Task 5: Entries

District 1 Female: Grace Starr

Lana Del Rey — Hope Is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman Like Me to Have - but I Have It

Romulus lowered his weapon.

Reuben raised his.

Without warning, their weapons met. Romulus risked a glance at Grace before he locked in on Reuben.

Fear threatened to paralyze Grace. Her fingers trembled as they searched for a knife. She saw Mako and Annika rushing toward the group, uncertainty in their eyes as they loosely gripped their own weapons.

She wriggled a knife free, watching the two parry each other’s attacks, preventing her from making her own. One wrong move, and she could just as easily kill Reuben.

One swing of Romulus’ sword disarmed one of Reuben’s machetes.

Grace pressed forward, gripping her knife tightly in her bandaged hands. She got up close, waiting for a better opening, slashing out at Romulus as he brought his sword down on Reuben.

He dodged the attack, turning toward Grace instead.

Reuben used the distraction to swing his machete down hard on Romulus.

Romulus narrowly blocked the attack.

With the opening, Grace slashed out and connected, a gash across his outer thigh quickly appearing.

Romulus staggered back, trying to recover as he shifted his weight.

Grace aimed the knife in her hands and threw. It soared through the air, straight for the eyes of Romulus.

He stepped out of the way, as if the knife moved in slow motion. And in that same trickling of time, Grace watched as the knife embedded itself into Annika’s throat.

With the distraction, Reuben was able to disarm Romulus.

With Reuben safe, Grace ran toward Annika.

Annika’s hands weakly attempted to curl around the hilt of the blade. Her eyes were locked on Grace: a mixture of confusion, panic, and betrayal. Her body hit the sand within seconds.

Grace fell onto her knees, her own hands trembling as she reached out to touch Annika, scrambling for her hand, something that anchored her here, even if for a moment.

She flinched as the cannon sounded.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

Her eyes returned to the blurred, bloodied knife.

“I’m so sorry.”

Annika’s hand relaxed as a second cannon went off.

Grace didn’t let go.

She flinched as Reuben placed his hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at him, catching Fionán and Clyde on the outskirts of the beach retreating for the mountain. They stopped as Grace spotted them.

She gave them a nod. Fionán nodded back before the two disappeared quickly into the trees.

Relief washed over her. So much death plagued their last few days in the arena. Axe drowned in front of her. The girl on the caldera had been trampled over because of Grace. Annika died in front of her. For once, it felt like a small mercy to see someone go.

Death had always frightened her, in part because she’d never known her mother’s gaze, though she had known the influence of her mother. Grace never wanted to cause such harm for others by taking a loved one’s life.

Had she never entered the Games, she never would have.

Reuben offered his hand. As Grace reached up to take it, she saw the blood coating her fingers, and it broke her.

There was no reversing what they had done. There was no reality in which they both went home, so Reuben did the only thing he could do and held her.

The two sprawled out into the sand, an amalgamation of limbs, sand-dusted fabric, and weapons.

“I’m sorry,” Grace muttered into his chest.

Reuben shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s okay.”

“He saw me,” she said between breaths. “Romulus. I didn’t even think about it. I just ran.” Saving Fionán hadn’t been part of the plan—not Romulus’ or her father’s. It was the same instinct that kept her from killing anyone who didn’t threaten her allies.

“I don’t blame you,” Reuben replied in soft tones. “We do what we can live with.”

Romulus had figured Grace out. She tried to hide it, but the Games had a way of revealing one’s secrets. Deep down, she had always known what she was.

Reuben pulled her hair from her face. Grace held onto him while she cried. The tide rolled in, and the sun sank down to greet it.

As the two watched the sunset, Mako gave them privacy, searching the base of the mountain. He pointed out a place for them to camp for the night at the mouth of a cave.

The three sat at the opening together, silently, as they waited for the anthem to play. Grace focused on the stinging of her hands. She lightly touched them over the wrappings Romulus had done for her earlier that day. Her eyes drifted toward the small bracelet somehow still intact on her left wrist.

It had been her sister’s idea for the three of them to have something matching, a token with their birthstones to remind them they were always together, even in the arena. Grace had tried to remove Pearl’s birthstone, cracked in the center where she smashed it in.

Years of avoiding the Games, building a life Grace could live with that her father would approve of came crumbling down when Pearl refused to volunteer.

Grace resented her for it. A year full of training, pretending Pearl might as well have died for the shame she brought on their family.

None of it saved Grace from the Games.

The night before Grace volunteered, Pearl begged her to stay.

Grace turned to look at her for what felt like the first time in months.

“Our father loved you. Adored you, even. The one thing he asked you to do, you failed to. You failed this family. And if you can live with that shame, then congratulations. I won’t make the same mistake you did.”

Pearl reached for her hand. “You will die if you go.”

Grace pulled away. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“Yes, Gracie, I do. These Games aren’t for you. They will tear you apart.”

“You’re the reason I’m even in this mess.”

“No, I’m not: our father is. The expectations he puts on you, your so-called duty to this family: it’s a revolving door that never ends. He’s never going to be satisfied. He will demand, and steal, and take, and when there’s nothing left to take, he’ll tell you what a disappointment you are and move on.”

And for the first time in a long time, Grace was speechless.

Pearl hadn’t failed her family; she had escaped with her life.

She knew she would never be a true Career type, like Romulus. He was strong, resilient, relentless, and he had favored victory above all else—everything her father believed in.

And now he was dead.

Grace had hoped entering the arena would give her the chance to be what her father wanted her to. Only, she had never been built for the kind of slaughter the Games demanded. Her game had always been quieter, more human. Hopeful.

Maybe she’d never been the type of person who could walk away.

The thought lingered as the anthem began to play. Grace stared up at the image of Romulus, and as he disappeared from the sky, it felt as if a piece of her father vanished with him.

Annika’s face appeared.

Grace turned away, unable to look even the image of her ally in the eyes after what she had done.

Reuben sat beside her, shoulder brushing up against hers. He studied her, uncertainty and guilt consuming her. “What’s going on?”

Grace looked down at her hands. She could feel the warmth of his touch, some soft reminder that they were okay, that somehow, against all odds, the two of them had made it another day, and an even crueler reminder of how fleeting their time together was. For the first time since the Games began, she stopped trying to pretend.

“You know what you said earlier about doing what you can live with?” she asked.

Reuben nodded, urging her to continue.

Every part of her threatened to break down all over again when she looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for Sterling. I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for thinking we could ever live in a world where both realities were possible, where I got to make my father happy, and also have you.”

Reuben looked away. Quiet surrounded them. The sound of faint rustling of leaves swept into the cave, and Grace watched her feet dangle from the mouth, ignoring every little sharp poke of rock into her thighs.

“I’m sorry too,” Reuben said finally.

Grace gave him the same crumbled expression she did when he told her he hated dances.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was volunteering.” His expression sombered as he glanced down at the friend he’d sworn he’d never lie to, and now both had lied to each other.

“Why did you volunteer? You must have known we’d make it far. You knew there was a very real possibility that one of us would have to watch the other die, or worse, and I don’t know what you’re capable of, Reuben, but I’m not. I cannot.” As an afterthought, she muttered, “Not you.”

“I never planned on making it this far. I was meant to die, and you were meant to go on and win this, but then…” Reuben explained, trailing off. The knife she put through that tribute’s throat said enough.

“To watch you die would be to watch a part of me die with,” Grace replied. She tightened her hands, pain shooting through them. “What would be the point?”

“All I’m asking is for you to try,” he replied.

Going home to District One without him seemed worse than death. She didn’t want to die, either. And there was only so much she could live with.

“Will you do me a favor?” Grace asked.

“Anything.”

“Can we just stay like this for the rest of the night?”

“Of course.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he rested his on her. Her arms wrapped around his, as she breathed in his scent. If she remained here for the rest of her life, she would feel contented.

Outside of the cave was the rest of the Games. They numbers had dwindled. There was no strategy, no performance left to give. Only the truth she’d been avoiding remained ahead.

What she really was.

She wasn’t who her father wanted her to be.

She wasn’t a Career.

She wasn’t a killer.

She was the girl who feared thunderstorms and failure, made sure every curl on her head fell perfectly, and did anything to feel needed, wanted, and loved.

She was the girl who swore she’d never volunteer for the Games, because she knew deep down no amount of camoflauging would make her capable of doing the things the Games would make her do.

This was never meant to be her game.

As she closed her eyes, she swore she could hear faint sounds of piano music playing. In the darkness, she saw Reuben in his black suit there to greet her. He held out his hand. Warmth and light radiated throughout everything he touched. He waited patiently for her to approach, smiling softly, expectantly.

Grace walked slowly toward him, aware of her dress catching with every step she took forward. Her hand melted into his.

Reuben led her to an abandoned courtyard as a new song began to play. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he guided her through the space with a gentle hand, the two swaying back and forth. Their gaze never left the other’s.

Here, she could almost believe peace was possible. She knew love, and openness, and understanding. She knew hope. And she knew it was impossible to hold onto this version of them forever.

She held on anyway.

District 1 Male: Reuben Bright Evercrest

Now Playing: Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens.

---

He’s dead.

Romulus Stratton of District Two is dead.

I killed him.

The thought lands heavy and unmoving in Reuben’s mind, like a stone dropped into still water. It doesn’t ripple. It doesn’t echo. It just sits there.

For a moment, everything feels strangely quiet.

In the distance, the sun sets on the horizon.

The sky stretches wide above him, bleeding slowly from gold into a deep, molten orange, the color pooling along the edges of the clouds like embers refusing to fade.

The wind brushes through the trees at the base of the volcano, stirring loose leaves across the forest floor. The ground is uneven beneath his knees, damp with the kind of soil that clings stubbornly to skin and fabric alike.

