★CASSYUS BERYL★

[Late]

★LAURUS ENZO★

 Laurus Enzo isn't an environmentalist by any means—though, he does recycle possessions that can be remade, if only to keep his house and the district clean—, but he feels a sort of guilt as he keeps going through countless pieces of papers. Writing a letter to an esteemed loved one should be no feat to a Victor of the Hunger Games. Writing a letter should be no feat at all, period.

Yet, each time he attempts to scratch on the paper with his ink-riddled quill—pencils aren't his style, and not because they're wooden; again, he's not that much of an environmentalist—, he messes up some aspect. Either the script becomes smudged, a word isn't used in the correct context, the final product ends up showing something other than his intentions, or something else happens, and he chooses to start over completely. Perhaps the sentiment present is that he has to begin again for any of his words to be valid; there isn't a real choice.

Words. I'm usually good with those. Just...not the written ones, he thinks.

Would it be easier for him to ask to go home for all of five minutes, just to talk to his beloved, and bedridden, Uncle Mino? Yes, it most certainly would be. But this is Panem, and more specifically, this is District Eleven. Despite his title, he has no special privilege, unless one counts being deemed unapproachable—not that he minds loneliness; he has Uncle Mino, and he is all that is needed.

A sigh escapes his lips, and he grabs yet another sheet of paper from one of the drawers. He dips his quill into the inkwell again, and deciding to start off simply, he presses his utensil to the scratchy parchment.

Dearest Uncle Mino,

Laurus' letter begins that way, and he's just as blank as the rest of the paper. What is he to write about? That he's disappointed in himself because he wasn't as good of a caretaker as he thought he was? That he wishes he, with his brain of patchy recalls, had Alzheimer's instead of a man brimming with golden memories? That he wants to turn back time if that means sparing his uncle of sunken memorabilia, fragments of his life from previous times, omitting the present in which they live?

I...no. That's too much. I'll save it for later.

He plans to start off small, hoping that as each letter is written, his uncle's mind will be allowed to progress until they—yes, they; together—reach whatever stage Laurus is in when the last piece of paper is placed in an envelope.

Reading over his three words, he places the tip back on the sheet, and continues.

You may not remember this—or even me—as clearly as I do, but I'll be brief in introductions. It's not because I am pained in writing this; no, that is not the case at all. I do this in hopes that I will be one of the memories your mind has not taken from your heart, your illness for your essence.

I'm Laurus Enzo. I'm your nephew, on behalf of your brother's side. Please, spare your mind the nuisance of trying to recall who your brother is, or was, because I myself didn't have the pleasure to meet him. My mother—you're sister-in-law—was absent too. I can't assure you that there are or aren't more Enzos running around somewhere in the district, or somewhere in Panem. Do not take offense when I tell you that they didn't matter to you in the ways I did, the ways I do.

But I stray from my topic; forgive me.

Uncle Mino, I'm Laurus Enzo, and I'm your nephew. That is how you have viewed me for the entirety of your life, though there were times in which I was more; sometimes, in moments of emotional weakness, I was the brother you missed, and I was the (biological) son you wished you had.

I was me, and that was more than enough for you.

Yet, even more than a nephew, I was—and am—someone much more esteemed, someone much more decorated and fawned over, in the District. I'm the Victor of the Year 148. You'd always say, "No, you are more than a title; you are the world's." I'd shrug it off, always, constantly, with no thought given to it. Because I didn't want to belong to anyone other than myself. If you had said, "No, you are more than a title; you are mine," perhaps things would've been viewed differently.

(I'm kidding. You didn't need to say that because we already knew that was the truth. It never had to be vocalized when the sentiment was true.)

As much as I belong to myself, to you, and to the world, I am still my title. But even more, I belong to the arena. And though I have escaped once, it seems as if it misses my presence, and requires I be called in again. Perhaps it wants to embrace me again, kiss me with blood and cuddle me in corpses....

Laurus stops writing then.

His mind is reeling with thoughts, the first being morbidity. He cannot believe he just wrote that down on paper, but now that he has, he admits it is his first sin-turned-confession, and he thinks there may be more as each letter is completed—this one isn't, however, so he takes his quill in hand with the promise that he won't scratch a single thing out anymore.

