★EDEN KARAM★

Eden decided that the ability to shock an entire district into silence was her new favorite skill. It even beat out knife-throwing and pie-making.

The man from the Capitol blinked rather foolishly in the bright Two sunshine, clearly scrutinizing the front row of recent Academy graduates for the speaker. Eden was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for his initial confusion— after all, it was traditional that the head of their class volunteered for the Games, and usually they were intelligent enough to plan ahead and sit in the front row, where they wouldn't have to shove past their envious and irritable peers. However, as her voice was undeniably female and young, she felt it was quite unnecessary to scrutinize the brawnier members with quite that degree of fervor.

Eventually, she decided to give him a bit of assistance and lifted her hand high, waving so the movement would catch his attention. Unfortunately, such an action simultaneously drew the attention of her primary hurdle in the effort to enter the Games.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Esther Karam hissed at her. One callused hand flew out, grabbed her upraised arm, and forced it back down.

She considered her cousin's words for a moment. Though the question was probably rhetorical, Eden decided it couldn't hurt to be safe. After all, she had ben disappointed before by assuming her family would know something that was perfectly obvious.

"I'm volunteering for the Hunger Games," she said with a shrug. "What does it look like I'm doing?" To emphasize that point, she promptly raised her unfettered hand and waved again, finally getting the Capitol representative's attention. Good. She had been wondering if the chemicals used to dye his hair that hideous purple had somehow turned his brain to mush.

"Pardon me, miss," he said with a patronizing simper. "But don't you look a bit young to be an Academy graduate?"

"She is not an Academy graduate," Esther snarled. "She is eleven and if she thinks for even a second that this is funny she is about to be deeply disappointed—"

As usual, Eden stopped paying attention after the first few words, instead focusing on the man on the stage. "My name's Eden Karam. I'm volunteering for the Hunger Games now. It's still first volunteer, first spot, right? I sort of planned on that, but I brought my good nightstick just in case I have to fight anyone for it. The rules were kind of vague so I thought it was best to be prepared. You should mention that to my sponsors."

Nearly the entire population of Two remained utterly silent, even as she felt the burning eyes of the Academy students boring into her. Words had apparently failed Esther, even as tiny spluttering sounds escaped her lips every second or so. The Capitol man frowned and examined a small handheld computer, his eyes flickering across its contents. After a moment, he glanced back up at her.

"Miss Karam? I'm afraid your name isn't on the list of eligible tributes. Is it spelled in an unusual way?"

"IT ISN'T ON THE LIST BECAUSE SHE IS ELEVEN YEARS OLD!" Esther shouted, having apparently recovered from her previous linguistic difficulties. "Eden, have you lost your goddamn mind? Even if you were old enough to qualify, you're not going to volunteer for this—this idiocy!"

"Actually," Eden chirped. "I read the rules. You have to be twelve by the start of the Hunger Games; they never say you can't volunteer when you're eleven. My birthday's in four days, so it'll still be in the middle of the training period. I qualify right now. And a good thing, too— it'll be much nicer for Two to have a decent competitor, and a victor who isn't all burnt out and depressing. Could you imagine what sort of embarrassment we would've had to sit through if Kayla ended up volunteering?"

Esther was simultaneously going pale and red, ending up with a sort of mottled hue that, in Eden's considered opinion, did absolutely nothing for her appearance. She patted her cousin's hand gently before slowly prying her arm out of an unconsciously crushing grasp.

After a long moment, the top female Academy student seemed to realize that she had been insulted. She stood up, thin lips pulling back from sharp teeth in a furious snarl. "Karam? Are you saying that Eli's brat cousin just took the spot I worked my ass off to earn? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

More rhetorical questions. Eden considered suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, then decided to trust her instincts. "I think I'm Panem's next victor. Who do you think you are? I hope you weren't planning on the same thing, because apparently we can't have more than one of those. It's a Hunger Games thing, Kayla. You wouldn't understand."

She stood up for her seat, wondering idly if Esther was going to try and stop her physically. Fortunately, the shock of her announcement and the sudden recognition of its sincerity seemed to have paralyzed her on the spot as her complexion faded toward bloodlessness. Kayla, meanwhile, had taken the opposite route— her long, sharp-boned face was rapidly turning an interesting shade of puce that was normally associated with apoplexy. The Capitol representative seemed to be at a loss for words, even as she left her place and meandered down the row. She briefly considered taking the stairs onto the stage, then decided to show off a little instead. Tensing for the briefest instant, she sprang up, her hands planting themselves on the polished wood with the confidence of an Olympian. She levered herself up into handstand without so much as an instant of doubt as to her technique's perfection. Her back bent, and she flipped herself right side up, the impact of her landing drawing a high-pitched creak from the wood of the stage.

After a moment of satisfaction (who else could go to the Games with such aplomb?) she turned around to look back at the audience. Esther had not moved so much as a muscle; in fact, she was still staring at Eden's seat with an expression of dawning horror. Eden wondered if she ought to do something, then decided that Ezra would come looking for her eventually, assuming Esther didn't come to her senses in an appropriate amount of time. Silence pervaded the Reaping ground, even as a breeze stirred the air and carried odors from Eden's favorite restaurant across the crowd. She noted with some concern that the murderous rage on Kayla's face had yet to dissipate, and decided it would be best to nip that in the bud.

"Don't get so bent out of shape, Kayla," she said kindly. "You're slow and stupid, so you probably would have died anyway. Really, I just did you a favor."

Thus, Eden's Reaping ended on a note that would remain unchanged for the rest of her Games: with bright laughter, vulgar expletives, futile attempts at murder, and the utter certainty that nothing in the universe could stand in her way.

★JAZZYNN "JAZ" JONES★

If the world could fall silent, Jaz knew it would be something like this moment. There was no wind, but the air was cold against her bare arms. The trees were still, and she couldn't even hear the soft rustling of browning leaves. In the distance, she could see smoke rising above the factories to obscure the midday sun, but the metallic sounds of the mechanical parts whirring was too far to be heard. She felt compelled to hold her breath and to let to quiet last, but she denied the world of the satisfaction of such an action. The world wasn't peaceful, and it didn't deserve such quiet.

Jaz's fingers were without composure, fidgeting with the thin rim of her dress. The black fabric was gripped tightly in between her fingertips, but her hands didn't tremble nor did they sweat. She was restless, not anxious, and her hands ached, palms eager for the familiar hilt of a blade. She stood alone, back resting against the bark of a tree. Remus' funeral was an hour away, but she had arrived two hours early, abandoning her morning sword routine for the occasion. He deserved the best, and she wanted to spend some time with him alone before he was buried ten feet under.

Her eyes landed on the black of his casket settled meters away, but she looked away quickly, gaze rising to the sky. As her eyes traced the varying blues and grays, her thoughts wandered to the body sitting so close to her. Despite her incentive to show up hours before the funeral's start, she had been unable to walk forward and drag her fingers across the smooth surface of the casket. Ashamed of those she had killed in his name, she was unable to near Remus' body and face him. She knew that he wouldn't have been proud of her; he would've been disappointed in her and her actions. In spite of what Panem thought, she cared about him and what he would've thought, and that's why she refused to see his lifeless form.

She wasn't strong enough.

If the handle of a sword was placed in her palms, she could wield it with far more than enough skill to behead someone else or to do whatever was asked of her. If she was in the Games once more, she could run farther than what she thought her legs were capable of if she wanted to. She was strong with a sword and at her legs, but not once would she be strong at her heart.

Before seeing the casket in which his body laid, she had been at the height of it all. She had never hesitated the pull the blade, nor had she ever doubted the morals of plunging a knife into a heart; she had lost those morals before then. But now as she stood so close to his unbeating heart, she understood that it wasn't right. She should've had those morals and known the differences between rights and wrongs as she had learned through the years they had spent together. She should've listened to the feelings of good deep inside of her heart instead of ignoring them to quench the thirst of blood that his death had ignited inside of her. This was her first mistake.

The crimson shade of his blood was something branded to his mind and memories. She remembered how red has stained her fingers, and how his tears had mixed with the blood trickling from his parted lips. His fingers had clung to hers tightly, and she had cried harder than he had. Whispers of comfort catching in her throat, she had screamed. Chaos ensuing around her, she had screamed. Anger, grief, and the feeling of loss clouding her heart, she had screamed until she could scream no more. In that moment, something had broken inside of her, and she had drawn the blood he had hated. She became the perfect model of what he had not wanted her to become, and while she had done it, she had thought she was doing it all for him. This was her second mistake.