There, Reuben digs. Not with urgency, not with panic—just steady, deliberate movements of his hands pushing through dirt and loose roots.

The cameras will see this.

He knows that.

Still, he continues.

Annika lies beside the shallow grave he has carved into the earth. Her expression is strangely calm now, the tension that once lived in her shoulders gone entirely.

The quiet around her feels wrong.

Annika was never a speaker but the quiet around her used to be comforting and present. But her quiet now is cold, absent, and permanent.

Reuben presses his palm into the soil, packing it down carefully once the grave is filled. The red fabric of his torn cape is streaked with dirt, the edges dark where dried blood has soaked into the threads.

For a long moment, he simply kneels there.

The wind shifts again.

Something tight forms in his chest before he can stop it.

A tear slips free.

It falls quickly, cutting a small, shining path down his cheek.

Reuben wipes it away just as quickly.

His hand drags across his face, rough and impatient, as if the motion itself can erase the evidence. The arena’s cameras watch from somewhere above the trees—hidden, silent, constant.

He will not give them that.

Not tonight. Not ever again.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, before rising to his feet. The world feels heavier than it did this morning. Every movement carries the dull ache of exhaustion settling deeper into his bones.

Somewhere farther up the mountain, the mouth of a cave waits.

Mako and Grace are there.

Reuben doesn’t look back when he leaves the small grave behind.

---

By the time he reaches the cave, night has settled over the arena.

The inside of the cavern is dim, lit only by the faint glow of firelight flickering against stone walls. Shadows stretch and shrink with every movement of the flame, turning familiar shapes into something softer.

Grace sits near the fire. Mako beside her.

They both look up when Reuben steps inside.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Grace stands abruptly.

“Reuben—”

She crosses the cave in two quick steps and throws her arms around him.

The force of it catches him off guard. Reuben stiffens automatically, his body reacting before his mind has time to catch up.

Grace is shaking.

Not violently. Not loudly.

Just small tremors that travel through her shoulders as she presses her face into the fabric of his robe.

For a long moment, Reuben doesn’t move.

Then, slowly, his arms come up and return the embrace.

Mako watches the exchange from the fire before looking away.

Grace pulls back first, wiping hastily at her eyes.

“You’re alive,” she says, as if she’s still trying to convince herself.

Reuben nods once. “So are you.”

Mako lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Well,” he murmurs, “this could be worse, right?”

“It could be,” Reuben agrees, squeezing Grace’s shoulder.

Eventually, they settle near the fire again—Grace on one side, Mako on the other, the three of them forming a loose circle against the cave wall.

For a while, they say nothing.

A heavy hollowness settles inside Reuben’s chest, slow and deliberate, like something sinking to the bottom of deep water. It isn’t sharp enough to be pain, but it is dull instead. Dense, as if someone had reached inside him and scooped something vital out, leaving behind a hollow space that echoes with every breath he takes.

The emptiness is strange. Heavy, but vacant all at once. It presses outward against his ribs while feeling impossibly cavernous inside, like the shell of something that once held life and warmth but now sits abandoned. Each inhale fills his lungs, yet the air feels thin somehow, as though it cannot quite reach whatever part of him has gone missing.

The grief does not arrive loudly. It does not shatter or scream.

Instead, it settles.

It sinks into his bones, slow and inevitable, filling the empty spaces with a quiet, suffocating weight. Not enough to break him—no, he knows himself well enough to understand that much. Reuben has always been good at carrying things, good at enduring them.

But the hollowness lingers there all the same.

Grace is the first to break.

“I thought you died,” she murmurs quietly, staring at the flickering fire instead of him. “When the lightning hit and everything started collapsing, I thought that was it.”

“I mean, I knew you’d be fine,” Grace continued. “But I got scared. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you then.”

Her lips press together tightly, but her breathing turns uneven. She bows her head, strands of hair falling forward to hide her face, but the soft hitch of her breath gives her away.

Reuben watches the flames shift.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words come out quieter than expected.

Grace looks up.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry, I just…” He pauses, the sentence catching somewhere in his throat before continuing. “Everything happened so suddenly and I—I couldn’t reach you in time.”

Reuben isn’t used to being the one people worry about. If anything, he’s always tried to be the opposite—the one who handles things quietly so no one else has to think about it. So when someone does worry about him, it doesn’t feel warm or reassuring. It feels wrong.

There’s a tight, uneasy sensation that settles in his chest when he realizes it. Not panic, exactly. More like a dull pressure. The awareness that his pain, his choices, or his silence has spilled over and reached someone else. And now they have to carry a piece of it too.

In his mind, worry is a responsibility.

If someone worries about him, it means he’s failed somewhere—failed to keep himself steady enough that others don’t have to look over their shoulder for him.

Failed to keep things contained.

With Grace especially, that feeling would hit harder. Seeing her worry about him would make something twist uncomfortably inside him because he never wanted to be another thing she had to protect or mourn. He would rather absorb everything himself than have her spend even a second fearing for him.

So when he notices it—when he hears it in her voice or sees it in the way she looks at him—his instinct isn’t to lean into it.

It’s to minimize himself.

To shrug it off.

To say he’s fine.

To change the subject.

To carry himself a little straighter, speak a little calmer, just to prove that there’s nothing to worry about.

Because in Reuben’s mind, the moment someone starts worrying about him is the moment he’s already taken too much from them.

And that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“I never got to explain to you why I volunteered,” says Reuben, risking a glance at Grace only to find her already looking at him.

Grace doesn’t speak. Her chin trembles, and suddenly her eyes shine in the dim cave light..

Reuben watches her.

His chest tightens, a weight he’s not sure he can name pressing down across his ribs. He wants to reach out, to say something, to do anything that could stop the hurt. But nothing will. Nothing can.

He can feel the urge rising, raw and unwelcome, a familiar pull at the back of his throat that tells him tears are coming. And goodness, he wants them. Wants to let the grief pour out, wants to feel something real instead of the hollow, heavy nothing he’s been carrying.

But he doesn’t.

He clamps it down, swallows it whole. The fire in his throat dies before it can flare. He breathes slowly, deliberately, pretending to himself that the weight isn’t there, that seeing her like this doesn’t cut into him with a sharpness that leaves him hurting too.

He’s Reuben Bright Evercrest. He doesn’t cry. He never cries.

“Whether or not I volunteered, I was still going to be a tribute,” he murmurs, looking up at the ceiling of the cave. “My father had it all planned out. I just… I don’t know.”

He pauses, swallowing hard as he thinks about his next words.

“I got angry and volunteered out of spite. I thought if I died pathetically, I would shame the family enough to get back at him.” His head drops, breath shaking and chest heaving. “I was selfish. I didn’t even think about how you’d feel. I—I’m sorry.”

Her expression softens but it twists into something akin to hurt.

“You are so stupid,” she says, though the words carry no anger. “You think taking all of it on yourself somehow makes it better… but it doesn’t, Reuben. I’m just glad you’re still alive.”

“I know,” he replies quietly.

Then Reuben glances at Mako who was pretending to watch the moon, “And I’m sorry about Annika too.”

Mako shifts slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees, jaw tight. His eyes don’t meet Reuben’s at first. “Yeah… well, I should’ve—” He swallows, his voice rougher than he expected, “I should’ve done more to keep her safe.”

Grace’s brows furrow as she says, “It’s not your fault. I killed her. I’m sorry—”

“She attacked you,” Mako shakes his head, cutting her off. “I could’ve stopped her if I was faster. But…” His eyes flick toward the darkness of the cave entrance, then back at Grace. “I wasn’t. She got her hands on you before I even realized what she was doing.”

Reuben doesn’t respond immediately. He watches the way Mako’s fingers flex against one another, how the tension shows in the line of his shoulders.

Mako exhales, softer this time, almost like he’s letting the weight slide from his chest. “You know, District Four isn’t what the Capitol thinks it is. They think it’s just about the ocean and the beach..” He lets out a humorless laugh. “They don’t know what it’s like—growing up thinking you’re just supposed to sink or swim.”

Mako finally meets Reuben’s eyes, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows anyone to see. “And I… I don’t know. I just want to get back to him.” He jerks his head slightly, toward a far-off horizon that he can’t actually see. “Back to my boyfriend. Back to… back to something normal. I just want to go home.”

The fire burns lower.

Eventually the conversation slows, then fades entirely.

Words become unnecessary once exhaustion settles fully into their bones. Grace leans sideways first, her shoulder bumping lightly into Reuben’s. Mako follows not long after, slumping against the other side. Neither of them notices when sleep finally takes hold. Reuben remains awake.

He sits between them, back against the cold stone wall of the cave, watching the fire shrink slowly into glowing embers.

Grace’s head rests lightly against his shoulder.

Mako’s arm has fallen loosely across his side.

Outside, the arena is quiet for once.

Somewhere out there, more fighting awaits. More death, more endings for children the Capitol delights in toying with, like pieces on a board.

But for now, he stays still. He lets the cave hold him, the weight of stone pressing lightly against his back, the quiet stretching around them like a drawn curtain.

The weight in his chest lightens just a fraction. He doesn’t need to win. He doesn’t need to be the strongest, the smartest, or the fastest. All that matters is that they are alive. That he is here. That he can hold them, watch over them, protect them while he can. Even if tomorrow drags them all into peril, even if his own life is the price for this moment, it is enough.

In the hollow of this cave, surrounded by shadows and the faint echo of the arena beyond, Reuben feels something he hadn’t in years: a fragile, unshakable clarity.

Being with them is enough. Protecting them is enough. Breathing alongside them, laughing once more, feeling the pulse of survival together—this, here, is everything he needs.

The tension of days, of fear, of every impossible choice, drifts away in the stillness. Outside, the night waits. But inside the cave, for this moment, he is alive.