...If you haven't figured it out, Uncle Mino, I've been Reaped for the Hunger Games. Again! Such fine and fun times!

Trust me, though I know your disease is taking memories away from you, I know I don't have to explain what the Games are and how Reapings are what starts the process each summer. I know I don't, so I won't.

But the thing is, this time it's different.

For one, the arena will be full of past Victors, people just like me. I'm sure there will be some that won by chance, and those will be the easy ones to take out, but I'm also confident that there will some that have trained their entire lives, are clawing over each other to get a chance to compete once more...those, I'll be careful with.

I'm not eighteen anymore, either; I'm twenty-four now, and I've gotten better. Blood hasn't been on my hands in over six years, but I guarantee I still remember the way it felt running over my fingers, left my skin cracked once it dried, penetrated my nose with the coppery smell.

I remember this all with vividness, and I can promise you that I'll be even better than the last time. Because at this time six years ago, I was only a kid. Sure, we both viewed myself as a man, but that Reaping transformed me back into a ten-year-old with a broken wrist.

Do you remember that? Not the wrist, though you might recall that—I know the older the memory, the more likely it'll stay in your mind, but you are pretty old, Uncle Mino. Do you remember how much I thought that day was going to be the best day of my life, because the fear of the Reaping would never ever loom over my mind again?

Do you remember how wrong I was?

Do you? Because I do....

He dips his quill back into the well, but this time he doesn't press it back onto the paper. He stares at the half-filled sheet, reminiscing over how wrong he was despite thinking he was so right.

The day started off like any other, except we were a little more excited than usual..., he writes, then pauses. This moment is for reliving as well as writing—not one over the other. The quill swirls in loops on paper the way his memories traverse from the alcoves of his mind down to his fingers.

...our hearts were buzzing and we kept smiling as we got dressed. Once this was over, I was officially going to become a man. My graduation ceremony was to take place a day later, and we were going to buy something special for dinner. We didn't know then, but as we walked to the Square, we had decided: oranges. We didn't need fatty foods; orange slices were enough.

As I made my way over to the pens and dismissed myself from you, I stumbled over a rock, and when I fell, the packed dirt ended up cutting through skin rather than cloth. A droplet of blood had fallen from my hand, but I wiped the trail away quickly. I ignored the stinging, even if it hurt, and payed attention to the Reaping.

The girl was someone I can't even remember. (It was Isadora Bedlam, and she was the granddaughter of a childhood friend of yours.) I recognized her name, but that was it, and it didn't matter to me, in all honestly. I hurt for you because you were fond of her, but the only emotions I had were excitement and pain: the anxiousness came because in less than a minute, I'd be free and we'd buy oranges; the throbbing came from the cut on my hand, the blood compiling despite the shallow cut.

I was examining the injury when our lives halted. Not our breaths, but our lives. The oranges would have to wait until after I came out alive. My name had been called, and that was all that mattered.

Everything was hazy until we had to say goodbyes. Remember that you said, "You promised me an orange, so you better come back to give it to me"? I do. And even if we feasted on fruit slices the days after my return, I think we can do a second round. How does that sound?

It better sound like a delight, because it's happening soon!

Anyways, I can guarantee I'll be better this time around because last time, you could take care of yourself, even if the process was tedious. I promise you this because, this time, I have to survive in order for you to live again, to remind me of presences and essences both.

Love, Your Nephew.

P.S: Be ready to gorge on orange slices in a few weeks...

Laurus Enzo isn't an environmentalist, but he hopes these letters will be recycled in Uncle Mino's mind as much as his heart.

★PERCY COLE★

It's done. It's done. It's done.

He shakes with a vehemence unknown to him until now; he is hot, sweating against himself, and the air he breathes is too warm, too tight. There's a word for this sort of inhalation, for this stalling of exhalations. He calls it suffocation.

They are snuffing him out.

Just breathe. Breathe. Please, breathe, damn it.

But he does not breathe. There's a special sort of pain rooted in the deep recesses of his abdomen, and though the little white pills they've been feeding him for the past two weeks certainly help stave off the aches, there's always a common pinch hovering just above his bellybutton. It's a pinch he despises, a sting he'd rather live without.