As Jaz stood, the soles of her feet pressing into the dirt below, she recognized her third mistake. She was here while he was there, and she wasn't walking up to him. This, the fact that she wouldn't meet his dead body, was her third mistake.

She regretted these mistakes.

It hurt her to see him so far and to remember that this wasn't what he would've wanted. She wanted to take back what she'd done. If only she could take back every stab, every pull of her blade. If only she could take back every kill she had ever made.

She allowed her gaze to flicker away as she focused on her surroundings for a moment, her breathing quieter than usual. A light fog hung in the air, lingering from the morning haze. She wished she could get lost within it, and perhaps, sail its translucent ship to the heavens where, she knew, Remus dwelled. The leaves rustled now, moved by the gentle wind. The bark of the tree seemed rougher than it had before, and Jaz forced herself to peel her body from its uncomfortable surface. Her gaze returned to the casket and as it settled on the black, she realized it seemed far more welcoming than before.

Maybe she didn't have to make another mistake.

The wind seemed to agree with her as the bitter cold of its heart gnawed at her fingers, flowing in the direction its soft whispers urged her towards. She stepped forward, leaves crunching beneath her tattered shoe. Her gaze stayed on the black laces on white for a moment longer than necessary, knowing that it was what Remus had always worn. Allowing her gaze to return to the casket, she took another step forward. Her shoe sunk into the ground slightly, and dirt stained the edges of her shoe's underside, but it didn't matter to her. One step after another she continued forward, and as she neared the burial box, her desires to turn away grew stronger. But she didn't. Her best friend didn't deserve that.

Jaz's fingers trailed the soft fabric of her dress to the lining, where they enter the hidden pocket she had asked her designer to make specifically. Her fingertips touched the smooth surface of a wooden horse figurine, and at this action, she felt stronger at her heart. Clutching the wooden figurine tightly, she took it out of the pocket, and as her gaze fell to each detail within the horse's structure, she smiled. Her eyes remained on the figurine for a moment longer, and then they descended to Remus' hair, his forehead, and then to his eyes. They were closed now, but Jaz imagined them blue and bright, staring straight into her own. She imagined them filled with joy and all the things she wished she could've felt. The tears were forming too fast, and they fell before she could dry them.

She cried.

Her fingers were curled around the edge of the casket, her head leaning towards it, and as the tears slid down her cheeks, she didn't bother to wipe them away. They fell past her chin, descending the air to the inside of the casket, to where Remus slept peacefully. She knew that they were dampening his clothes, his favorite blue shirt his family had asked for him to be buried in. She knew that he wouldn't have cared, and so she didn't care either.

She still held the wooden horse firmly, pressing it in the palms of her hands. They were sweaty now, and this time it was with anxiety too. The regret of what she'd done was still a pit in her stomach, and it had forced her throat dry. Jaz wanted his forgiveness, and she'd do what she had to do to earn it. She didn't want to make anymore mistakes, nor did she want to do anything more that she'd regret. Allowing herself another take of air, she inhaled a shallow breath with tears in her eyes. Step by step, she'd make things right.

And so her first attempt at righting her wrongs came about: she gave up her sword.

★VIOLANTE MERCY GRINNELL★

Lightning flashes behind her, and suddenly I can see every detail of her face – but all that registers is the twisted grin that rests atop her face. How is she smiling? Seven kills, and yet it still looks like this is a game to her. A cackle escapes her lips as she takes another step forward. All is dark, and for a moment I can almost convince myself that she's vanished. That I'm safe. And then lightning strikes again, and her face is inches before mine, and my breath goes shallow.

This is it.

But it's not – not yet, anyway. I haven't come so far to give up now. I trained for this, damn it. In a last-ditch effort, I throw my arm towards the knife a few inches to my right and wrap my fingers around it. The metal is cool to the touch. I'm armed now. I trained for this. I can still do this.

Except that even before I throw, I know she's too close. I watch my knife fly just a step next to her head as she dodges it – a few of her hairs fall off. Her grin widens.

"Oh, honey" – her cackle grows now – "You thought?" she cuts herself off with her laughter.

And then she lunges, and I see the sword pierce my stomach, and I gasp, and then –

\

"Ladies and gentlemen, your victor, District One's Violante Mercy Grinnell!"

Her dress is a deep burgundy: a shade darker than her blemish, many more than the blood she has spilled. It billows down her torso and hugs her shoulders. The crown atop her head is not a tiara, but a diadem. District One has never quite seen an outfit like this before – but District One has never had a tribute like this either. Satisfaction nests itself in her stomach. Whatever else they say about her, they cannot say that she has failed them.Even if they did, would I care? I'm theirs; they aren't mine.

The audience bursts into applause. She smiles. Tributes much weaker than her have made it to victory, and so she shouldn't be celebrating something so arbitrary – but she earned it. Her whole life has been leading to this moment, and now that it's upon her, she fully intends to cherish it. She nods to them and grins as the crowd's approval grows. How long has it been since she first dreamt of this? Violante remembers, as a girl, watching the coronation of Emerald Monroe, and thinking to herself: One day, I will be her.

Of course, she isn't Emerald Monroe, forever the darling of One. Her hair doesn't fall in waves down her spine, nor does it shine as blinding as the sun – but that doesn't matter. Violante doesn't need artifice. She could kill Emerald, if she wanted to; she is midnight, and, once her time comes, she will engulf the sun.

"Thank you, Cicero," she replies. The tone doesn't suit her – it's too warm, too giddy, and, next to the stern mask that is her face, it does little more than scream wrong! with each word. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"It's a pleasure to be alive, you mean!"

"Yes," she says. The audience laughs. "I guess there's no use lying to you, is there?"

Cicero stretches and wraps his arms around her shoulders. She recoils away, barely holding back a hiss. The audience laughs. Slowly, she lets herself ease into his vice-grip. Her head reels with awareness of every breath she takes. "Can you blame us, Vi? You aren't exactly a sympathetic character, are you?

"It's Violante," she snaps. She raises her chin; this is more like her, now. Cold. Cutting. Hostile. She has no need for them – not anymore, anyway. Not now that she's won – so why should she bother trying to win them over? "and clearly, that didn't stop me from winning. This isn't a personality contest."

"Well," chuckles Cicero, "you certainly proved that! Hasn't she, everyone?"

The audience laughs. Her cheeks flush red. She's a winner now. They should be fawning over me, not mocking me. Did they forget what I can do? "What more do you want?" she asks. "This was a fight to the death. I set records: eight kills in the space of one Games. A third of the tributes fell to my hand. Don't you have questions to ask me about that?"

"Sure," says Cicero. "Why not?" He pauses and scratches his head. "So how did you reach your success?" he asks. "I mean, I think we can all assume that you must have worked hard to reach this level, but is there anyone who pushed you forwards? Anyone you'd want to thank?"

"My father," she says. "He raised me all by himself, and he convinced me I could do anything if I set my mind to it. Of course, he'd been thinking along the lines of launching my own jewelry line; most six year-old girls don't jump straight into wanting to fight for the death."

"That must have been nice."

"It was." A trace of emotion lies on Violante's face: nostalgia? Happiness, even? "He saved his money for an entire year to buy me my first sword. It looked a lot like the one I killed that girl from Two with, actually. What was her name, again?"

"Gwenevieve," replies Cicero. "I have to say, that final fight had me on the edge of my seat! What were you thinking, Vi? Were you worried?"

Violante shrugs. "There was no reason for me to be. You just played the footage: did I look worried?"

Though she looks calm, Violante can feel her patience grow thin. She has pictured this moment for twelve years now, sitting on this stage under the Capitol's adoration. The lights are as bright as she'd imagined, the people as colourful. It occurs to her that she's the one who doesn't belong.This was supposed to perfect. But, though she knows seven different ways to spear through an adult male, she isn't perfect.

"So, you just knew from the beginning, then?" Cicero crosses his legs. The ebony fabric of his suit folds over. "You never had any doubts?"

"A few," she admits. There's a sigh of pity from the audience. The saps love vulnerability; she has made it so rare that they cherish any moment she's willing to give them. "I mean, it isn't all about skill. Chance has something to do with it, too." Violante pauses. "But, let's admit it: it would have taken any of the others a lot of luck to beat me."