Fully alive.

Fully present.

Fully theirs.

District 4 Male: Mako Tarowa

Youth by Daughter

The cave smells like wet stone and old smoke. Wind slips through its mouth in slow breaths, carrying the distant crash of waves against the shore below. The ocean is somewhere out there in the darkness, invisible but restless, its rhythm echoing faintly through the hollow chamber of the mountain. Mako sits nearest to the cave entrance, arms resting over his knees, staring out at the narrow strip of moonlit beach.

The water moves in slow, repeating lines. Pale foam creeps up the sand before sliding back again, over and over, always stopping at the exact same spot. Still wrong.

Behind him, deeper in the cave, what remains of the Career Pack settles into the uneasy quiet of night.

Grace leans against the cave wall beside the low fire Reuben managed to start. The flames burn small and smoky, barely strong enough to push back the damp chill clinging to the stone. Firelight flickers across the cave walls, stretching their shadows into long, warped shapes. Reuben crouches nearby, methodically cleaning dried blood from his spear with a scrap of cloth. He’s always cleaning it. It must be cathartic for him.

No one has spoken for a long time.

The sky had filled with faces earlier. The forever young floated amongst the clouds. This time the faces were all too familiar.

Annika.

Romulus.

Others too.

Romulus had lingered the longest, his steely gaze piercing down from the sky like a threat that refused to die. The thought of him makes Mako’s stomach tighten. Romulus Stratton. The Capitol favorite. Their fearless and feared leader.

Until Reuben’s spear.

“You should try to sleep,” Reuben says without looking up. His voice is steady, carrying the same quiet authority it always does. The same tone he uses when explaining plans.

“I’m not tired.”

That’s a lie.

Every muscle in his body aches. Bruises from his mountain mudslide bloom across his skin in bright shades of purple and blue. But sleep feels impossible. Closing his eyes means seeing things again. It means replaying the moment their leader turned on his own, shattering any false sense of security the alliance had granted him.

Grace shifts beside the fire, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

“I keep hearing her voice.”

“Axe?” Reuben replies.

She nods.

“I thought we were going to make it,” Grace says quietly. “The ground was ripping apart, but I thought we would make it. I mean, we’re Careers. We’re supposed to go far.”

“Grace, you did all you could. Mako and I, we know that.”

Grace stares into the fire. Its orange glow reflects faintly in her eyes.

“Thanks. I can’t believe there’s only the three of us now. We had the numbers. We had the supplies. We had the training…” Her voice trails off.

Reuben keeps wiping the spearhead clean, methodical as ever.

“That’s how the Games work,” he says eventually. “We prepared as much as we could.”

“We sure did.” Grace lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “He was going to kill me. Right there. In front of everyone.”

Romulus. Mako glances up. “He was always going to turn on someone. I saw the way he looked at me.”

“But that soon?”

“I know,” Reuben says. “That’s the innate flaw in every Career Pack,” he continues. “You build alliances between people trained to win alone.”

Grace stares at him, her expression hollow. “We were doomed from the start.”

Reuben considers that for a moment.

“Not doomed,” he says.

“What happened was inevitable, but I definitely didn’t expect things to fall apart so soon.”

Silence falls over the trio. Grace lies back against the stone, exhaustion dragging her under. Reuben remains awake, watching the cave entrance like a sentinel, his silhouette motionless in the dim glow. The fire flickers low, its light shrinking deeper into the cave. Mako turns back toward the cave’s mouth.

Inevitable. The word echoes in his mind.

The Games change people. Everyone knows that. He didn’t know exactly how it would happen, but it has.

The thought of someone dying doesn’t freeze him the way it did on the first day. The horror comes and goes now, sliding over him like water over stone. That is simply how it is now.

As he watches the false sea, listening to its hollow breathing, he realizes something that hurts more than the bruises and cuts scattered across his body. The Games have taken something from him. Something that doesn’t come back once it’s gone.

And he knows that when the time comes, he will kill them.

District 6 Male: Dray Abrams

500 Miles by Peter, Paul and Mary

Dray knew a lot about trains.

For example, he knew that freight trains could have upwards of 100 carts, and that it takes a third of a pot of oil to fully grease a coupler – that makes a minimum of 34 per freight train. A steam train’s coalbox looked startlingly similar to a dying fire in a cave. There are no steam trains anymore (except for the big one in the museum). Intercity trains are easy to hear. They’re just as easy to miss.

Elias… Terrence… Reed…

Names echoed off the walls of the cave, the ghosts of words passed in their quiet conversation. Dray had no names to haunt him. While the others shared the sacred moments they spent with their loved ones on the day of their departure, Dray had no visitors.

Katie… Ernest… Peony…

He sat alone in a silent waiting room. Instead of embracing his family, Dray’s hands found themselves tearing at the marred furniture, upturning the table, and hammering at the door. It made no difference of course, but when he stood still all he could hear was the static of his thoughts, hot blood rushing through his ears, and the deafening quiet of loneliness.

Then a whistle blew – one long blast from a multi-chime air horn – and he was gone.

Mothers… Fathers… Friends…

Soon enough, his allies ran out of visitors to talk about. Dray braced himself as the dreaded question finally made its way round to him. He kept his eyes on the cave walls as Verbena asked, “How ‘bout you, Dray?”

“How about what?”

Clyde poked at their fire with a stick before saying, “You know what she means. Who visited you?”

“Yeah, we’ve all been talking, but we haven’t heard much about ya since we got here. What was your life like before all this?” Fionán added.

Dray let out a small sigh, stalling for time as he pondered the question. When he thought about his life, the first thing that came to him wasn’t the smog of the slums, nor the crime and drugs, or even the broken family he came back to every night.

“I didn’t see anyone,” He said quickly, then added, “And what 6 was like? I guess the first thing I think of is the freight trains,”

Back when he was young, something was always whistling. The trains, the kettle on an early morning, his father’s lips – everything seemed to sing.

Dray once lived by a railroad. With his father’s salary, his family could afford the uptown area and the life it promised. The main body of the rails were far from their fancy block of houses, but the whistles could sound for miles around. Even years later, when he lived what felt like a hundred miles from his old home, he swore he could still hear them blow.

“Yeah, the trains, and–”

“No one visited you?” Clyde cut him off in a quiet voice.

The cave went silent. No more names echoed off the rocky walls, and the last flames of the fire finally died away.

“No,” Dray twisted the brass ring on his index finger, “I guess… they missed the train,”

He rubbed at his calf – the one that the prawn had mangled. The antibiotics they found were a godsend, but the burn of recovery stung just as bad as the wound it healed.

“Stop picking at that,” Fionán chastised, but there was no venom in his voice, then added, “And who’s ‘they’? If you wanna talk about it, of course,”

Dray wanted to point out his hypocrisy – Fionán had been pawing at his own array of wounds the moment the medicine hit his skin – but since the emersion of the mutts and the chaos they brought, the space in Dray’s heart that once held his tenacity had been replaced with a dull, nauseating despair.

“Um, I guess my friends… My sister… My mother, or at least what’s left of her,”

As Dray spoke, he was hit with a grim realisation. His heart sank as he finally began to accept what deep down, he always knew was true. He had nothing left to go back to.

Dray turned to look at the mouth of their cave. The four decided to go in deep. Too deep, in Dray’s opinion. The dim twilight shone from the mouth, a little light that marked the end of their tunnel.

“I need some air. I’ll be back in a second, I swear,” He said, then got up far too fast for any of his allies to protest. He needed a minute alone, away from his allies and their prying questions, their expectant faces warped by the glow of the dead fire’s embers. It’s dark anyway, he thought as he breached the mouth, who’d see me out here?

If Dray was back home, this would’ve been the perfect time to smoke. He instinctively reached into his pocket, but didn’t find the pack of cigarettes he was so used to having. Instead, he was forced to confront his thoughts completely alone. He didn’t even have the smell of ash or taste of bitter wood to comfort him. He imagined the curl of smoke he’d puff out, and his line of thought ran back to steam trains.

Steam trains don’t run anymore. The world had moved past primitive automobiles like that a long, long time ago, but there was a big one displayed in a museum where he once lived. When he was 6, he was taken on a school trip to go and see it. They got to watch as the workers shoveled coal to make a big plume of smoke rise from the chimney, and each of them had a turn pulling the rope to make the whistle sound.

His father, a fantastic engineer and fanatic trainspotter, used to take him there to see the exhibits nearly every weekend.

“Look son, see that rod pumping on the wheels? That’s called a piston. It–”

He died in a rail accident. His body was blown to pieces so small they couldn’t even scrape him from the ground. The debt collectors came the day he died. There was nothing they could do to keep their house, so at 8 years old, Dray’s world shattered, and he was ripped from all he knew to move a hundred miles from his one true home.

In the beginning, Dray could keep what he had, but bills piled up, and his mother had nothing better to do than numb the world with a needle and vial. First went his pocket money, then his toys, and once his room had been stripped nearly bare, his mother took to selling his clothes. She’d steal from his dresser when he was out, then sell what she stole at markets, or trade what she could for another vial of morphling. She still did it now, if she thought he wasn’t looking.

Dray wasn’t innocent himself, either. Meeting Titan had almost been as big a change as his father’s death, and within a few short years he proved himself to be worthy of his friendship. For a long time, he was his mule, bound to him by virtue of the favour Titan once gave him. Then one day, a week after Roman’s tragic rail accident, he offered Dray a shot of morphling. It was his way of saying thank you, since Dray hadn’t snitched on what truly went down at the depot, and a way of saying they were now finally equal.

