Empty. It was the only word Beckett could use to accurately describe how he felt. Empty. Nothing but an empty shell of a once loving, kind soul. Empty. Cracked and hollow, drained of any emotion other than self-pity. Empty. Anger seeped in every once in a while, but would always dilute into something he could only call an overwhelming sadness before evaporating, leaving through each breath he took, materializing into a cloud of mist. Empty.

He ran his hands along his arms, but not from the searing cold; mostly from circulating around a repeating thought: I tried to kill myself. Each time it entered his mind, he would inhale sharply, stunned by the words himself. I made it so far, and I tried to kill myself. He let his head droop as he trudged aimlessly through the snow.

A rope was slung over his shoulder, what was left of his personal gallows. There was no point in letting such a valuable resource go to waste. Death did tell him to try again soon, and he might need it.

A stinging sensation spread across Beckett's cheek and for a moment he was lost, until he looked at his own red hand hovering by his face. He stared at it for a long moment before curling it into a fist. Quit thinking about death. If you don't think about it, it'll be less terrifying once. Let's be honest, the odds are not in my favor.

He paused. Who even is left? His thoughts collided with one another as he thought back to every night the anthem had played, to every face in the sky. He knew twenty-two were dead, but who still roamed the frozen wilderness with him?

He looked at his feet, hopeful that his shoes would give him the answer. But instead, he only saw strange imprints dug into snow, like shapes. He furrowed his brow. What is this...? Tilted head. Squinted eyes. An "M" carved into the snow. Curiosity getting the better of him, he jumped to the next letter. An "E." An "R-I." Meri. That's right, she's still here! Wait. Something lurched in his stomach as he looked to the side and saw a "B" that led to other letters, forming his name.

He ran his eyes over the carvings in the snow. Every tributes name had been drawn into the ground, dead and alive. All but one. Wiley's name isn't here...Did he do this? Warmth spread through his chest like a wildfire, the first sign of any emotion he'd felt in hours, days, maybe weeks. He didn't know how long it'd been. But he did know one thing, one memory that decided to spring to the surface.

A high-pitched voice, trembling, commanding him to stay awake. The voice of a young boy, the only voice he'd heard before passing out after the hanging. The realization slammed into him like a freight train: Wiley had saved him. Again. And Beckett had done nothing to thank him.

Doesn't sound unfamiliar. I never got to thank Cameron for the bandages, I never will. For a moment he let himself ache, but quickly rose to his senses. I'll make it up to the kid this time.

A light crack like a twig being crushed made it to his ears. He whirled around, hands clutching the remaining rope like it would be able to protect him. He didn't even know whether a human or a bunny had snuck up on him.

The boy before him was certainly small enough to be mistaken for a bunny out of the corner of one's eye, surely. Once Beckett realized who it was, his muscles relaxed as best they could in the cold. "Wiley," he said, "you nearly gave me a heart attack."

The boy only stared on with wide eyes. "You're alive?"

Beckett raised a brow, nodding. "Pretty sure." He dropped his gaze to the names in the snow. "Did you do this?" The boy nodded, and Beckett smiled warmly. "I'm sure they'd love it, if they were here."

"Yeah."

Ah, how do I help him? He's saved me two, three times? He clenched his jaw. "So, uh, you saved my ass back there...how long ago was that?" Beckett's voice shook slightly in the beginning, but he covered it up with quick, clipped sentences.

Wiley took a few cautious steps towards him. "Couple days." Beckett was taken aback. I woke up this morning in the mine entrance. How...? "I dragged you to shelter and left." The boy smiled timidly. "I thought you'd kill me if I was still there."

"No, no! I wouldn't dream of it!" Beckett waved his hands back and forth, showing his disapproval as clearly as possible. "I don't kill." Briefly, a pulsating Toby flashed through his mind, then a knife. A breath hitched in his throat and he grabbed at his neck. The image vanished, but he became aware of a line of bruises on his neck.

Wiley didn't look convinced. Although it wouldn't do much, Beckett held his hand out to the boy. C'mon, at least show you can trust me. Expectation was driving his mind. But after a while, Beckett grew tired of slowly building up his expectations only to be disappointed, and lowered his arm in defeat. Shouldn't expect him to trust me anyway. It's a game of death we're playing, and only one comes out.

A hand slipped between his and shook it, even though he no longer held it up. There stood Wiley, a nervous smile planted on his lips. "I believe you. You did help fight off the wolf, after all."

If there was ever a time since entering the arena that Beckett felt truly accepted, it was now. And in that moment, he decided that he would spend whatever time he had left protecting that kid. I said I would gladly give my life for someone that would do good with their victory in my interview. He's that someone.

The corners of his lips tugged upwards, and in that same moment it opened in a startled gasp as a flash of silver rocketed past his face. The warmth of blood to travel down his cheek, accompanied by a sting he fought to ignore. Thunk, into the tree behind him. Beckett's gaze jumped above Wiley's head and he just barely made out a slender figure scurrying behind the cover of trees. Whoever it was wasn't doing a very good job. An arrow glinted in the sun.

