There is sudden clarity before death.

It is not half-hearted, either- not a fake glimpse of what could have been reality or just have easily not have been. It is the complete chronicles of seventy-five years of life, a snapshot for every hour of every day that had been forgotten. It is one fraction of a second before one world fades to the next. She cannot even see them all as they pass through, an onslaught of times past. Everything.

It is more than she'd ever thought she'd get.

There is the beginning.

She is three, three-and-a-half, plopped on the ground with shards of gravel poking at her. The day is cold, cloudy, and she is hungry. The eyes of the boy squatting in front of her become little slits as he grins, reaching out a playful hand to her stomach. She giggles as his fingers wiggle against her, tingles creeping through her body. Chubby fingers try to swat him away as the laughter begins to ache inside her chest. "Does it tickle, Cadette?" her brother grins.

"Stop, Gunner, stop it!" she can barely utter the words, chuckles clogging her throat.

There is smoke, black and suffocating.

She listens to the rumble of thunder as ashes rain upon her head like the dewfall, and the ground quakes. She falls. The sky above is tainted with scarlet fireworks, dancing with gleeful menace. Her eyes land on the factory in the distance- what remains of it. "Gunner!" she screams, clambering to her feet. Her patchwork dress is coated with a fresh layer of mud, and her forearm aches from the impact. "Flint! Jet!" She is four- too young to work, but eagerly awaits her birthday in a few weeks- and carries their lunch to them each day: whatever she can scavenge. Her heart pounds as she dashes through the dirty streets, bread abandoned in the dust. She arrives at a shell of a building and kneels, rummaging through the remains.

"Where are you, where are you?" she can barely utter the words, hiccups clogging her throat.

There is hesitation, cautious and yearning.

She needs the apple. Her bones are weak, almost visible beneath her skin. Days have passed, and her darling stomach simply hasn't shut up, perpetually begging. The stand has a great number of fruits- how many, she can't quite say (every time she hits ten, she doesn't know what to do next). She cannot pay. She has to eat. She cannot stand there forever. Her hand darts up to the stand, fingers barely closing around the bruised fruit before she runs as fast as her weakened body is capable of. The brothers in her head urge her onwards until she ducks into an alley, sure no one is following her.

"I got it, guys, I got it!" she can barely utter the words, puffs clogging her throat.

There is victory, bittersweet and stolen.

The audience has an empty seat here and there, and she's not disappointed- the spotlight will only shine on her for so little time, and the sooner the interview will be over, the better. A heavy crown rests on her head, bejeweled, and the dazzling lights shine in her eyes. She still does not understand how she has gotten here. She still does not understand how her brothers never got here. The smattering of applause slows as the interviewer comments, "Wow, Cadette, you did it! You are the Victor. How does it feel?"

"Fine, I guess. Fine..." she can barely utter the words, lies clogging her throat.

There is home, somber and reborn.

A fresh building rises from the dirt- clean and unblemished. The fresh hope of opportunity blooms within her as she stands before all her hard work and all the hard work it will bring in her future. She needs to help others like her. The sun shines high in the sky, sweat glistens from her brow, and the gloves on her hands are scratchy, but a smile easily spreads across her face. She is ready to get to work. Hell, she was born ready. This is what she needed to do.

"It's here. It's finally here!" she can barely utter the words, excitement clogging her throat.

There is love, passionate and consuming.

There is a body in her arms, and it is so soft, so fragile, so precious. Its eyes are round and wide, staring up at her unblinkingly. Her husband slips an arm around her, gazing down from over her shoulder; she can feel his warm breath on her neck. She can't tear her eyes away from the bundle. It has already had a set of parents torn away from it, but it has found a new pair who will love it just as much. "She's beautiful," he whispers.

"I know she is. I know," she can barely utter the words, awe clogging her throat.

There is age, slow and stealthy.

She stands in front of the mirror, staring at herself. Her fingers twirl a strand of hair that has faded from the blonde shade she is so used to, the blonde she has possessed all her life. White. It is white, not blonde- so subtle she is sure she'll be the only one who sees it. But it is there, a sign that she is no longer the young adult she used to be. She is no longer the young mother, the fresh bride or divorcee. She is no longer the young Victor. She is no longer the child. "Mom?" her daughter calls from downstairs. "Are you coming? I need help." Her grandchild wails, distracting her. White hair was to happen eventually; she just didn't think so soon. Life goes on.

"Yes. Yes, I'll be right there." she can barely utter the words, dismay clogging her throat.

There is hope, triumphant and sudden.

The cameras zoom in on the final tributes, and she is riveted. The boy has stayed isolated, and the others have battled it out. Her hopes ride on him- not another disappointment. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she knows he is it. He is the one who will make it out alive. Constantine Craine will be a name embedded into history. She leans in closer, waiting for it. Tributes battle. Two stab each other at once. Two cannons ring. One survives. She leaps from her seat.

"You little shit, you did it!" she can barely utter the words, joy clogging her throat.

There is confusion, unwanted and baffling.

It is raining, and she watches from the window, peering through the lace curtain. She likes the rain- it is soothing. Turning her hair, she sees a woman standing in front of her. The woman leans down with a concerned look in her eye. "How are you doing, Mom?"

"Who are you?" she can barely utter the words, scratchiness clogging her throat.

There is the end.

Clarity.

And she doesn't need to utter a single word.