Desperately grateful for a chance to prove himself, he let Titan gently search his arm for a good vein, and did his best not to flinch as the needle broke though skin and pumped the grey tar into him. Titan sat with him for a while, but soon drowsiness set in, and Dray’s pinprick pupils began to glaze over. He couldn’t remember much after, other than Titan’s rough hands as he cupped his face, and the feel of cold naloxone being sprayed up his nose. The chemical both dribbled right back out and seemed to run all the way up to his brain, clouding his thoughts with its chill.

Dray knew what had happened the rest of that night, but the memories themselves were hard to salvage. One of the two things he could remember from his overdose was wondering how he could go back home like that. How could he go back and see his withered mother, laying on the sofa drowning herself with chemicals, and how could he tell his sweet, fragile sister Auta that he’d just done the very same? According to Titan, Dray had told him this and begged to stay the night. Then came the second thing he could remember.

“Guess you still owe me, huh?”

Whatever test he’d been given, he failed. He owed his life to Titan, and he’d never be allowed to forget it.

Dray stared hard into the night sky. He presumed it wasn’t real – some hologram projected by the gamemakers – but just for a moment, he let himself believe it was the same sky he’d known all his life. Back on the tribute train, he watched through the skylight of his room as the dappled stars faded in and out behind clouds. The Capitol Express that sped him away from 6 shuddered every few miles; a flaw of the tracks rather than the train. At least, that’s what his dad had once told him. He couldn’t sleep on that first night, so he took to tracking the distance they travelled.

One hundred… Two hundred… Three hundred… Four hundred… Five hundred…

He lost count after that. The real distance didn’t matter anyway. He was miles from his home, and the only way he’d come back is sealed in a coffin.

A sudden cold wind whipped past him, stinging his face. He reached up to wipe a stray tear, and for the first time in a long while Dray desperately wanted to see his mother. Of course, that was impossible, and not just because he was doomed to die. The mother he missed was long gone, the last time he saw her was before she’d left him for the peace a needle could bring.

She missed him too. Or at least, she missed the train he was on. Whatever stupor she’d let herself get into stopped her making the journey to the reaping, and she lost the last chance they’d ever get to see each other again. The next time they meet he will be locked in a little wooden box, and she’ll be locked somewhere deep in her own mind, trapped by chains forged from her own grief.

The wind kept blowing, rustling the branches and leaves of the forest in a sweet, unfamiliar melody. Just before he returned to the cave, Dray shut his eyes and did his best to pretend that he was listening to the whistle of a far away train, and for one short moment, he was back on a rooftop listening to a train blowing 100 miles away.

District 9 Female: Miffanne Paddy

As The World Caves In — Matt Maltese

“My feet are aching.” Desi says to finally break the silence. Neither Miffanne nor her have spoken since they left Abigail for dead, walking zombie-like and aimless across the volcano’s side. Almost waiting for the gamemakers to burn the earth to the ground beneath their feet. To Miffanne, words seemed inadequate to communicate what they had to say. They assumed Desi felt the same way.

Miffanne looks around them at a plateau of downed trees and scorched grass. Not much in the way of cover, but comfortable at least. Good enough for their final night alive.

“We can stop here for the night.”

Desi nods and almost immediately sinks down to the floor with a heavy sigh. Then her hands fly to her face, and tears pour out from between her fingers.

“We’re going to die.”

Miffanne is silent.

“Did I ever tell him I loved him? It seems so long ago now. Did I ever—” her voice breaks and gives way to heavy, racking sobs.

Miffanne walks over and slumps down beside her.

“You know, I wasn’t joking when I said I wasn’t sure what Ceres saw in me,” Desi doesn’t respond, but Miffanne continues undeterred, “I’ve always thought that I didn’t really deserve her. She’s beautiful. Smooth skin that glows in the afternoon sun and walnut hair that falls over her face and catches between her fingers when she tries to brush it aside. A warm smile she flashes you just can’t help smiling along with.”

“She’s kind, too. More than I could ever hope to be. And skilled. If she’d been born in District 1 or the Capitol, she’d be an artisan by now. Honestly it’s not fair that she wasn’t.”

Miffanne chuckles sadly. “I say that as though any of this is fair. It isn’t fair that we’re sitting here while the Gamemakers lock in an atom bomb for us either. ‘Each day we should wake up foaming at the mouth because of the injustice of things’. Only that they’d put you down like a dog and tell anyone like you that your foaming was only rabid.

Still, I’d hoped that somehow everything would go alright. I would’ve been happy enough watching the world cave in as long as it was Ceres I lay with as it did.”

“I really have never quite understood what she sees in me. I don’t have anything to offer her,” They stare down at their hands, still sticky with their blood and the prawn’s and Abigail’s, and shake their head slowly.

“I wasn’t made to create like she was. You should see her when she’s working on something. Honestly it might be more a work of art than the end result. It’s like her fingers dance across the piece, flitting so gracefully between different tools and tasks you wouldn’t notice any change until finally she sets her work down in front of you and it’s perfect and she’s even more so.

I’m not like that. I can’t seem to hold anything beautiful without breaking it. My hands aren’t smooth or graceful, they’re coarse and bloody and scarred and bruised. The only thing they’re good for is hurting people. Two kills already and only a bruised rib to show for it. Three if you count Abigail. But then you’d probably have to consider my injuries from the prawn.”

Desi finally looks up at Miffanne with swollen, reddened eyes.

“You didn’t kill Abigail. The sea woodlouse thing did,” she sniffles and wipes an already wet hand across her face, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Miffanne shakes their head slowly, “I was the one who insisted we head towards the water. Abigail was right. Neither of those things could’ve fitted in the cave. We would’ve been safe if I hadn’t made us move.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“But you know, despite it all, when I held Ceres it just felt so right. Her face lit up and it fit perfectly in my hands. Even though I’m sure they were too rough for her, she never complained. It was the first time I felt like I had a true purpose. Something I was made to do aside from hurting people. Was it the same way for you?”

Desi is silent for a few moments, and turns away from Miffanne.

“No.”

Miffanne sinks into themself and sighs, “Figures. Sorry for asking.”

“No, it’s fine. I just mean like I already had something I loved before him.”

Miffanne chuckles softly, “It was a great mistake, my being born a person. I would’ve found much more success as a beast,” their head sinks into their hands, “how cruel that man is the only creature who can grow to resent their role in the world.”

“I used to perform,” Desi’s mouth curls in a faint smile, “and he’d always come to my performances. It was euphoric; the heat of the crowd, all there to see me,” her voice rises, revitalised by the ghost of memory, “there’s really something about it. It gets into the air and into your lungs until it’s all you can breathe in and you’re drunk off the energy of everyone else there and they’re drunk off you. And even then your heart flutters because you know that the one you love is there in the crowd cheering for you - disheveled hair just waiting ‘til you’re done for you to comb it right.”

Her voice sinks again, “I wish you could’ve been there, at least once. You and Abigail.”

“I would’ve loved to watch you. Ceres would’ve too.”

Miffanne raises their head and notices a small parcel perched on one of the downed trees, its bright, pristine wrapping incongruous to the burn scars surrounding it. They push themself off the ground and grab it before collapsing back down.

The parcel is tied to a simple card tag that Miffanne reads.

‘Great job with the prawn, pity about the isopod. Hope it hasn’t put you in too much of a bind, eh Miffy?

Lots of love,

Maritta

P.s: tell Desi that the prawn jockey stunt was brilliant, no matter what Dominic says.’

Miffanne opens the parcel’s wrapping to reveal a simple cardboard box stuffed with a handful of neatly rolled bandages and a single packet of pills Miffanne assumes will be painkillers.

They nudge Desi and angle the box so the girl can see its contents. Desi looks at them for a few moments before shaking her head.

“You need them more.”

“You want the painkillers?”

Desi’s gaze drops down to her abdomen for a moment before she responds, “I’m not sure I can have them. They might not agree with me, you know?”

Miffanne decides not to press the matter, even as they settle on their conclusion.

They slowly unwind one of the rolls of bandages and start to wrap it around their gut, wincing in pain as it presses against the tender, oozing flesh beneath it. It takes them most of the roll to cover the wound, and even still it’s already sodden with blood before they have the chance to tie it in place.

They look down at themself and struggle to keep from laughing.

“It is the coward’s way to bury their struggles, even as they take root and arise from the dirt,” they say with a grim smile.

They move on to their thigh, winding what’s left of the first roll around it uncomfortably tightly, hoping to both stem the seeping blood and preserve as much of the bandages as possible.

They look down at their handiwork and grimace at the way it strains as they move their leg. But it doesn’t tear, and the pain isn’t unbearable. It will suffice.

But moving only reveals more blotches of pain scattered across their body. A puncture in their shoulder, stinging tears between their knuckles and a mesh of other gashes of varying severity.

“Grand. I’ll be more bandage than person by the end of this,” they mutter.

Desi bursts with a single, sharp laugh that quickly chokes in her throat.

“At least you’ll be half-decent. You know, instead of running around in your underwear.”

Miffanne grins and chuckles, “my final suit.”

They wrap another bandage around their fists with the sort of mechanical efficiency that only comes from constant rehearsal.

“At least we’re going out in style.”

Desi seems to shrink again, curling in on herself as exhaustion takes hold.

“Just wish my lover were here with me so I could be safe in his arms.”

“Can’t blame you” Miffanne continues working on their bindings, “But I’m glad Ceres isn’t here. I’d graciously welcome death with her, but I’d much rather face my final night alive knowing that she’ll be okay.”

Desi does not reply, and Miffanne assumes she’s gone to sleep. They do not join her. Even as exhaustion gnaws at the edges of their mind they stay upright, watching carefully as the world caves in.

District 9 Male: Clyde Sinclair

TW for animal death.

Hymn for a Scarecrow- Tally Hall

There is a scarecrow standing amongst a sea of grain.