Adrenaline rushed through him like a tsunami passing through a city. "Get down!" he screamed. Wiley fixed a confused stare on him. By the time the arrow was loosed, it would be too late.

The arrow whistled as it closed the distance, and Beckett grunted as he forced Wiley to the ground, tossing himself in the line of fire. Metal met flesh with a sickening smack, and Beckett slammed his teeth into his bottom lip, suppressing the scream that pleaded against his closed mouth. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, it burned like fire despite the chill in the air.

Wiley screamed, and Beckett went into a fit of panic. Meri must've ran as soon as he was down, because now she towered over the two, an arrow drawn back, prepared to kill them both.

"On your knees. Now," she commanded. Beckett and Wiley complied, their knees crushing the names in the snow. Meri glanced back, and called out. "Coast is clear."

Beckett squinted at another shadow fringing the edges of the clearing, already knowing who it was. Melody marched over to them, hair billowing around her sharp features. The warrior from Twelve joined Meri. The difference in her face since the beginning was dramatic. Hollowed out cheeks, scars adorning her face, dried blood clumping her locks together. He probably didn't fare much better, but it gave the impression of disturbance.

She passed Meri, stopping only when she stood directly in front of Beckett. He thought about saying something, but his words became screams once she grabbed hold of the arrow in his shoulder and tugged, ripping it from its place and tossing it in a bloody mess on the ground. He groaned, reaching for the open wound. "Have to make it...painful. Don't you?"

"The finale wouldn't be acceptable otherwise. That is what this is, you know that, right?" Melody's voice was laced with a fake motherly tone. Beckett lowered his head in admittance. She's right. And they have the upper hand. "Speaking of which," she continued, "I don't think this team thing is going to work. Sorry, Meri."

It happened so fast that it took Beckett a second to process. A knife was in Melody's hand, she swung the handle down on the back of her "ally's" head, and then Meri was in the same position the boys were, groaning and writhing on the ground. Then Wiley took her place, standing, a clump of his shaggy hair entangled in Melody's hungry fist. Her other hand, with the knife, was held against his throat. Beckett saw him swallow against the blade.

"I have a job for you," she said to Wiley. She licked her lips. "You will kill them, or I will kill you. Do I make myself clear?"

Wiley's head shook against the knife, refusing. And then the gravity of the situation hit Beckett: this was what the Capitol wanted. But the Game isn't over yet. I still have time. Just think, think... Scheming overdrive; the one time he really needed a plan and nothing would come.

The sound of a gunshot rang out through the arena.

Melody and Wiley both turned to the sound, but Beckett didn't, seeing the opportunity he was given. He wouldn't waste it, not again. Leaning forward, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward, arms held out despite the pain flooding through one of them, despite the blood dripping from his shoulder and leaving behind a sprinkled trail. He grabbed ahold of Melody's arm and ripped it away from Wiley's throat, shoving him aside so harshly that he fell.

She swung at him blindly as he rammed into her, his weight easily knocking her down. He caught himself just before he fell atop her and backtracked to Wiley, yanked him to his feet. But the boy fought back, jerking out of his hold. I've lost his trust. Then he saw it. A tree on the outskirts of the clearing. The trunk was demolished, and a gaping crack split up the middle of the tree, the gap widening ever-so slowly, and then picking up the pace, speeding towards them. Beckett only had time to decipher what exactly had happened while taking a few steps back, eyes glued on the shadow approaching his feet. That's right...Sap freezes in the cold. Liquid expands. The tree exploded.

There was a creak from above, moans like the sounds of the dead, all those dead tributes wrapped into one sound. The dead fell forward, ready to crush the living.

Wiley had made quite the distance between himself and the range of the tree since wriggling away and Beckett was hot on his heels, limping after him. He felt the rush of air being pushed down on him from the tree, the smell of pine barely noticeable through the numbing cold but still existent.

In a moment of sheer stupidity, he looked back. Meri's arm was outstretched, eyes wide, silently begging for help. None was given, leaving her victim. Beckett blinked, and in that split second, the tree had landed, sickening cracks filling the air. Whether they came from Meri or the tree, he didn't want to know. The impact sent the names in the snow crashing together, becoming one giant wall of white that flew up around the trunk like waves crashing into a cliff-side. "H-Holy..."

When the snow settled, there was no trace of Meri. Only an expanding shape of red originating from under the bark and her still outstretched arm, crushed, twisted. He thought he saw a finger twitch, but a cannon went off.

He gagged.

"Well, that certainly makes this easier."

Beckett was glad for the distraction Melody supplied and turned on her. "You're sick." No remorse in her face, nothing. She looks more happy than anything. This makes me really want to just...to just bash her face in. But then I'd be no better than her. He settled for clenching his fists.

"You look pretty sick yourself, Malen. In the head. Look at you, you even look the part." Melody shifted something over her shoulder; Meri's bow. She must've snatched it before she ran. Three arrows were gripped tightly in her fist.

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked down. He still retained what was left of his straitjacket, spots of blood covering the length of it. Several tears lined the arms and his chest, buckles hanging off loosely. Only one in the back kept it tethered together. I may look the part, but I don't act the part. Do I?