A roar, now. Finally, the audience is in the palm of her hand, and she hasn't had to toss her hair behind her shoulder or bat her eyes. It's my power. That's what they love. And, finally, Violante Mercy Grinnell is on top of the world, looking down at anyone who isn't her. Finally, she is enjoying her moment; taking in the product of her labour.

Cicero stands. "At this point, I would like to open the floor to any members of the audience who might have questions to ask of our lovely victor. Who wants to go first?"

A grotesque-looking man stands up in the front row. His hair has been died a deep wine colour – her stylist told her that this is the new style, now – and the skin on his face has been stretched beyond what Violante could have imagined, had she not seen him. If I poke it with my nail, will it burst? The image amuses her. He wears a tight turquoise suit which highlights his miniscule size. Does he have ribs? I should be able to see them, but...

"Miss Grinnell," he shouts! "My name is Doctor Asclepius Vitus. You may know me as Haematite's best plastic surgeon to the stars. Anyway, my question is: would you consider giving me the honour of fixing your face?"

Violante blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your face," he repeats. "Would you let me fix it? I'll do it free of charge."

"No," she says. Only then does she realize she's shaking. Her teeth are gritted. Each of her breaths is shallower than the last. I'm a killer. I could kill him, too. Or I could disfigure him – maybe he'll be able to fix his own face. Is there a surgery to fix an eye gouged out with a sword?

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Positively. Next?"

And so another person comes up, and another, and another, and the circle never ends. Face after face. Question after question. Thinly veiled insult after another. She takes a deep breath before every answer.

This was supposed to be perfect.

But she is not perfect.  

★NEPTUNE SCYLLA★

Neptune felt numb stumbled through the mossy ground of the jungle, blood dripping from a cut just above her eye. Perspiration glossed her face, early evidence of the unbearable heat and of the onset of a fever, probably from the infection from the lengthy cut on her leg. Desperation hung heavily in the air, and the tribute breathed it in. She cursed under her breath as her foot found a hole, causing her to hit the ground hard. Neptune groaned and rolled over onto her back, tossing her trident to the side as she did so. She stared up at the canopy at of trees watching as the leaves dripped the remnants of the morning's storm onto her face.

A cacophony of bird songs echoed in through the jungle, creating almost a peaceful atmosphere, despite the fact that in the arena, danger lurked around almost every corner. Neptune wondered why the gamemakers had not begun the final battle yet; after all there were only two tributes left. She pulled herself to her feet, breathing hard as she collapsed yet again, the pain in her leg increasing with every minute. She leaned over, pulling away the red and yellow stained bandages to expose the long slice on her left leg. A thick yellow and green substance oozed out of the wound.

Neptune leaned backward, feeling the rough trunk against the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, hoping that a brief moment of solace would grant her the energy, and the will, to keep moving. However, the red dots behind her eyelids formed haunting figures, forms of those no longer living.

When she opened her eyes she found herself staring into the brilliant green eyes of her district partner, Lucas Sheridan. His face worked into a smile before he smashed his lips into hers, his mouth on hers as though he were drinking to satisfy an unquenchable thirst.

Neptune ran her fingers through his hair, before lacing them together behind his neck. "Is it time for me to keep watch already?"

Lucas shook his head, sitting back on his heels and looking down at my leg. While his fingers began to unlock the blood soaked bandages, he began to speak again. "Nah, I let you sleep. I was worried about your leg." He frowned as he studied the wound and then tied on clean bandages from their first aid kit.

"That was stupid," Neptune snapped. She moved her leg out of his grasp. "This isn't District 4, we cannot stay up all night because we are worried about someone else." She stood, wincing as she put some of her weight on her injured leg. "I can't believe I fell for that idiot's trap." She hated herself for letting her guard down when Lucas and Neptune went after the girl from District 12. She was a lot more trouble than Neptune had expected, which is why she made her death incredibly long and excruciatingly painful.

"We can when the person we are worried about is someone you care deeply for." Lucas grabbed her trident form the ground and handed it to her, a shy smirk playing on his lips.

Neptune shook her head, sighing quietly. The games were not anything like she had expected. All the glamour and glory was just smoke and mirrors—an illusion. She knew that when the last tribute was dead, Lucas, or her, would be the next to go. She dreaded to think about what would happen when it got to that point and could feel the same apprehension and tension coming off of Lucas in waves. Neptune dared to dream that the gamemakers would pity them, and allow them to both be victors as they had done before, but knew that was unlikely.

The tributes began their daily search for the final person standing in between them and a victory, a muscled boy from District 6. The pain in Neptune's leg gradually increased as time went on, and the bandages again reddened, with the addition of some yellow.

After a few hours, Lucas stopped suddenly, hitting the back of his neck and whipping the remnants of a bug on his pants. "Something bit me... I feel kind of funny."He wavered momentarily, leaning against a nearby tree for support. Suddenly, he growled, turning quickly and reaching into his belt. In a split second he flung a knife at her head, narrowly missing her ear.

"Lucas, what are you doing?" Neptune backed away from her friend, watching in horror as he approached, a knife glistening in his grasp. Whatever had bit him must have had some kind of poison it in.

Lucas scoffed, "I'm winning, isn't that what the point of being here is?"

"What happened to you? It is the gamemakers, they did something to make you like this. You care about me...I care about you." Neptune knew Lucas, and this wasn't him. She cursed under her breath, chastising herself for daring to hope that the Lucas and her would live happily ever after following their victory in the arena. It was some cruel joke, the gamemakers wanted to make sure that the star-crossed lovers from District 4 did not have their happy ending. Before she was in the games, Neptune would have loved a tragic ending such as this one. Now she resented herself for her decision to volunteer even more.

Lucas laughed, grinning ear to ear like clown before he lunged, barely missing Neptune as she moved out of the way. "Is that what they told you?" He twisted around, jumping forward and knocking Neptune to the ground and her weapon out of reach. His knife sliced into her head as they fell onto the mangled floor of the jungle.

Lucas placed the knife at her neck, pressing it hard enough to draw blood. Neptune looked into Lucas's brilliant green eyes, hoping to find a trace of the man she knew him to be. Instead, her gaze was only met with cold malice. He was no longer there.

"Lucas," Neptune managed to croak as she reached around her, hoping to find something to keep her alive. Her hand found a rock and she hesitated only seconds before bashing in the side of his head. "I'm sorry."

Neptune looked down at the fallen tribute, brushing back his blood soaked hair and kissing is forehead as he groaned before becoming limp in Neptune's arms. The cannon went off, confirming his death. Her greatest fear had become a self fulfilling prophecy—she had killed someone she loved.

Neptune woke with a start. She wiped the caked blood and tears off her forehead. She shivered, not enthused about her dream that made her relive the events of the previous day.

A rushing sound caught her attention as it roared above the treetops. Neptune looked up, watching the wind rustling through the leaves. An unusual smell reached her nose, one that was quite familiar back in District 4, yet not something one would generally find in the jungle. She frowned and used her trident to help her to herself feet. There was something off and the premonition she was feeling was made her uneasy.

The end was coming.

Suddenly, there were loud crashing sounds from all around. Neptune began running, stumbling through jungle as fast as her injuries would allow. Her heart pounded in her chest and the sweat on her forehead began to become more than just a glow. The gamemakers were pushing her to the other tribute, to the Cornucopia for the final showdown.

Branches and shrubs whipped at her face. The roaring became louder as the trees continued to fall. Seconds later, tumultuous waves rolled over Neptune, knocking her trident out of her hand and pushing her off her feet.

Neptune instinctively opened her mouth to scream, only to find herself swallowing water. The currents pushed and pulled her back and forth until she no longer knew which way was up and which way was down. Her eyes stung and her throat began to burn. The dark and cold from the water transferred to her body, sending Neptune into a fit of despair.

This is it, Neptune thought as she fought to stay conscious. And little bit ironic. The girl from District 4 died in the element she knew best. Maybe I should give up.

Just as soon as she had given up, her hand brushed over something smooth and metallic. She attempted to grab on to something to pull her out of the water but to her dismay the seamless Cornucopia gave her nowhere to grasp. In a stroke of luck, Neptune was pushed upward in a current and she began swimming towards the only visible light.