It is tall and looming, made from straw and flannels and a turnip for a head. It had a better head, once, but it had started to mold, and Mr. Turner had hated the smell so badly that he tossed it in the lake. Josie stuck a turnip on it, and the children managed to get ahold of a marker and draw a stupid little face on it.

“Sort of looks like you.” Clyde hums. Elias props up his scythe against his shoulder— it is nearly taller than he is.

“Are you saying I have a turnip for a head?”

“Maybe I am. You and your stupid lookin’ face.” Clyde giggles in return, and Elias holds up his scythe with a grin.

“Oh, shut it. I’m the one with a cool weapon here.”

Clyde could feel a smile spread across his face.

They both let their weapons fall into the grain.

Before Eli can do the countdown, Clyde charges, catches him across the waist, and they both tumble to the ground.

For once in this godforsaken place, they are both happy.

_______

A hiss between gritted teeth, a bandage pulled tightly, and with a click of her tongue, Verbena pulled away.

“Done.”

Clyde winced as he slid his shirt back on, fabric drifting across new bandages on his shoulder. It still hurt, just… not as badly.

A box had drifted down to them a couple of hours ago. Nobody in particular. It had just landed in the middle of their cluster, and when Dray had cracked it open, there had been supplies. None of them got sponsored— at least, Clyde didn’t think so— and yet, there was a fair amount of healing supplies, each item labeled with a name.

Two items had his: a bottle of antibiotics and a tube of burn gel. For once, the world might have actually been ruling in his favor.

Dray tossed a knife into the air and caught it by the handle. Supplies from various backpacks were strewn across the floor of the cave they rested in as he rummaged through the total of what they had. Nobody had a chance to check anything out yet, and Dray took that liberty upon himself.

Fionán was humming a song that sounded vaguely like something that Clyde might know.

“Nice shoulder.” Dray snickered, tossing the knife again.

“Shut up, dipshit.” Clyde returned light-heartedly.

It felt wrong. Wrong to have a smile on his face while Maylene Whit was dead.

Clyde had only talked to her once or twice, and they had never been close, but Verbena had hardly spoken a word since they found her body.

“Can I go to sleep?” She muttered, reaching for the backpack Dray wasn’t rifling through and tossing it into the corner like a makeshift pillow.

Fionán just nodded, his voice softer than Clyde thought he had ever heard of him. “Yeah. We’ll keep watch.”

She laid down, and it was only a matter of minutes before they could hear her snoring softly.

The quiet stood stiffly. A bird chirped outside.

A bird, landing on the shoulder of the scarecrow.

A knife, soaring across a space between the land and the sky.

The rip of cloth and bloom of red as the knife landed in the heart.

“We should get some rest.” Dray noted. Fionán and Clyde both gave noises of agreement, and yet, nobody moved to lie down.

Clyde needed to sleep. He knew this. His eyes felt like they were trying to close on their own accord, but he was convinced that if he let them, he’d just catch glimpses of corpses and scarecrows and sparrows alike.

The knife clattered against the stone, a shock against the silence. Dray didn’t catch it this time.

___

There is a scarecrow standing amongst a sea of grain.

Clyde Sinclair and Elias Caradine are 17 years old.

Their friend is turnip-headed once more, as the children have taken a knife to the sackcloth again and ripped it apart. Elias is yet to sew it up. Where Josie is getting all of these turnips, nobody knows. She’ll have to tell somebody where she’s getting them, or else when she passes, their friend will be headless.

Elias is here, at Clyde’s side, standing on his tip-toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Clyde skims his eyes along the frame of the scarecrow, just in case this was the last time. It was strange how large of a role it had played in his life.

The flannels had changed, and the hay had to be replaced, but it was the same scarecrow. At least, Clyde thought it was. It still had the same feather sewn onto its hat, and to him, the sparrow makes the scarecrow.

The experiences make the person, he guesses.

___

In no world is a feather any different than a bracelet, a watch, a ribbon. Tokens. Memories of those who were not— are not—supposed to be dead.

___

There is a scarecrow standing amongst a sea of grain.

Clyde Sinclair and Elias Caradine are 14 years old.

And there is a sparrow, speared through the chest by a whittling knife, pinned against the new head that Elias stitched for their previously-turnip-headed friend. The sackcloth rips, and its white innards turn crimson as they are met with blood.

Clyde takes a step forward. “What the fuck?!”

Mr. Turner tries to reach for something, a scowl across his features, but Josie appears behind him and lays a wrinkled hand on his arm.

“Go home.” Turner growls, a hand braced against his belt buckle.“You don’t know what you’re gettin’ into. Talk to me like a man, and I’m gon’ treat you like a man. I thought it was a crow.”

“You don’t- you don’t get to do that! Kill a fuckin’ bird ‘cus you think it’s a crow- that’s what the scarecrow’s for! You don’t get to sit there and jus’ kill things ‘cus you think they deserve to die!”

Mr. Turner’s arm tenses, and Clyde braces for an impact that never comes.

A hand greets Clyde’s shoulder.

“Touch him, and I’m gonna go get Da. Go home, Turner.”

Elias.

“You think ‘m scared of your daddy?” Turner bitches.

“Yeah. He’ll beat your ass.”

Eli’s fingers tighten around Clyde’s shoulder. A voice pleads lowly in his ear.

“Back off. It’s not worth it.”

The hand pulls harder, and Clyde feels like he can’t fight it any more. It pulls him away from the scene, and all of a sudden, Clyde Sinclair is seventeen years old again, and there is a hand on his shoulder, dragging him away from everything dead. It is dragging him away from Maylene Whit, from Connor Collier, from Vidalia Eversong.

There is a hand on his shoulder, and it is pulling him away from everyone that was speared through the chest because some Capitol bastard thought they deserved to die.

___

“I- I’ll be right back.”

Clyde stood from where he sat on the floor of the cave, holding his hands together awkwardly somewhere between his stomach and his chest. His heart felt was going to leap out of his throat.

“You alright?”

He heard Fionán ask. He did not give a response.

Sticks broke beneath every step, and he walked. He shouldn’t leave them. Dray was the only one really on guard, ‘cause Verbena was asleep and Fionán was still a bit kooky from almost drowning, but god did Clyde feel like he was drowning now. Water was clouding his lungs and it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He shouldn’t be this far away. He shouldn’t leave them, he shouldn’t.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

The pressure was there again. It sat behind his eyes and threatened him every time he dared to blink.

He felt like the scarecrow— rooted in place, here to do what he was meant to do. By the Capitol’s standards, meant to kill or die trying.

The figure with a turnip head stood rooted in place, as always. It was meant to ward off the crows. That was why it was there.

Clyde was meant to kill his friends. That was why he was here.

He could hardly breathe. It felt like the dark was ripping the air from his lungs, even though dark was simply an absence of light, and a lack of something shouldn’t hurt as bad as when it’s taken.

No matter his logic, the breath was torn from him all the same.

“Clyde?”

He took another step forward. Blinked a bit, and when that didn’t stave off the tears, he just squeezed his eyes shut entirely.

“Clyde, stop.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t know why. He recognized the voice behind him, and he needed to get out of here before Fionán saw him cry.

His chest hurt worse than ever before.

“Go away.” He choked out. His voice cracked in the middle of a word.

“No.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face and took a deep breath.

“What’s going on?” Fionán asked, voice hardly above a whisper. Clyde choked on a sob.

He scrubbed at his eyes, tried to bite the inside of his cheek, but the next noise came out anyways. I don’t know hung unsaid.

The heat of a hand hovered over his arm.

“Can I?”

“Please.”

He felt ridiculous. Please. Fucking begging for someone to hold him like everyone else wasn’t just as scared as he was.

The hand didn’t land on his arm. More sticks snapped beneath a pair of boots until Fionán came ‘round to his front, and in just a breath’s passing, he pulled Clyde into his chest.

It was only a matter of seconds before Clyde was actually sobbing this time.

Fionán sunk to the ground with him as Clyde buried his face in the space between shoulder and jaw, trying not to be too noisy. His chest was full of water that he needed to get out and the scene of Fionán being thrown into the water played over and over again in his head and he felt like he was going to die.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled into Fionán ’s shoulder. He smelled like pine and saltwater. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He heard Fionán tell him to stop apologizing a couple of times, but when he didn’t cease in the action, Fionán just heaved a sigh and twisted a piece of Clyde’s hair around his finger. It felt like an hour passed before Clyde even bothered to take a breath.

“Sorry.” He said one last time, sniffling and pulling away by a fraction of an inch. Fionán clicked his tongue.

“I really don’t know why you’re sorry. It’s fine.”

Clyde scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Fionán didn’t let go.

“It’s stupid-”

“Everything’s stupid with you. Out with it.”

Clyde gave a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and a moment later, Fionán rose to his feet and offered a hand.

“We should get back.” He said, and Clyde just silently took his hand and came to his feet as well.

“I can keep watch, if-”

“No, you’re not. It’s my turn.” Fionán cut him off.

Apparently, even in the dark, Fionán could see the bewildered look on Clyde’s face. He tried to laugh, but it just came out as a cough.

“I’ve gotten more sleep than anyone. You need some damn rest.”

Clyde simply gave a sigh in response, because with how tired he was, who was he to protest the guy telling him to sleep?

Ahead, alight flickered on like a beacon. The outline of Dray stood before them.

When they had even started walking to re-enter range of the shelter, Clyde could not answer. But they were here regardless, and Dray was standing in the mouth of the cave, waiting for them.

“Wow!” Dray called. “…left me, didn’t you guys?”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Dray.” Fionán gave in response.

As they got close enough to see his face, Clyde noticed Dray’s eyes widen slightly.“Who’s-”

“I am.” Fionán said firmly.