He craned his neck so that he could look at Wiley. The boy shook like he was suffering from his own personal earthquake, using a tree to lean on for support. He's made it this far, he can cope on his own for a few minutes. He turned back to Melody, several yards away. The smile on her lips taunted him. "You know I'm right. No wonder your friend--Corradhin, was it?--abandoned you." She puckered her bottom lip. "You really shouldn't leave your love notes lying around."

Beckett's feet moved of their own accord, marching through the snow. It crunched beneath him like the sand of his district. He was home, he was marching across the length of a beach, a rope slung over his shoulder. And his destination: no longer Melody, but Corradhin. His smug smile reached him from afar, fueling his anger, egging him on. And then he was running, he was charging to the redheaded boy who had a bow equipped, an arrow nocked back.

The arrow whistled past him, almost striking him in the eye. You always said you were a good shot. Bullshit. Corradhin raised an eyebrow, surprised by his own miss. He shook it off, drawing back his second arrow, and parting his lips. "You're crazy, Beck. You'll die here."

No. You are. A silent rage flooded through him, he harnessed it, used it in ways that didn't involve weeping like the pathetic child everyone thought he was. I'm done being the nice guy. I've kept it up far too long. It's time to be who I was five years ago.

Beckett waited, testing Corradhin. His grin grew to match his opponent's. They were one and the same, they always had been. "But you know how this works, only one comes out!" The arrow seared the air between them. Finally.

He twisted sideways, arching his back around the arrow, letting it slash the lone buckle tethering his jacket together in two, getting stuck in the fabric. Chuckles burst from Beckett as he charged again. His fingers wrapped around the arrow in his jacket and yanked it out. Now that there was nothing holding it together, the straitjacket tore away from his figure and landed in a heap in the sand like the shedded skin of a snake.

Now Corradhin was panicking. He fumbled with the next arrow, letting it loose too late. His last arrow zoomed by as Beckett took the rope in his hands and tackled him to the ground. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs. Well, his friend did, anyway. Beckett had a hand on either side of Corradhin's face, an end to the rope in each. The rough material stretched across Corradhin's neck like restraints. But he still managed to squeeze his usual smart remarks through his windpipe. "Y-You're still...just as weak...as you've always been...Maybe not phy-physically anymore...mentally...you're gone."

Beckett leaned down so close that their noses were almost touching. It took all he had not to laugh in his face. Amusement laced his tone. "But I've kicked through the shackles, broke through the chains. There's no one to blame but you."

He gathered up a handful of Corradhin's hair and pulled, lifting his neck so he could wrap the rope entirely around his throat. The boy kicked and thrashed, rolled around, but nothing could break Beckett's grip. He was behind him now, the soles of his boots digging into Corradhin's shoulders as he pulled. Eyes bulged, face went red, purple; blue, lips turned blue. You've had this hold on me for too long. I followed you blindly. I let you break me down to dust. Well, it's my turn, love. It's time for me to ask you how cold your loneliness has become.

There came a point where Corradhin ceased his struggles, where he quit moving, and where he wasn't himself any longer. His short hair grew, dyed brown; shrunken features dominated his face. He was Melody now, reduced to nothing but a cold corpse beneath Beckett's fingers.

The only person between Wiley's victory was himself. And he was completely willing to give that boy a one-way ticket home.

Beckett stood, Melody's fingers breaking beneath the weight of his foot. He wrinkled his nose. She lost it, anyway. His shoe ground into her hand, earning audible crunches. Now, back to Wiley.

He clasped his hands together as he turned, prepared to congratulate the boy. "You deserve--"

No...

And just like that, Beckett was himself again, and an overwhelming guilt passed over him. He was by the boy's side in seconds. But there was no need to sit or crouch in order to see the damage done. Wiley was upright, still leaning against the tree, eyes widened in the direction of a replaying scene. But there were two things wrong with those same, innocent eyes: one, they were unfocused, staring at something but at the same time nothing at all. Two, one of his eyes wasn't visible--an arrow went straight through, skewering his eyeball like a kabob, going all the way through to the back of his skull and planting itself in the tree.

If Beckett had gagged at Meri's death, there was no avoiding the same situation here. Bile rose, acids burning his throat, and he keeled over at the base of the tree. The stench of vomit wafted up, and he would lift his head to get away from it only to be face to face with Wiley's face, and he would bend down again in a continuous cycle.

Finally, he managed to stumble away. One foot got tangled in the other and he fell back, landing on his rear in the snow. It's not fair, he thought, wrapping his arms around his knees, Wiley won, damn it! He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he thought the lids would rip. Dew-like tears hung from his lashes, latched on like he was their last lifeline. But he would only disappoint. He'd disappointed Wiley. And Anastasia, and Bellona.

He'd disappointed them by winning. It was wrong. To him, he hadn't won. He'd only earned an extra day. The black sand of the hourglass inside him had been tipped over, restarting his timer, giving him years, decades of life to spend. For twenty-five others, their hourglass had been shattered. The only difference between Beckett and the others was that his was only cracked. And at any second, he would break. He was unstable. He was glass that others would cut themselves on trying to pick up.

But he was still in one piece.

What happens when I finally shatter?