A few seconds later Neptune broke the surface of the water, gasping for breath. She spotted the Cornucopia and raced towards it, pulling herself onto it and collapsing. She turned over and coughed, spitting out the water she had inhaled.

She was only granted a brief minute of reprieve as moments later she felt herself being pulled up by her neck. She struggled to breathe, hands flailing at her the hand that squeezed her throat, as she stared into the face of Thoridan, his dark skin glistening with salt water.

"A career. How fitting." Thoridan's voice was gravelly and deep, yet filled with hints of anger and exhaustion. "Did you know that one of the Capital's greatest accomplishments is getting fools like you to volunteer to die." He raised his ax in a threatening gesture into Neptune's face.

Neptune scratched at the rough hands, her mind screaming for her to find a way to live but her broken heart so desperately wanting to give into the darkness that clouded her mind.

Thoridan's hand tightened, "Time for you to join lover boy."

At those words Neptune snapped. The numbness she had felt since she killed Lucas disappeared, replaced by anger and hatred and intense suffering. She had become what the Capital wanted—a murderess—and she would give them a show.

Neptune kicked Thoridan in the groin, causing his grip to loosen enough for her to pull him off. She knocked him to the ground and the ax clattered away. She threw punch after punch at his head until blood was everywhere, a mixture of both tributes.

"Please..." Thoridan's voice was barely audible over Neptune's fury. "End it."

Neptune stood up, grabbing the tribute's ax and feeling it slice through his neck as a cannon echoed throughout the arena.

★PARABELLA BLUESTONE-SCORIA★

Victoria,

I'm so so sorry my darling.

I don't have long to write this letter, so I apologize if it seems rushed. They're going to take me to the train soon, and then I'll be gone. My baby, I don't think I'll be coming back. I'm sorry this is happening to you. I'm sorry you'll have to grow up without a mother, even after I promised you I'd keep you safe from the Games grasp. All this time I was worried about protecting you, making sure your name would never have to go in more than required, and that there would always be volunteers from the Academy ready to take your place. I never considered they'd come back for me. Believe me, returning to the arena was never on my agenda. I've served my time, so to speak. Pebbles did enough killing to last me a lifetime, and I won't ever raise a hand against someone again.

The old me never imagined having a family. Pebbles Bluestone, bloodthirsty and arrogant as she was, wanted nothing but a victor's crown and the world to remember her name. She got all that. But I got so much more. My time in the arena, the lives I gleefully ended, all of that changed me. After I won by a miracle, broken limbed and bleeding, I had time to evaluate my life: who I was, who I wanted to be. I locked Pebbles away, I started meditating, became a pacifist, a vegan... I completely reinvented Parabella.

I met your father, the wonderful, foolish, big-hearted love of my life. And together we had you: my Little Victory, my greatest achievement. More than placing top of my graduating year in the academy, more than being the youngest Victor (of my time, anyway, we've had younger since— the crazy girl.) The day you were born is engrained in my memory. I spent the nine months leading up to it terrified. Was I capable of being a good parent? Was it even wise for me to bring a child into the awful, dark world we live in?

But then I heard your cry. And oh lord, what a beautiful, strong voice you had. I knew in that moment that my worries were for nothing. The midwife placed you in my arms, and you stared up at me with those big brown eyes. And your father and I stared back in wonder. He probably won't admit to it, but your father had to excuse himself he was crying so hard. I still tease him about it occasionally.

I didn't cry that first moment I held you. I was too overwhelmed with love and awe and warmth to feel anything else. I just stared at those eyes that looked so much like mine when I was still innocent, and saw the whole world in them. A whole bright future that I would get to watch play out. I knew you would be great, and I was so excited to have the chance to watch it all happen.

I'm crying now as I write this. Luckily your father is in the room with me to hold me steady. He'll take this letter with him when I finish, and he'll probably hold onto it until you're a little older. Old enough to understand all that's happened to me, to us. You're only a toddler now, a precious little thing. Oh god you're still so young, and I thought we'd have so much time. I thought...

I can't write anymore my dear, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is too much, this is too painful, I'm staining the paper with tears and my hands are shaking. The Peacekeepers will come to take me soon, and I still need to say goodbye to your father. I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye to you in person, to hold you one last time, but we felt you were too young to attend the Reaping.

I will miss you, my Little Victory. Never ever forget that I loved you more than anything in the world. And promise me that as you grow, you will be as strong and amazing as I know you can be.

Goodbye,

-Momma

★WREN DUFTY★

Look. I didn't want to become a victor. Well, that was a lie. Of course I would rather spend my days under the close watch of the capitol then die a gruesome death from a strangers weapon (most commonly a bow and arrow nowadays). So, I think the better way to say this would be: Look, I didn't want to be a tribute. Because that is what I am, a tribute. Not a victor, yet. Luck is on my side. How do I know? Because when you see the second last opponent dying in in front of you what are supposed to believe? Oh no, only one more tribute, I could die! Wow, that sounded meaner in my head than it did on paper.

But anyway. Here is my account on how I most stupidly and un-courageously won the least remembered hunger games. Before I say anything stupid, there are two sides to every story and mine is the less glittery one. So lets begin. As I said, I was standing in front of Kathryn Vagres, as she died (to put it simply.)

Let me say something for all you out there who have never seen someone die, like actually die. Its quite horrible. And for truthful sakes, I shall indulge your innocent minds with the details.

Blood resembled a blanket as the sixteen year old Kathryn died. Her skin -normally a burnt and tanned brown- was paler than usual, and her darker shade of hair was matted with odd assortment of objects. Her breaths streamed out as mist in the early morning air and he ground Kathryn lay on was cold and hard. Kathryn indeed died on the plains, the exact area she died is quite controversy so I will no tell you and and I most likely forgot. Kathryn was no ally or was significant to me, as I watched her last breaths burnt the air into mist. She must of been strong, since no pain came from her lips though they were indeed wide open in a silent scream.

Sincerely ? I didn't give a dam who I was killing at the time, maybe that was why people began to call be devil-spawn. Or maybe, district four doesn't like short brown haired pale girls. We will never know.

Anyway, I'll try to keep this more serious. This is the hunger games after all.

Birds with names unknown to me screeched in menacing calls, flying overhead and disappearing into the distance. A cold shiver ran down my spine. One down, one to go.

Gavril was a harder target than Kathryn, she mostly survived this long from gifts from sponsors and with a face like that god knows how she obtained them. Gavril was smart, cunning and cruel; he would he harder to take down.

"AHHH!" The scream was male, Gavril, unless the trees suddenly became male humans and began to scream.

Sometimes, I wish I became a author instead of a victor, it would have been easier that way.

Gavril was from two, strong, muscled and quite handsome (but don't tell anybody I said that, I will deny everything). The screams continued, not that I minded, the sound was quite pleasant. Two steps, the sound grew louder, four, five, six, seven. I tugged at a vine, clinging awkwardly to another vine that was connected to a tree. The whole collection of vines fell, and in front of me was a sight to see. Quite gory, but then again, quite soothing.

A large leopard like creature stood over Gavril, its jaws snapping at his hands which were quite cowardly covering his face- ooh, there went a hand.

"BEAST- AHH! MU AHH!" lets just say the words that came from that pretty boys mouth wasn't as innocent as that, curses that only your grandmother knows were flying out of his mouth. It was almost beautiful.

I watched as Gavril was not-so-silently torn to pieces (and then gobbled up) with a light smile on my face. I had won. I could almost have done a little happy dance then and there.

But, stupid fourteen year old me burst out laughing. Curse you humor! The creature -mutt- growled, its head turned and it gave me a sort of smile, revealing sharp bloody teeth. The Leopard-o-dog (which is what I decided to name it) growled, turning and pounced, but by a millimeter missing short. I screamed. The birds screamed. The whole forest was an orchestra of screaming.

Adrenaline pumped into my legs, as I raced past the vines and back out into the plains. The wind had picked up, and chills flowed down my spine like a Mexican wave. I looked back, the Leopard-o-dog was following right behind. Luckily the beast wasn't as fast as District 4's track champion (*cough* me *cough*).

The cornucopia was to my left and the forest to my right. I turned, kicking up dry dirt and racing to the right. My legs pumping, my arms swaying and my hair all over the place. I screamed some sort of battle cry and jumped up the closest tree (Now, I'm so glad this was the least remembered games or I'd be shamed for the rest of my life).

Now that, kids, is how to survive a Leopard-o-dog invasion.