Dray gave a moment of silence before chuckling softly. “Not gonna argue with that.”

He did not move from the mouth of that cave, shining that warm light upon them, until they had reached the entrance.

___

Verbena, Fionán, Dray.

One friend bandaging his shoulder, another coming to find him, another remaining in the entryway of that cave, waiting for them. Friends that he didn’t have back home. Friends that were the kindest of the sort he’d had (after Eli, but that went unsaid).

Bad things would come. The calm before the storm, Clyde guessed, but as Fionán took a seat, Clyde had a naive, impossible feeling that, just for a moment, everything could be alright.

District 10 Female: Desi Flores

CONTENT WARNING: Miscarriage - I am so sorry.

Song: Lo Vas A Olvidar (with ROSALÍA) by Billie Eilish and ROSALÍA

Lush green trees trembled in a light breeze, clashing with the soft hues of pinks and oranges in the sky as the ether slowly welcomed nightfall. The beach’s blood thirsty shores roared in the distance. A quiet had befallen the arena after the battle. The creatures of hell had disappeared as if they were never even there at all. All that remained were the deaths left behind and the grief that lingered like a heavy veil. It accompanied the allies’ silent march. Exhaustion lying heavy in their bones. Thankfully, the two found shelter in a small cave. It was damp and confined, but it felt safe. Few words were shared between them. Each in their own worlds. Their third members, chilling words at the forefront of their minds. “Leave me here. I was dragging you down anyway.”

​Abigail had been the piece to hold them together. Peaceful and kind. She had never stood a chance in a place made of hatred. The very foundation, made of corpses. The smaller ally curled up and began to cry. Everything hurt, mentally and physically. Her legs felt weak under her. Her feet hurt from the hours spent in her boots. The sobs wracking her frail body didn’t help the pain blossoming from the bruises coating her sides. Desi felt nauseous, lightheaded. Miffanne didn’t look much better. The wound on their leg was still bleeding. They needed help.

​Almost as if the world had heard her quiet plea, a beckoning beep called out to the pair, cutting through the melancholy silence. Miffanne instantly straightened and limped outside, their knife drawn. A parachute fell at their feet. Desi watched breath bated as Miffanne picked the small tin up and opened it. A thin sheet of paper fell, and Desi joined them, scooting forward. She caught the paper before it fell to the dirt, lifting it up to where her ally could see. She looked down, and in an ornate scrawl, two words were written: ‘Your reward.’

The allies both sucked in a breath, Abigail’s death flashing into memory. Tears gathered in Desi’s eyes.

Upon opening the small tin, a salve was revealed. It only took them about two seconds to jump on it like ravenous beasts. Their salvation had arrived. Soon, the pair’s wounds healed miraculously. Desi watched the angry marks on her ribs darken into purple and yellow. They still marred her skin, but hurt significantly less. Her arm also felt much better. Miffanne’s leg looked a lot better as well. Their loss had not been for nothing.

​The relief was sweet, and it lingered in the air around them. The two watched the sun fully set in mute silence. They passed around the remaining water in their pack, their dry tongues lapping at any water with greed.

​“Thank you for havin’ my back,” Desi said, breaking the silence. Miffanne looked up, their face showing their surprise.

“Allies stick together. Alone you’re a single drop; together we can form a mighty ocean.”

The other girl hummed at their words. Miffanne sure had a unique perspective on things. She wondered why she hadn’t appreciated it more before.

“Do you have someone waitin’ for you back home?” She said her words slowly, wondering if they were overstepping. The two had never really talked before.

“I do.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

“Do you?”

“Back home, I’ve got plenty of people. I even got myself a lover.” She blushed a bit. She hadn’t told that to anyone before. They had been secret, but it was apparent that the time for secrets was over.

“Love is neither wise nor beautiful, but is rather the desire for wisdom and beauty.”

“Huh, I’ve never thought about it like that before. That’s an elegant way of lookin’ at it. Thank you.”

“I have a girlfriend back home. I’d love to see her again someday.”

Desi smiled. Glad that Miffanne felt comfortable sharing with her. “It’s mighty special to have someone you care deeply about back home. Sometimes when I feel down, I just imagine what he might say to comfort me, and it works wonders.”

​The two fell back into silence, both presumably thinking about those they had left behind.

Suddenly, Desi inhaled sharply as a pain rolled through her stomach. That was odd. She hadn’t felt something like that for a while, and her heart sped up at the indication. Maybe she was just hungry. She ignored it, resting her head against the cool rock. She imagined stepping off the train into the arms of her family. There would be laughter and smiles. Her brothers would be ever so proud of her. ​Another sharp pain knocked the breath out of her. A sudden thought came to her: was she dying? She wrapped her arm around her stomach, her hands trembling. Glancing at Miffanne, she noticed they were not paying attention to her. She let out a sharp breath as another pain seized her. Suddenly, the cave was too hot.

“I’m gonna go take a walk. It seems quiet out there.” She said a bit rushed, but Miffanne only nodded.

​The moonlight welcomed the pained creature as she rushed away. She didn’t manage to get very far before she fell, her breathing laboured, and let out a soft cry. Her stomach twisted itself, and all she could do was curl up and sob in pain. The moon seemed to double under her vision. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there panting under the stars. But all too soon, blood seeped down her thighs. Realisation split the girl’s heart. She cradled her stomach, willing the sinking reality to be false. But when the blood and twisting pain in her stomach did not cease, she couldn’t avoid fate. The girl screamed, her voice twisting in grief and pain. The silence swallowed her scream, but not before it alerted her ally.

Miffanne’s voice split the air in panic as they called Desi’s name. But it fell on deaf ears as the other girl sobbed. Soon, they found the poor girl, still lying on the floor. Her eyes were wide in panic. She was the wild creature the Capitol wished her to be. She couldn’t even muster the courage to grab the knife at her hip as footsteps approached. She could barely answer her ally as they looked on in horror. They both knew what was happening, and just as they knew, they were helpless to the whims of nature.

​Hours or minutes passed. Desi could not be sure, but she barely grasped the events; she could only feel the pain. The pain was always there. Constantly reminding her of her imposing reality. Her sobs echoed in the silence and scraped at her dry throat. Miffanne appeared in her swimming vision there and then not.

​The next thing she knew, she was being lowered into a cold stream. Miffanne was holding her in the water. The embrace felt odd but Desi clutched to it like a small child. The pain slowly ebbed in her stomach as she lost the life that had tried so hard to grow. But a place for death was never meant to support life. She must have fallen asleep at some point because her eyes opened, and she was no longer in the water but lying on the bank. Miffanne, asleep next to her. Their hands were intertwined, clinging together like calves huddled for warmth on a cold prairie night. Desi wasn’t sure how long she watched their joined hands. She felt numb, her strength lost.

​But she knew what she had to do. So she slowly got up and dragged her sleeping ally back to the cave. Refusing to give in to the night with the stubbornness of a steer refusing to be herded. Then, she slipped out on her own. The hellish night never seemed to end. She found flowers as she went. Collecting them in her grasp, she then returned to the stream. Her knees buckled underneath her. She let gravity take her. Sinking into the ground. She cried quietly into the water. “I’m sorry.” She sobbed.

​“Lo siento mucho, mi amor. No era lo suficientemente fuerte para nosotros. Para ti.”

​The foreign tongue was soft on her hoarse voice. She slowly hummed a melody through her sobs. Her lip trembled, but she refused to let it stop her. Tradition was important. It was what differentiated her from an animal.

​“Dime si me echas de meno’ aún.”

​She sang. Her voice cracked and strained. Like a rushing river colliding into rocks on its way.

​“Dime si no me perdonas aún.”

​The song that she picked was an old song about forgiveness. Desiderius prayed that her lover and her family would forgive her for everything that had happened. Everything that might. She hoped the baby would forgive her for not being strong enough. For having lost it.

​“Qué harás con to’ este veneno? Na’ bueno. Dime si me echas de meno’ aún.”

For letting the arena win. This place of death had ripped the life of an infant just as it may rip her own life from her.

“Lo va’ a olvidar?”

Did people back home even remember her smile? Her laugh. She felt as though the world would forget her. That her existence meant nothing. Just as the life budding in her was doomed to fail without even taking a breath.

“Can you let it go..” She breathed out softly. Breaking into sobs she dug her hands into the ground. She looked up. Her hair, a wild nest around her face twisted in grief. Tears glistened down her face, illuminated by the moonlight.

“Why!?” She asked softly. “Why!” She screamed her voice scraping against her throat as it released all of its anger into the sky. The guttural sound warped itself into a painful sob.

District 11 Female: Verbena Birdie

~ Gil (Milo j, Trueno)

I’ve kissed my fair share of people. It’s what is done for starving young women and girls. When a kiss equals a warm meal and a shared bed, there is no room to be picky. In our hamlet everyone’s desperate. There is no room for judgment among neighbors.

Outside of our corner of Eleven, where the distributors and Peacekeepers linger and live, they don’t share the same frame of mind, at least not publicly. Hypocrites the lot.

I know the desperate fear that comes from teetering on survival. At least I thought I did, that my early years on the verge of starvation would be the lowest points of my life.

The low hum of the forest around our cave reminds me of how naive I was to think I could outsmart the fate I was assigned at birth. We’re back in the mouth of a cave, waiting for Clyde’s fever to break. He and Fionán received the worst of the acid rain, leaving raw skin that’s only been further agitated by the sea and fighting.

Both slept for a whole day, and it’s not until the quiet evening when Fionán rouses.

“Mornin’,” he hums, half awake. He’s next to me, so I can see when the dull movements hit him with sharp pain as he sits up for the first time in hours.

“What the fuck happened?” His torso is wrapped tightly in bandages that restrict his movement; I can still picture the dark red bruising underneath them.