They tell him it's only the sting of recovery. He does not believe them. And why should he, they and their vivacious eyes crawling over his shoulders the same way a black button-up does? They have nails painted the color of a fresh flame while he is forced into an ebony blazer. Their lashes rise and fall with the coloration of yellow sparks, scrutinizing the position of his dark tie until the time comes to tighten it.

It's only when he feels the pressure of a black noose that he's allowed a glance to the side; the hall he travels reflects his image, and his image says it all: they are, in fact, trying to snuff him out. He is dressed simply, he is dressed darkly. He is dressed like a match dipped in water.

But he still feels the heat.

An escort meets him; he advises him to be sure his back is straight.

A mentor meets him; she begs him to keep his chin high.

He does both, but he does not particularly mean any of what it symbolizes.

The mentor leans in. This woman, in all her helpful glory, contributes to an incessant buzz that makes him quiver. "I think you'll be fine out there, y'know. Just glaze your eyes over and pretend to be grateful. Alright?" He doesn't see meaning in offering a response.

"Percy?" She tries again, assertion in the arch of her brow. "Alright?"

The heavy music of speakers has already begun to vibrate beneath his feet, and he's left with no choice but to try and drown it out with his own dry, cracked voice. "Alright," Percy says. "Alright." Alright.

He has to remind himself that that's his name, Percy. Percy Cole. "-Your Victor, Percy Cole-"

"Please give a warm welcome to this year's Victor, Percy Cole!"

Oh, but he does not want that name any longer.

The music is louder here, the reverberations more upbeat, more violent, and the voices more layered as everyone stumbles over one another to wish him luck. But their stumbling only makes him stumble - backwards, he goes, with a hand pressed to his chest and a lung straining faster than air can be sucked into it. Not me, not me, not me. Arms catch him and he wishes them gone. I'm suffocating, suffocating, suffocating.

Calm, calm, calm.

Suffocate, suffocate, suffocate.

The host waiting at the hall's final stretch seems to take a hint, and for a few minutes she's calmed a roaring crowd, but Percy still feels the need to mutter his dissent, pressing himself deeper into the packed team. "No, no, no. I don't want to do this." He looks to his escort, his mentor, anyone for help, really, but they feign ignorance. When he speaks, it's alongside a wheeze, face laden with wincing. "Please, don't make me do this."

He doesn't know why, exactly, he's reacting this way. There's nothing wrong with interviews - they're innocent. He supposes it's something more inherent than that, something inherently dreadful about this circumstance that would make him prefer the company of trilling stylists than that of a singular, calm-voiced woman.

The blare of music surpasses the ringing in his ears, then, and it shakes him out of a stupor, shakes him against those leeching hands that shove him forward without his consent. He retaliates, reeling back, but they are much stronger in numbers, and eventually they've nudged him along a dizzying trek. The walls tremble with sound, and his feet are weak against the tile. There's a wheeze lingering in the back of his throat still, too, and it only grows heavier when he notes that he's walked this road before. This road held twenty-five others, though, all done up in glowing silks. He remembers himself in that cesspool, now: skintight, brightened up in flattering hues.

True, he smiled then.

True, he smiles now.

False, it's true.

The second he steps through the marigold threshold of the stage, he's assaulted with noise, a noise that rattles him even more than the music does. It's always been unbeknownst to him, this sense of constant sound - his ears are, frankly, shit - but now he knows it's a sound that deafens. When he greets his host with a brief, "Hello," he can't even hear himself. The thrum of vocals in his throat is disorienting with nothing to account for it.

Eventually, the two of them come together, and though he wants the crowd to overlook his hour, they quiet down in seconds. "Hello, Percy! How's it feel to be Panem's next Victor, huh?"

The words escape him before he can fully process what it is he's saying. "I- I...don't know, I've, I haven't had the time to really acknowledge it yet. I've been..." A nervous snort falls out of him as he gestures pointedly at his stomach, then quickly hides that hand at his side.

The audience treats him as they'd treat a good friend. With laughter.

I know none, I know none, I know none.

He feels his cheeks reddening already, though with embarrassment or sweltering warmth, he's uncertain. Rohe swells within his vermillion. She doesn't even wait for the laughter to dissipate completely before starting off. He wishes she would've, if only for readiness.