It took only four to five minutes of Leopard-o-dog vs Wren Dufty jaw snapping competitions for the helicopter to arrive. The mutt dispersed into holographic dust and I jumped off the tree, enjoying the loud thump and the cheers that met me.

You, Wren Dufty, are now the winner of the 140 hunger games. Whoo! 

★ADEL ASLET★

Cameras flashed, and pop music played as Adel entered center stage. She waved to the in-studio audience, even twirling in her glittery gold dress when the crowd screamed her name. She smiled brightly, blew kisses to the crowd, and danced around in the spotlight that followed her.

To an outsider, it seemed as though she adored the attention and affection of the Capitol. But truth be told, all of it was planned out to the very last detail. It was all part of the script— from the way she moved, to the glitter clouds that were left behind from her dress. Even her lines had been scripted.

Though, none of it mattered to her. She didn't care for the attention, she didn't care for the Capitol, and she didn't care that she had to be somewhat of an actress. No, all she cared for in those few moments was the color of her dress.

She would probably laugh at herself if she admitted this to herself out loud. Fashion was a shallow thing. Nothing more than a tool used to divide social classes, and divide people into different classes of beauty. It always followed the same law— petite was neat and plus sized was criticized. An industry solely based on appearance and how aesthetic one's outfit was.

Yet, here she was, obsessing over the color of her dress simply because it was gold.

Gold itself was symbolic of wealth, talent, and success. It was the color victors would wear because they proved themselves to undoubtedly be the best of the best, and the most determined to succeed. But the color also stood for a sense of falseness. People got lost so lost in its beauty that they forgot that although gold presented itself to be everything, the only value it had was the value one placed on it.

Victory was the same way. Many thought it was everything, many got so lost in being victorious that they forgot the prices it came with, and who they were before the triumph. Winning could make someone glorified but it didn't mean that amongst all the glory and fame that one was truly everything everyone else made them out to be. And most of the time, the sacrifices the life-defining victories required were the things that weren't worth sacrificing for those few minutes of fame.

Adel had sacrificed her leg, her inner-peace, her ability to sleep at night without medication, and most of all, her happiness. Being alive seemed worse than being dead, and the victory didn't seem worth it.

Her dress only reminded her of this, and she hated it. She hated the falseness, she hated the victory. Victory wasn't worth it and it never was.

"Adel Aslet, so happy to have you!" the male interviewer practically sang.

Adel shook hands with the interviewer before seating herself in the egg-shaped chair that appeared to be the same one from her pre-Games interview. Nothing much had changed since she had last been in the auditorium. No changes that she could notice at least— besides maybe the atmosphere that seemed much less tense compared to her last interview.

"How have you been since your victory?" the interviewer immediately started.

She shuffled in her chair in an attempt to get comfortable. Her prosthetic leg had been a pain-in-the-ass, and trying to get it in a comfortable position seemed more challenging than she assumed it would before she got it. Times like these, she wished she had her real leg back.

"I've been marvelous. The people of the Capitol have been very soft-hearted with me, and I cannot even begin to describe how sensational Victor's Village is," she replied.

Judging from the sea of faces, the citizens of the Capitol seemed satisfied with her answer from what Adel observed. As scripted as it was, and even sounded, they bought into it with ease.

"That's fantastic to hear! But I do have a question," the male interviewer began again. He put his foot on his lap and leaned in closer to Adel. His eyes sparkled with interest, and if Adel hadn't known any better, she would've thought he was about to ask her to tell him a secret. "Can you tell us, what does victory feel like?"

Adel combed her fingers through her hair and recrossed her legs differently. She shuffled even more in her seat, and couldn't seem to find a comfortable position. It was one of her nervous habits to fidget, and a nervous habit that was occurring because she couldn't remember how she was supposed to answer. Telling the truth wouldn't go well, and improvising would lead to rambling.

"Crap," she muttered a bit too loudly. The Capitol citizens murmured with bits of shock, and Adel's eyes widened. In this situation, chess seemed easier than dealing with people. "No, I mean, not crap— it's great. Victory is great, it's exhilarating, and it really makes you feel on top of the world. The sense of accomplishment is thrilling, and who wouldn't want to paint the town red in their name?" she quickly attempted to correct herself.

The male interviewer flashed a forced smile, but didn't say anything to her obvious mistake. Instead, he moved on to the next question.

"What does it take to win?" he continued.

Adel thought for a second, trying to remember the answer to this one. The real answer would be a combination of wits, willpower, and the willingness to live with the things that happened in the arena, but that would be an unsatisfactory answer. Future tributes needed to believe that winning was worth everything, or otherwise they might all do a suicide pact. God forbid that happen.

"It takes courage and intelligence. Nothing more, nothing less," she finally remembered the scripted answer.

The interviewer laughed. "Qualities you have, I see. Did you have to make any sacrifices along the way?"

She knew the scripted answer to this one, and she despised what she was supposed to say. Her answer was supposed to be an innocent joke about her leg when in reality it had been something she was remarkably bitter about. Her leg had been lost on her own account and she had forged a mistake that was almost endgame in the game she played.

In her eyes, the Hunger Games, was much like chess. It was about knowing the opponents, knowing how they think, predicting all their moves. Even more so, knowing what pawns the enemy plays with, and where they played the pawns on the chess board. Pawns were like allies, lose them too early and one played at a disadvantage. Keep them too long, and no progress is made toward a favorable endgame.

And if one looked away from the chessboard, suddenly a mistake was made because they got comfortable with their strategies and predicting their opponent's moves. They stopped paying attention, and got too comfortable. Not paying attention equated loss, and to Adel, a missing leg.

She made an amateur's mistake that could've easily been avoided. In a game where she was doing so well, she had made a mistake where it counted most— almost losing the whole thing. All because she looked away from the board for a few seconds.

She was bitter about it.

Even if victory meant nothing to her, she knew could've avoided one more loss. She could've avoided the mistake entirely. She hated mistakes. Mistakes were like flaws in a system. Fix them, or avoid them, period.

"Oh you know what they say, just an arm and a leg. Though in this case, a leg," she forced a laugh.

Just an arm, and a leg that weren't worth the "gold" of winning.

★ATHENA OLIVE★

Hinges creaked as I pushed open the rusty doors of storage. It had been a month since I had cleaned this place, thick layer of dust adorned my bow, and spider web formed a labyrinth in my quiver. At the farthest corner of the room lay a knife on a mahogany table.

That knife wasn't just an ordinary knife, unlike the ones I had. It was gift to me from death, but I overpowered death. Sixteen years back, this very knife gave me the deepest scar running down my forearm.

Many of my scars faded away, but this one has always seemed as new as it was sixteen years ago, reminding of my survival, my murders, my life.

I clearly remembered the pain I felt, when a redhead, threw a knife at me, trying to pierce my heart but by my right forearm intercepted it. The pain flared through my body as the knife slitted through my flesh, I tried my best to keep my vision clear, with a loud thud that tribute had fallen on the forest floor, and was going to descend to further down in the underworld.

With a clean swipe, the knife which he threw at me to decide my fate, sealed his. I took his backpack, and tried to run away from the scene, as far as I could. But, my right arm was bleeding, I had to stop that or I would have died with the blood loss.

Nowhere to go, I stopped and rested my back against a tree. The sun had set and the sky was red, the first star twinkled, I wanted to give up the fight and sleep. The blood was still spewing out of the wound, it had been fifteen minutes. The wound was deep. I wouldn't have known what to do, if not for that parachute which landed in front of me with a cotton bandage. I quickly grasped it, my heart raced faster with each passing second.

I removed my boots with my left hand and used my toes assistance to unwrap the bandage.

I looked in the bag; it had some sweaters, twice my size. I used them to clean my bloody hand. Shakily, I managed to wrap the bandage around my arm.

The anthem roared through the arena, and woke me up from my thin sleep. The pain had momentarily subsided, but I still wasn't able to move my hand.

It was the tenth day, and three tributes had died today, including the redhead I killed. That knife was still lying beside me. The edges were sharp and the handle had a firm grip.

I hauled myself up and gathered supplies lying around me. That day, I also learned that my right hand knew everything while my left hand was clueless. With this thought, I decided to go deeper in the forest. Since, I had to find a place for me to rest. I felt weak, cold and couldn't continue like that.

