft anyway, that it’s better off with me. It is rightfully hers. I want her to have it.

And so I pack up what I can salvage of my own and place it back in my bag.

I don’t scream, I don’t cry.

I don’t know if I know how to anymore.

Notes:

My masters degree is kicking my ass still but I handed an assignment in yesterday so thought I'd try and finish this chapter thats been in the works for a while