“You saved the day, kid,” Dray answers, also rising from his short nap. Fionán makes a face at his words, gently rearranging himself against the rough cave wall.

“We’re the same age, Dray.” Fionán returns in a mocking tone, taking in the rest of the group. May out of sight, keeping watch at the cave entrance.

Clyde is deepest into the cave, half hidden by shadows and with a thick layer of sweat covering his body. He’s only been woken up once to receive the medicine that came to us through a silver parachute. That was hours ago, though.

Sitting next to him is Dray, who has been good at monitoring his progress every few hours. I can tell his anxiety has been rising as time passes. The good news was that Clyde’s shivering has greatly decreased.

“What are you doing?” Fionán asks me as he finally sees the mess around me. There is scrap metal, screws, blades, and the occasional wire at my side. At home I would feel confident amidst the familiar items; in the cave I feel all the ways I can’t use the materials. I feel the absence of my rusty pliers, my shears, and the rest of my tools. The former two might make working with wire and metal much easier.

“Whatever I can,” I finally say as I finish hammering and rounding a piece of sharp metal with a rock, making it look like sharp jaws.

“She’s been at it all day,” Dray adds, gesturing to a metal body I had worked on earlier. It was in the ugly early stages. Unassembled, it just looked like junk and not at all like the deadly trap I had envisioned. Early stages where anything can still happen.

“I’ve never made anything like it,” I finally admit out-loud, “It’s a trap.” After many days in the arena with my allies and about two weeks of knowing them, I think this is the first time I’ve let them see the spirit I used to wear so easily. That was before they called my name on Reaping Day, that is.

Fionán looks at the metal junk trap again with renewed excitement. Dray just raises his eyebrow questioningly.

“Oh?” Dray hums. I feel pride swell up in my chest, a familiar feeling after weeks away.

“Back home, I was renowned, y’know.” I think of the early mornings with Reed and Silo at the train tracks where the only thing that mattered was making the week’s project work. On the outskirts of town I could pretend I only kissed for love or fun. I could pretend inventing and thinking were my full-time jobs and that I had a house to return to rather than the shitty shack my family squeezed into.

“Fionn, that true?” Dray playfully asks Fionán, who only shakes his head laughing as I throw a cave rock near my two friends, missing. Which only makes them laugh harder.

---

When May wanders in, we’re all in a lighter mood. It makes me wonder what part of our conversation might have been broadcast for Panem to watch. I find myself wishing all of it could have been seen by our families. I want them to find some peace after all the chaos they must’ve endured after watching us in the acid rain and with the crazy mutts.

It’s my turn to take watch at the cave entrance. Though we’ve been huddled only around a bend of the cave, enough to see the waning sunlight, I didn’t notice just how calm the outside really seemed.

Cicadas are singing somewhere in the east, where the low sun casts long shadows. Birds are swinging from branch to branch, slowing down in their songs. A slight breeze sways the grass and branches so organically it’s easy to pretend I’m back home, enjoying a moment alone.

The air isn’t right, though. Late summer in Eleven brings a wicked heat that doesn’t leave with the sun.

I find myself reaching for my token that hangs on my neck. A sign to my family that I might be thinking of them. Anything can still happen, but I want them happy, and selfishly I want to live and die on my terms.

Victor life, whatever illusions I once had, ended when I joined an alliance. It ended when I saw the boy from Ten die on top of me.

I laugh out loud as the irony hits me. The district life I fought so hard to outrun, the fate I thought I could change—there’s no life beyond it. No matter if I survive, there’s no life in their living.

This far into the games I haven’t killed anyone. I am undramatic, boring to the Capitol audience, and weak compared to the Careers. I think again of the boy from Ten, how fast his hands dug into my neck for the audience, for his survival. He was desperate, and I can’t blame him for that.

An owl hoots from somewhere in front of me, followed by a quick rodent scream before the usual sounds return. It’s nature being nature.

---

My stepdad dad married my mom when I was seven. As a part-time tradesman, he turned our living situation around, and best of all, he really loved my mom.

I’m daydreaming, remembering the last Sunday dance I shared with my dad and brother at The Gilt when Clyde taps my shoulder.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I get out before I wrap my arms around him, only barely remembering to be gentle. I can feel my lips shaking, and I feel a sob climbing up my throat that I do my best to swallow.

It’s only now that I see him awake and moving that I realize how scared I was of him dying.

“You smell so bad Clyde,” I finally say when I’m sure I won’t sob; it was embarrassing enough that one time.

His short but genuine laugh lifts a weight off my shoulders, dread, I think.

“How are you feeling?” I pull away from the hug. I look at his blistered skin, ugly but healing with a promising red tint to his face. I’m feeling his forehead to confirm his fever is down when he sighs at my hand.

“Verbena, your hands are so cold!” He whines, leaning away from me. “I feel better. I promise, whatever Capitol drugs I got did wonders.” He proves this by standing up and doing jumping jacks. I can only smile at his energetic spirit.

“I am hungry though,” he adds once he sits back down.

“Well, that I can help with.” I pull out my clean, but freshly foraged snack. “Solomon Seal root,” I hand him the starchy potato-looking food.

“May might be able to boil some water in a can if you want it soft and cooked.” Clyde nods, slipping a single root in his mouth as he slips back into the cave.

“Tastes sweet,” I hear faintly as he rounds the bend and disappears, leaving me alone again.

---

Death is the only predictable thing about being in the arena as a tribute. Seeing death, being dead and killing are the entertainment that sells among the rich Capitol citizens.

Glory, guts, and violence take the center stage, and if memory serves me right, it’s the viciousness that makes the victors.

Even as I forage around the cave entrance, I feel the ghosts of the arena. Dead eyes watching as I kneel down and dig up dandelion roots and examine the bulbs I find in the grassy areas. I turn them over in my hand: muddy, onion-shaped, but yellow.

I can’t imagine a victor mourning for their fellow tributes, staying haunted after the initial death has passed. What about my allies, my friends? Twenty-four come in, and only one leaves.

Under dark shade is where I first spot hosta leaves, my brother’s namesake. It stops me in my tracks. I take in its still-closed flowers that are sure to bloom any day judging by the purple color their petals are exposing.

It’s a feast of them. Something like this back home would call for an evening of gathering, washing, preparing, and feasting. My brother would get the first bowl in honor of his namesake, and we would eat happily. Foraging was the only way to eat hostas, as private cultivation is prohibited in Eleven and buying any isn’t in the budget.

Hostons in the spring make a meal, but the summer leaves are still edible. I make sure to only take a few leaves from each plant as I imagine sharing these with the group. Hoping my own family will have a meal to share tonight too.

Though I imagine it’s boring work to show me wrestling leaves and roots in the mud, I hope the commentators can stream it. That they’ll show the camaraderie of our alliance, and even if they spin it into a digestible narrative for the clean and shiny viewers of Capitol, it won’t hide the love that can emerge in the worst of places.

Dire circumstances with people that won’t last doesn’t make us any harder to love and to love. It’s a paradox, finding comfort where it won’t last. When these people we love become strategies and weapons that the Gamemakers can recap, there’s no rhyme or reason to do it.

In this way, I reflect on my short time with my allies. Wasn’t it only a few hours ago that I first felt like myself with them, finally among my tools? They don’t know me like my people back home. I don’t know them, but we trust each other with our lives.

It’s not something I consciously chose to do, it’s what happened. The eyes of the country are on us now. Money has been used to bet on our lives, and when they have their victor, they’ll remember everything about them except their humanity.

I’m placing the last of the leaves in my bag, carrying some in my arms, eager to take every piece of familiarity I can get.

Walking back to the cave entrance, I see May stick her head out of the cave once before ducking inside shyly. It seems there are some things we do need to talk about.

As the sun sets, leaving only the last rays of lights, I close my eyes and breathe it in. The fleeting heat warms my face and arms, and though the summer air still feels wrong, I know that inside the cave Clyde, Dray, Fionán, and May are waiting for me. I know they’ll be my family until there’s no one left to love.

No Gamemaker can erase the truth today. That we’re still human with life still shining in our eyes.

District 11 Male: Fionán Quigly

Little Lion Man, by Mumford & Sons

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Fionán shuddered weakly as he caught sight of Romulus walking towards them, a knot of dread settling itself deep in the pit of his stomach. “Now.”

“What? Why?” Clyde asked, following his friend’s gaze to see what he was looking at. “Oh.”

“My knee became intimately acquainted with Mr. Stratton’s groin during the bloodbath, I don’t think it wise we stick around any longer than necessary.”

“Fionn, I’d like you to think about your phrasing there, dude.” Clyde huffed.

“I’ll deal with Romulus, you two get out of here.” Grace stooped to pick her knife from the sand, as she turned to face the direction the boy was charging from. She gave Fionán one last look as she muttered under her breath, just loud enough that he could barely catch the words. “You look so familiar.”

“Fuck.” Fionán gasped as the younger boy hoisted him to his feet, sharp pain shooting through his ribs. “That hurts.”

“Are you okay?” Clyde murmured in Fionán’s ear, slinging his arm over his shoulders. “I mean, other than almost drowning.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Fionán nodded, wincing as every step he took sent pain coursing through his body. “Where’re the others?”

“By the pile of shrimp mush maybe?”

“Which pile of shrimp mush? There’s at least three here.” Fionán scanned the beach for any sign of their allies, spotting Dray standing beside a dead prawn. His breath caught in his throat when he didn’t see May and Verbena with him. “Clyde?”

“Hm?”

“Where are the girls?”

“With Dray, I hope.” Clyde started walking a little faster. “Tell me if I need to slow down.”

“You’re fine, I’m alright.” Fionán inhaled shallowly, trying to bite back the near constant waves of pain. “Just dizzy. Think I hit my head.”