It had been almost an hour that night when I heard gurgling of running water somewhere to my right. I fastened my pace. It wasn't as close to me as I thought it was.

I climbed a tree with low branches, and sat on top of it. My bag, and weighed me down a lot so I left it, after wearing the blood dried sweater as well as taking the half bread loaf and a water bottle.

That was the very tree; I stayed for two days straight. The Career pack had camped below my tree and used to burn fire for the two nights, after that they didn't lived long enough to light another fire.

On the thirteenth night, the anthem played with the dark sky displaying the pictures of the four tributes I had killed. They did leave me few great things, with more bread and medicine.

With seven kills in total, I had decided to reside near the small stream, while the four remaining killed each other.

My right arm didn't look as bad as it was a few days ago. The pain was persistent but it was bearable, I couldn't have asked more, I was alive and it was the sixteenth day. What else did I expected? May be to live this through.

It wasn't until later in the evening, a loud roar went through the arena and it wasn't the usual anthem. It was something much more disastrous than the deaths of mere tributes. And I came from the opposite bank of the stream.

There was a monstrosity, with golden eyes, sharing features similar to a cat, white fur and gigantic body, tearing out the flesh of another tribute. A mutant animal, it was to create excitement in the games, for the Capitol. Since, we were 'expendable' pesky bugs for the rich Capitol.

I wasn't the only one habiting this area, few paces away from me, I heard shuffling of leaves. And so did this white monstrosity, with a flash it leaped across the stream and on to the tree where another tribute was fear struck and fell victim at its hand.

While it was busy with its new kill, I quietly descended down the tree and ran as far as I could away from it, the roaring silenced in the distance, but the anthem filled the arena again. The night sky decorated with the faces of the fallen tribute.

Was I scared? I don't remember. But I was mad, mad at the games after seeing that monstrosity.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the one-thirty-eighth hunger games. May the odds be ever in your favor." A voice had announced. My mind was racing, with the thoughts. Only, one more left until I seal my future of possibilities.

My biggest mistake I had made that time, I hadn't heard anyone approaching behind me. As soon as, I turned around, a spear passed against my ear and a dagger was pointing at my heart, with a wicked smile and dark eyes shining with victory. But I wouldn't have been alive if he would have killed me. He was big and slow, I was small. I kicked him in his crotch and knee which gave a creepy sound and he wailed in agony. With giving it a second thought, I lifted his own dagger and pierced his heart.

Just as I got up after my eighth kill, the monstrosity came and lurched at me. I instinctively dodged him and ran away from it. A ladder appeared in front of me, and caught it as it left the ground. With the final attempt to grasp me, the monstrosity diverted its attention to the recently deceased tribute.

"Oh Horn of Plenty.
One Horn of Plenty for us all!
And when you raise the cry
The brave shall heed the call....."

The national anthem started in the background, as I hung to the ladder dangling in the sky, with a satisfactory heart of finally leaving this nightmare and a belief of snatching back my future from Game makers' hand, but I was wrong. This was a vicious cycle. My life was never truly mine.

I kept staring at my knife as I recalled the events of my past, when the knock on the door brought me to present.

★ROSELIA LOCHTON★

Fourteen years. Fourteen long years had passed since Roselia had won the Hunger Games. It had bought fame for her, but with it came a strange sense of melancholy and despair. Oh, how life has changed for her. Coming from one of the biggest families in her district, there had always been pressure on her to succeed and become one of the best seamstresses known in the district.

The riches, the fame, the pressure. She had always thought she would be crushed by the weight of it all. But somehow, she survived it. Right now, she was lying in her bed, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Out of all the rooms in her mansion, her bedroom was the only place she found peace of mind.

It was bare and minimally decorated, with grey walls and a white ceiling. "Hmm, how many years. How many years..."

A knock on the bedroom door pulled her out of her thoughts. "Come in," Roselia called out. A short, brown haired girl stepped through. Roselia pulled herself up. "What is it, Leah?" A hesitant look filled the girl's face, like she was very reluctant to say something. "Umm...actually, your mother wanted to speak to you."

Roselia's face turned dark. "Now, she wants to speak to me? After fourteen years, she wants to speak to me?!" She looked at Leah, and fixed her with a glare. "Tell her I will come in five minutes."

Leah scurried off, seeing the look of anger on her face. The door banged shut behind her. Roselia glared into the distance. "Why now?! Stupid woman! Father already died! Why can't you die too!"

She hopped off her bed, and in the same clothes she had been wearing, she went to her mother's bedroom. Upon reaching there, she knocked. She heard coughing sounds before a crackly voice whispered, "Enter."

Roselia met the eyes of the sickly woman lying on the bed. With withered skin, pure white hair and faded blue eyes, she looked like she was dying, which she was. The room in which she lay was empty

"Hello, mother. How's death treating you?"

The women tried to smile, but stopped, like the effort strained her. "Hello, Roselia. I presume you still have your head in the clouds after your stupid victory."

"Excuse me?!" Roselia was outraged. "Stupid victory?! I bought fame for you! I got you here to my mansion in the Victor's Village! SO DON'T CALL MY VICTORY STUPID!!" The women winced, like Roselia's words were loud.

"Alright," Roselia's mother coughed out. "I want call it anything. Besides, the reason I called you here is not that."

"Right," Roselia said. "Why do you want to talk to me? Fourteen years, you or Father never spoke to me, why now?"

"The reason, my child," Was that tears in the woman's eyes? "I am dying, as you obviously know. I feel..." The woman paused, before continuing. "That today is my last day here, my last day to be alive."

"What?" Roselia sucked in a deep breath. "Are you being funny, woman?"

"Not even close, my child," The woman looked at her with a melancholy smile. "I wanted to see your face for one last time before everything came to an end."

Roselia staggered a little. "What? What do you mean?"

"Today, I choose to leave you, and everyone that has taken care of me. Today is the day I finally depart from this world." The women was crying now, full-on tears flowing down her face.

Roselia walked over to the bed, and glared at the woman with all her fury. Her eyes, too, filled with tears. "You are not going anywhere! Never! How can I let you go when I haven't forgiven you!"

"This was how it was meant to end," The woman smiled, and then coughed, as she felt her strength slowly starting to fade. "Good bye, child of mine." Her eyes closed, and just as Roselia went to grab her hands, all the life faded out of her eyes, and she never opened them again.

Outside the room, walking in the corridors, people heard screaming. Not a 30 year old woman, a 13 year old girl crying for her mother. Roselia Lochton thought she had gained a lot, but after this all her heart was filled with, was loss and grief.

Immense loss and grief.

★EVELYN GRAY★

The acrid smell of smoke, the thin layer of coal dust decorating anything that dared to stay still for too long, the feeling that every step you took was on hollow earth, that the ground could give way any minute and you wouldn't care if it did - though I didn't miss any of these parts of Twelve, they were much better than what I left behind in Two.

If I thought about them for just a moment, every memory about my life in District Two seemed to be coated by a veneer, hidden behind a thick veil that only allowed the brightest parts through. I could almost convince myself that my life there was a dream. How could I ever be married to a Peacekeeper, with all the safety and food and money that came along with it? How was it possible that I could have two children who didn't look at me and see a Victor or a whore or a murderer, but their mother? It was only then, when I tried to look too hard at the images I'd constructed of my two precious children that the illusion began to crack.

The memories broke through in flashes, like photographs tinted by different emotions. A girl who looked too much like me as she stabbed a knife into a dummy. A boy in a white Peacekeeper's uniform waving goodbye as he boarded a train to another District. A man, not quite handsome and not quite ugly, whose entire face was contorted with a grotesque mix of sadness, anger, and fear.

My eyes jerked open, the only way I could get the images of my past to go away was by replacing them with those of my present. The light from the rising sun streamed through my windows, shining directly in my eyes as though the sun was only interested in inconveniencing me. I shifted in my bed, my eyes slowly adjusting to see the room around me. It was eerie how similar this room looked to its counterpart in District Two - the same wooden floors, just a shade darker from the layers of dust that never fully got wiped away, the same cream colored curtains I always held open so I could see the nature outside my house.

That was one of the few differences between my house here, and in District Two. In Two, the landscape went on for miles, the hills rising and falling like the waves I'd seen in Four during my Victory Tour. In Twelve, though, the world seemed to stop a few feet past the window, hidden away by a dense wall of foliage. My eyes rested on my view of the few trees outside of my window, so much smaller, so much more constrained, but at least it was the same. Although I'd only been here for a few weeks, I already knew these woods far better than I knew the rolling hills of Two.

A small bird, as dull as the rest of the landscape in Twelve besides a few patches of iridescent feathers around its neck, landed on an outstretched branch. As always, it started to sing, not a particularly melodic song, but a song nonetheless. I couldn't help but smile, gazing out at the bird. Some days when I overslept, the starling was the only thing that woke me up. Others, when sleep stubbornly evaded me, it was the only thing that gave me the energy to get out of bed.

Rolling out of bed, tossing aside the blankets that only stayed in my bed to trap me, I grabbed a bag of birdseed. Momentarily, my gaze lingered on a portrait of a family I hardly recognized. A man dressed all in white, his hair tousled from being trapped underneath a helmet. Beside him, a woman, her face bare, her makeup undone, but smiling gently at the camera and the two children in the picture with you. The boy's shoulders were held by his father, it had been a miracle to get him to stay still for as long as he did. The girl was calm, old enough to love her mother but young enough not to know what she had done. I didn't let myself look at the picture for more than a moment, though, I couldn't.

My bare feet, cold on the wooden floors, helped to ground me, and I looked over to the window where the bird was expectantly waiting for me. Careful not to spill any of the bird seed, I opened up the window. The first few days I'd laid birdseed out for the starling, it flew away as soon as I opened the window, probably scared that I would try and grab it or shoo it away. After a few days though, it learned that I didn't want to hurt it. If I would let it, it would probably fly into the house with me.

As I poured out the birdseed, the starling chirped happily at me. It didn't know what I had done to win this house, or why I had moved back here after so many years away. It was simply happy that I was alive, I was here and I was giving it good.

My Starling wasn't here any more, and there wasn't anything I could do to change that. But this starling was here, and for now I could convince myself that was enough for me. 

★SEQUOIA "MADAME" CARLISLE★

Red had always been a color reserved for Sequoia's finer tastes in life.

Before her winning, it was a rarity lest it be seen in the scratches on her palms or in the rashy patches that'd always find some form of residence in the crooks of her arms or on the bow of her collarbone. The other kids, they'd never taken to her very well; sometimes they'd take their red ink and slather it over her cubby of items in school, and she'd be forced later in the night, once everyone had gone to bed, to wash it all out.

Back then, she'd despised the hue, spat upon the shade. After her first spilling of it - purposeful and forced - from a girl by the name of Eloise, she saw power in a color that'd once represented downfall. She was given precisely five more opportunities to slather it just the same as it'd been slathered against herself, and once those five opportunities dissipated, the color only grew richer in value.

Silks and velvets and paints, luxuries previously unwelcome to impoverished souls like she, had all become available in abundance. Carpets such as the one she walked now were given inherent importance, and strips blocking the unworthy were tinged a color just the same.

She might've felt bad for the ones who spent their time clicking pictures and spreading white-hot flashes across the cold nature of her body. She might've, had she not earned this.

It was natural of her to love what she earned.

Sequoia drank in the attention, the exuberant cry of her name, the extended arms batted away by a distanced security. No one could touch her, and no one would; she made this quite clear in the way she held her hands upon her hips, in the way she purposefully rolled the fur upon her shoulders against her jawline, in the puckered cherry smile she sent to the masses.

One thing she made very clear to herself was that this was no act of selfishness. She was appreciative of the crowds that called out for "The Madame," and she was forever grateful in the way people jumped against their friends' shoulders in giddiness whenever she looked their way. She was indebted to the fact that these favorable battalions had given her glory up until the age of fifty, and she thanked each wrinkle hidden underneath cloth that she was held so highly, above other Victors, even.

She loved living, simply put. Life was the color of red. As was wine, which she planned to drink when she arrived home.

Until then, she'd walk through the valley, Benji at her side. A loyal brother, truly; she looked to him and he grinned, one tooth missing in the center, but still just as dependable as a full-mouthed smile. "You tired?" he asked.

Sequoia lifted her chin, shimmied her shoulders. "Do I look tired, baby brother?"

"You forget I'm nearly your age, sis."

"Perhaps it's all in the way you act, then?" She cast a wave to the sidelines, unconcerned with her brother's reaction. He knew full well of her teasing habits. He merely nudged her arm.

Someone else in the crowd stole away her attention, anyhow, managing to skim her bare arm with the smooths of his nails. She gave him the time of day; he blanched, caught in the headlights of acknowledgement.

Sequoia smiled an impatient smile. He shook away his initial shock. "Madame, say the line!"

Now, she might've pretended not to have heard him to begin with, but who was she to deny this boy three seconds? With a roll of the eye, and a taut narrowing of the face, she said, lowly, "Honey, you've got a big storm coming."

A collection of squealing erupted from the boy, spreading out in waves behind him, and Sequoia shook the curls behind her head, marching confidently down the rest of the carpet.

Yes, these fifty years had treated her quite well. These fifty words were the color red.

* * *

Fifty minutes later, the skyline had treated itself to nightfall - eight o'clock, she figured it was, before the train came to its swift little stop in the liveliness of District Five. Deliverance was always quick enough for Sequoia to enjoy the life of several places at once, but this place, though absolutely dreadful down to the nitty gritty of things, provided a solace. The Capitol was always too bright, too blinding, while Five contained a certain softness throughout the night so that it was never entirely dark, but never too far above dimness.

Sequoia hopped off the platform, a puff of mist flooshing between her lips from the light force of it. "You shouldn't be moving like that," Benji said - just as he did every night. And, just as he did every night, he linked his arm with hers despite the silence she offered him, and they walked along paths of carefully plotted concrete, where houses on the sides sat nearly in shambles, but not quite.

None of these houses belonged to her, however; she lived within the confines of wrought-iron and flinted locks, in a house two stories high, shackled in the color creme, shuttered by grey, and enlightened by a hue of caramel and glass where she inserted a key into a lock - click, and the knob was turned, the mist gone, and security, lasting.

Sequoia let the strain of holding her shoulders so high fall against her arms, and unleashed a heap of a sigh. "If I keep on actin' like I got a weight on my shoulders, I'm gonna end up with a hernia one of these days."

A girl was present to respond, a slender girl, with curls wrapped up in a bun, walking softly with her head turned to a crisp brochure in hand. Not once since her mother's entering did she look up. "Please, mother. You've lifted things heavier."

Sequoia turned to her daughter, lips pursed and pristine brows raised. "There's not a thing heavier than survivor's guilt, girl."

The daughter remained stuck between her pages, tone disinterested. "But you don't have survivor's guilt."

A lip, turned up. A hand, extended to nudge a shoulder. "Perceptive little thing you are. You might even qualify for those high quality institutions, if you'd listen to Benji more often."

Benji hummed in agreement behind his sister, having already locked the door and shivered off his winter coat. Stiffly, he walked into another room, but not before casting a devious shift of the eye towards the youngest in the room. Seventeen years, she was. Too damn old.

Sequoia sighed again, less from relief, more out of the exasperation that age constantly shoved on a silver platter her way. Frankly, she'd never been fond of silver. Silver was for second. She was no second, and she'd be damned to find that her daughter was.

As she wriggled the fur along her body, shrugging it off, she walked straight-backed to the dining area, where a little round table sat illuminated by the dim light above. The daughter followed her in, and though she spoke not a word, her gesture of helping pull the coat away from her mother said enough - she was happy to see her. "Crank the light," Sequoia said, taking back the jacket and folding it under, over. Her fingers entwined with the fur momentarily. She'd earned this.

The light brightened, and each of the bold names of brochures and applications sat scattered across the table like it were someone's own personal workspace. Sequoia tsked; "You'll be needing to clean this before bed, Ape."

"Not my name, mother," April said, squinting down at some awfully intriguing demographics.

Sequoia feigned a frown, but between the slits of her lips there came a clattering ruckus of monkey noises, all paired up with playful finger prods at April's arm, all of which she flinched under. "Lighten up, drip-shit. I didn't raise someone who don't give her family the time of day."

"She's right, you know," Benji said from afar, plopping down on the sofa a few feet away with a bowl of some crunchy treat. No doubt, he'd taken advantage of things the same way his sister had; he even had the time to kick back and watch television! Honestly, Sequoia couldn't believe she'd invented leisure time.