“That was Grace,” Clyde explained, “you grabbed me in the water, and she had to hit you to get you to let go.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Clyde!” Dray called out to them as he saw them approach, cupping his hands around his mouth. “May’s down!”

“Ask him how bad.” Fionán rasped, knowing his voice wouldn’t carry far enough, even if he tried to yell.

“Fionn wants to know how bad she’s hurt!”

“I don’t know!” Dray returned, voice cracking with worry. “I’m not a doctor!”

Fionán and Clyde met each other’s gaze, hurrying over to the pile of mush. Sitting at Dray’s feet, just behind the tail of the creature was Verbena. In her arms lay May, frighteningly still.

“What happened?” Fionán gasped, dropping to his knees. He pressed his fingers under her chin, searching for any sign of a pulse.

“It got her with one of its claws,” Verbena sniffed, tears streaming down her face. “She—”

“I’m not getting a heartbeat.” Fionán muttered, sliding his fingers over a few centimeters to try a different spot.

“She’s gone.” Verbena whispered.

“Bloody hell,” Fionán gasped, turning to pull her into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked up at the others as Verbena buried her face in his shoulder, clenching his jaw to keep his own tears at bay. Dray stood cradling his right arm, which hung at an awkward angle, and Clyde, still dripping water from their recent bath, looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

May wasn’t the first to die in these games, but she’d fought side by side with them only moments before, and now she was just… gone.

Maybe if I hadn’t fallen in the water, she’d still be alive. Fionán swallowed hard, resting his chin on the top of Verbena’s head.

He took May’s still warm hand in his own, inhaling shakily as he curled his fingers in her limp ones. This was far from the first time he’d seen death, but somehow, hers hit hard.

A flicker of fear passed through his heart as he realized that May likely wouldn’t be the first of his allies that he’d have to watch die. Could I survive that? If they all die before I do, I don’t know if I can.

The clang of steel in the near distance shocked him out of his thoughts just long enough to think clearly for a moment.

“We need to leave, it’s not safe here.” Fionán shifted, reaching around Verbena to slip May’s bracelet off her wrist and handing it to her. “Here, I think she’d want you to hold onto this.”

Verbena nodded mutely, allowing Dray to help her to her feet. Clyde offered Fionán his hand, and he tried not to cry out as he stood up.

“What are we doing now?” Dray asked quietly, casting a look back at May. “Are we bringing her?”

“I…” Fionán paused, wishing he could say yes. It felt wrong to leave her lying on the beach alone, but there was no way they would be able to carry her through the woods with their combined injuries, small as she was. “I don’t think we can.”

“Are we going back to the cave?” Clyde waited for the others to start walking before he brought up the rear, the quartet slowly filing into the woods.

“No, it’s too far.” Verbena replied, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “We’ll find somewhere closer.”

“That sounds… good.” Fionán coughed, stopping short as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Clyde tightened his grip around his waist, barely managing to keep him on his feet.

“Fionán!”

Black splotches flooded Fionán’s vision as he hacked, lungs trying to expel whatever water was left in them, and then everything went dark.

---

“Dray, if you drop him, I swear—” Clyde’s voice filtered in through the haze in Fionán’s brain.

“I’m not gonna drop him!” Dray protested. “Besides, you have his head!”

“Yes you are, you’re barely holding him up.”

“I have one arm!”

“I’ll just carry him then.” Clyde grumbled, and Fionán blinked open his eyes just in time to be jostled as the two shifted him from both of their arms, to solely Clyde’s.

“What’re y’doin’?” Fionán slurred.

“No, stop moving.” Clyde scolded, tightening his grip on him. “You collapsed on us, and no, you’re not walking.”

“Clyde—”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Dray—”

“Dray can’t hear you either.”

“I can hear him.”

“No you can’t Dray.”

“That’s not how that works.” Dray shot back.

“Where’s Verbena?” Fionán sighed, deciding it would be pointless to argue with them.

“She went to go find a place to sleep while we figured out how to move you.” Clyde explained, starting to walk again. “It shouldn’t be too far now.”

“I’m sorry.” Fionán pressed his lips together. “If I had been there to fight that last crawdad, maybe y’all wouldn’t be in this state… You wouldn’t be hurt, and May—”

“Shut up, Fionn,” Clyde lightly shook him. “It’s not your fault that thing smacked you into the water, so shut the fuck up right now.”

Fionán inhaled sharply as pain shot through his ribs, but did as Clyde said, shutting up. But what if it didn’t have to happen this way.

When they found Verbena, she was sitting at the mouth of a small cave, staring into the distance with a vacant expression as she fiddled with May’s bracelet. Clyde let Fionán down, and he sat beside her.

“How you holdin’ up?”

“I think I loved her.” Verbena replied shakily, cheeks wet with tears as she slid the bracelet onto her wrist. “It’s. I don’t know.”

“I wish I could do something to bring her back,” he hummed, wincing as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his side, and he closed his eyes as the pressure sent a strike of lightning through his torso, but didn’t move. Then, he turned his gaze to Dray, who stood awkwardly a few feet away. “C’mere, let me look at your arm.”

“It’s alright,” Dray muttered, but he still squatted down in front of Fionán, holding out his arm.

With gentle hands, Fionán took the limb, frowning as he ran his finger over swollen skin.

“I think it’s broken. I can try and splint it, if I can find some bandages. Heaven knows there’s probably a few straight sticks here.”

“I’ll splint it,” Verbena cut in, pulling away from Fionán so she could look at the arm. “It won’t be pretty, but that’s life.”

“It’s my fault he’s hurt, I should take care of it,” Fionán insisted. “I fucked up, let me help.”

“You’re helping by staying still and not making yourself worse,” Verbena chided, glaring at him until he settled back against the stone. “Sometimes, you need to take care of yourself before you try to help others, Fionán.”

“She’s right,” Clyde agreed, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at Fionán’s forehead. “You’re hurt worse than anyone else, just sit down for a minute.”

“Grab something for us to eat from the bag,” Verbena instructed, handing him one of the backpacks. “Then we’ll be able to sleep sooner rather than later.”

“Alright.” Fionán finally relented, rummaging through the bag. His stomach was still churning from the salt water he’d swallowed, but the others would need to eat.

***

Owen slipped through the opening in the wall after the girl, panting as she collapsed to the floor of the run down building. He sat down beside her, cradling his left wrist as he finally broke the silence.

“You saved me out there.”

“I didn’t want to give Erik the satisfaction of killing you,” she responded curtly, breathing heavily as she leaned back against the wall. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“Owen,” Owen replied, wincing as he examined his wrist. “Owen Quigly.”

“Alexandria Clarke.”

“Are you ill?” he asked, frowning as she broke off into a coughing fit. “No one volunteered for you? I thought they had too many of those up in the career districts.”

“Father wanted my sister to volunteer for me, but I wouldn’t let her,” Alexandria responded. “She’s fourteen. She can fight just fine, but—”

“You didn’t want to risk the chance of her not coming back.” Owen finished. “I feel that. When Jimmy was reaped, I knew I couldn’t let him go. He has a fightin’ spirit, but he’s twelve. There ain’t no way he’d come home.”

“Our father wants one of us to be a victor of the games, same as he was,” she shrugged. “I figure if anyone was going to do it, it might as well be me.”

Fionán tugged the woolen blanket over his head, watching the scene play out on the television. He should have been asleep well over an hour ago, but he needed to watch this. To be sure Owen was still alive.

Fionán closed his eyes as the memory faded from his mind, inhaling shallowly. He hadn’t thought about his uncle’s games in months now. I wonder if he felt like I do now.

***

The last streaks of light filtered their way through the trees, shadows dancing over the leaf litter on the ground. Fionán turned his gaze to the sky, craning his neck to get a clearer view of where the faces of the fallen would appear shortly.

No, it can’t be. His breath hitched as the first image flashed across the sky. Romulus Stratton had met his Waterloo. Clyde gave a low whistle as he watched the boy fade from existence.

“I didn’t know Romulus could be killed.”

“I.. I reckon so,” Fionán replied, lowering his gaze before the next tribute could appear. He’d seen what he needed to. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You thought you’d see Grace up there, didn’t you?” Clyde asked, reaching his arm around his shoulders and resting his hand on Verbena’s shoulder. She’d fallen asleep a while back, and Fionán hoped it was for the best.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I— I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not. I think a little part of me was hoping she’d die, so there’s no chance I’ll have to kill her later.”

“If it comes down to that, you’ll do fine. You killed that girl from District Eight, didn’t you?” Clyde yawned.

“I’ve killed a lot of people.” Fionán’s voice cracked. “Vidalia. Owen, May, Ma. I don’t want anymore blood on my hands”

“You didn’t kill May, or your uncle. And I’d be willing to bet you didn’t kill your mother either.”

“I should have done more though.” He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tears burning in the back of his throat. “I should have run for the doctor, even if she said not to.”

“Fionán, you idiot.” Clyde grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at him. “It’s not your fault when the world demands more than you can give, dude. You tried your best.”

“But—”

“I won’t hear anymore on this, go the fuck to sleep.”

“Both of you go the fuck to sleep,” Dray grumbled, smacking Clyde’s leg. “You sound like a radiator getting ready to explode.”

“I’m on first watch, I’m not sleeping.” Fionán apologized. “But I’ll be quieter.”

“Good.” Dray rolled over, throwing his arm over Clyde’s legs.

“You’ll wake me if you need anything at all, right?” Clyde whispered.

“Yeah,” Fionán nodded, though he had no plans to actually follow through. “I’ll wake you.”

“Goodnight, Fionn,” Clyde sighed as he settled down, breath tickling Fionán’s neck as he rested his head on his shoulder.

“Night.”