Though April still hadn't looked up, an airy laugh had manifested out of thin air and the lovely personality of a fifty year old woman, and that was good enough. Sequoia folded her jacket over a chair while flipping and picking at one of the pamphlets on the table. She scanned the front cover for a little while before growing indefinitely skeptical of the swirling slogans. "'A mind is a terrible thing to waste.' Hmph. Tell that to your annual shipment of twenty-four brainiacs." She placed one down, picked another. "'Innovation.' Oh, these clever bastards!"

"Mom."

"Seq, wait a sec," Benji called over from the couch. "Take a break from trashing academia. They're announcing the next Games concept."

Sequoia slapped the brochure against her forearm. "Hon. If I was interested, I wouldn't be trashing academia." She glanced down, ready to dig. Those slogans were rich, truly. From those alone, she'd be able to throw out the ones unfit for April.

Innovation, though - she'd put that one in the "maybe" pile.

When the program came on, though, she couldn't help but listen in as she leafed through papers. "A glorious rendition of our values," the hosts said. "Annual turmoil for annual peace."

Hm. Maybe he should get a job at the slogan factory, too?

"And that's why, in the upcoming year, our Gamemakers have decided, to provide a twist to our classic peacemaking-"

"They'll all quit their jobs and take up barber positions? I could use a trim."

"-they'll be throwing all Victors back into the reaping ball."

Her manicured nails paused in the midst of flipping a page. Hollow ground. Eyes flicked from under slick lashes. The river flowing. Her hand, removed, her back straight. Something is wrong, Evander. She marched, steadily, until her vice grip settled on the couch's back cushions. So very wrong, Evander.

The host on the television smiled cheekily - at April, having finally looked up, at Benji, having dropped his bowl, at Sequoia, having snatched her own lips in a snarl.

The Madame became red.

"Oh, honey, you've got a big storm coming."

★CADETTE LANCE★

There was something crazy about Cadette Lance right from the start, and I'd always known it.

The morning I truly saw it was dreary. The air was thick with dust, stirred up along every street from the thousands of shuffling feet as an entire district made its way to the Justice Building, which, personally, I had never thought contained any remnant of "justice" at all. Smog from District 8 factories that constantly mingled with tainted oxygen, scalding throats and marring lungs, had hung even lower in the air than typically in a district riddled with misery. It was a day unlike any other in the year, and every whimpering child and brow-creased parent knew it deep in their hearts, heavy with dread. And I lumbered along with them, no less anxious than the next person.

She was easy to spot. Wearing a vibrant pink dress in a sea of blacks and greys, all reflective of the somber mood that weighed everyone down, she seemed oblivious that it was Reaping day. Her head bobbed up and down with each bounce in her cheerful step, practically skipping along through the sea of melancholy, a trail of quizzical looks following her. I had given her those looks once, too, but I've come to realize that ignorance really is bliss, and she had all the bliss she could get.

Taking a couple swift steps forward, I strained to see through the crowd of shufflers, weaving my way forwards until I stood only a couple paces behind her. She was isolated- the long lines of soot-stained faces all strayed to the other side of the street, trying to stay as far away from her as possible. I knew what they were thinking- who does she think she is?

She glances to her left, tilting her head as a smile twitches on her lips. "I don't know, Jet," she chuckles lightly, a faint blush turning her cheeks rosy beneath the layer of encrusted dirt. "Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could prove myself."

Most people thought she spoke to the walls, to the dust, to the air; I knew she was talking to those who weren't really there. But I never faulted her for it- when we were younger, perhaps slightly, when she said she had to go see Gunner or Flint and I'd insist she play with me instead- but with time, I saw it was her coping mechanism. And as those years passed and I matured, I think she came to confuse the strategy she used to deal with her grief with reality, and that was when they started calling her crazy. But on that Reaping day, as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, muttering some remark I couldn't quite make out that made her eyes sparkle, I hadn't thought she was crazy at all.

It was on that day that I discovered she truly was, but it wasn't because I'd witnessed her converse with what seemed like nothing more than the wind.

Her words paused, though her feet never stopped bouncing up and down with every step. Her energy- it had always struck me as boundless, despite that she was constantly hungry, should've been weak, fatigued from never eating a decent meal. Just the day previous, I'd watched her tear off the better part of her hunk of bread for a stranger, crouched with head hung low to the grunge of the ground, for most would have believed him better than the filth he lingered with. But she'd squatted to his level and lifted him up until he stood with a straight back, then pressed what would've temporarily satisfied the constant hunger into his hand. And she'd done so with a smile on her face- a smile that stretched from ear to ear and spread such light into the word, an optimism so rare that I'd had to stop for a moment and just admire how positive life was in that one, fleeting moment.

Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for a response; then, with a shake of the head, she said with mock indignance, "Have some more confidence in me! Gosh, Gunner, I'd have thought you'd have more confidence in me. After all, you were the one who taught me to fight!"

Sometimes I wonder, had my mind been less on the event about to occur, as the town square came into sight in the distance, that I would've processed the conversation she'd been having with her brothers. Sometimes I wonder, had I not been so concerned that the name 'Tristan Creed' would be the one called by the escort, and that it would be my heart hammering against my chest at a million beats a minute while those of the other boys relaxed in their chests, sighs of relief escaping from their mouths while mine went dry, that I could have put the conversation into context, could have talked to her before what occurred took place. Sometimes I think that I had the capability to save her. Sometimes I think that I could have preserved the bliss that came with her joyous ignorance.

"Tristan!" Mind in the midst of wandering, my head jerked up to meet her eyes, finding the dreadfully contagious smile on her face quickly mirrored on my own. Her pace slowed slightly as I covered the distance between us in a few leaps. "So, do you think you're gonna be Reaped?" she smirked playfully, our paces matching as she abandoned the bounce in favor of a grin so wide it seemed as though it would almost break her face in two.

A nervous chuckle escaped my throat, every worry evident in the half-hearted laughter. "Hope not. Being seventeen... I've got a lot of slips in there this year."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," she pats my shoulder, nodding comfortingly. Though the gesture was appreciated, I still found the anxiety lingering in my mind, even more prominent as we joined the line for the annual blood recording that took place at every Reaping. Sweat dampened my palms as nervous beads formed. I watched the girl with the pink dress and the smile that always got a second glance be pricked with a needle, all the meanwhile asking how the woman who drew her blood was today. I watched her sashay into the distance, joining the crowd of greys and blacks where she almost faded from view, consumed by the waves of dull colors, but didn't. She swam against the waves.

At first, I didn't pay much attention to the onslaught of typical announcements provided by the lovely people of the Capitol. None of them had a taste of what life was like in the districts, let alone one as poor as ours. Our President's voice sounded throughout the speakers of the square, but all I could think about were the two large bowls on each side of the platform and how many times my name was in there, how I could be the one sent to the death in just a matter of minutes.

I spared a glance to the other side of the square, and a smile met me.

"Alright, let's pick one for the boys, shall we?" the escort's voice echoes in the microphone, sending a fresh fear clogging my throat. I forced a breath of oxygen down my throat as a hand of flawlessly polished nails swirled a thousand slips of paper, carefully selecting a single one from the middle of the pile. My heartbeat pounded in my temples as she slowly, deliberately strolled back over to the microphone, unfolded the slip with precise, painful twists and turns, and lowered her lips towards the microphone. And for that moment, however much fear I was or wasn't supposed to show, that moment was pure, unadulterated panic.

And by the first syllable of the word, I knew it wasn't me. Every nerve I hadn't known I'd tensed unclenched suddenly, and I huffed a long sigh of relief. Another year, alive. And though I pitied the stoic boy who carefully made his way through the crowd up into the spotlight that crowned him another corpse, it was not nearly as prominent as the relief.

Sometimes I wonder, if I had not been so caught in that relief while the escort progressed from the boys' glass bowl of names, now safe, to the one for the girls, I would have seen the way she mouthed the words silently, how she rocked back and forth on her heels with just the slightest hint of anxiety, how she straightened her pink dress and once more, returned a strand of her blonde hair back to its rightful place behind her ear. Because I saw all of that, when I glanced over at the girl I knew would survive another year. She was only fifteen- only a small chance out of many. Only one girl in a sea.

But she was the one who swam against the current. She was the one who wore pink.

She was the one who uttered the fateful words, "I volunteer."

There was something crazy about Cadette Lance right from the start, and I'd always known it.