"That's right. You've got that nasty wound now, don't you? Tell me, what was it like having that horrible gash, in the finale, no less? Did you think you'd already lost? We certainly did, didn't we?"

Before Percy gathers an answer, he takes the liberty to follow Rohe's moves, and casts a glance out into the audience. It's dark out there, and he can hardly see past the first row, but he knows they're out there - all of them, everyone. Part of him knows they think him godly. He escaped a predetermined death, hadn't he? But part of him believes they think him a cheater. He escaped a predetermined death.

So he chooses his words carefully, free of his bunches of three. "I thought I was dead, yes. It was- It was horrible, having to resign myself to that. And then waking up and realizing my resignation was just...dismissed. It's surreal." He paused, brought his eyes back to Rohe, swallowed. "And waking up hurt like hell, let me tell you."

My voice cracked, it cracked, it cracked. But the crowd, it laughs, laughs, laughs.

There's a crinkle of laughter at the corners of Rohe's eyes, too, and she uses this to her advantage as a camera shutters and focuses. "Well, you certainly don't look like hell. You look great, really. I say we get right into the recap, yeah?"

Despite Percy's cooperative nod, his fingers tremble at the joints, and not even sitting on them can help. All too soon, images flicker across one of many surfaces between them, and though he wants so desperately not to look, he does, because, well, that's just him, and he knows it.

Swift recollection of the reapings slide behind them as Rohe leans close, placing a hand on Percy's bobbing knee. He hadn't even realized; he casts his eyes down. Attentive, attention, attent. Intent. Rohe intends to speak. "You seem a bit jumpy, Percy. Is everything alright?"

He's too quick to answer, shoulders perking too readily. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I?"

But the sound of a gong onscreen makes him twitch at the neck. Rohe pulls her hand back, smirks. He doesn't like the cold imprint she leaves. "You started off rather well, didn't you? Five person alliance, supplies, and your natural talent, of course. Albeit, your alliance relied more on charisma than strength, but it still flourished. Do you think you would've made it alone?"

"No."

Rohe's chuckle is delayed. "That was quick."

"Time shouldn't be wasted on certainty." It comes out tense, and Percy plays this up, grinding his teeth, shifting his jaw. But Rohe's still skeptical - and she knows he's caught on - so she presses.

"You seem a little too certain for someone who managed to pull off three kills alone, yeah? Each to their own, though," she finishes before he can interject. "Unpredictable, it was. The 'wild card', they called you. That came through in the end, surely. Tell me, Cole - why'd you throw the match?"

This - this shift makes Percy squirm, makes him forget his obvious trembling when he brings his hands out of hiding. This shift makes tanginess gather behind his eyes, and this shift begs forth answers while his throats tightens against his response.

This shift makes him wonder whether the brother who sent palpable salvation would ask the same.

There's a brief pause while he toils over a brief but striking tick of panic, as though the decision to spark has been placed in front of him again, but soon it abates, and he's trying to calm the sporadic pattern of his breaths. He means to answer, too, truly, but something onscreen surpasses his first croak, and he lets it take the reins from there.

"I don't know, Rohe. I don't." A Percy six weeks younger pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to die. A lot of people don't." Though his head is bowed, there's a noticeable wildebeest at the slaughter in his eyes. "I want to be remembered. But not for killing. Not for taking away another's ability to not want to die."

When the images move onto something less intriguing to the eye, Percy - in the present - takes the advice of escorts and mentors, though his abdomen scathes him for it.

He straightens his back. He lifts his chin.

This corpse says, with conviction, "I threw no match. I am dead."

And yet, he still does not want to die.

★CONSTANTINE CRANE★

Fear.

It had eaten him up in the recent days, chewing and breaking at every last connection laid inside his body. Constantine was nothing more of a meal than the food he fantasised when in poverty. Fear had crushed his joy, it had strengthened his anger, it had done so much leaving destruction in its wake. His palaces were left defenseless, he was to fend for himself, he was to find a way out of his darkness.

The sixteen year old was weak, yet he still had so much more he needed to do. He had interview after interview, the tour, and then the endless years of torture that would follow. Who he once was had been forgotten in the past, Constantine had left his shell in the arena, leaving nothing but a soft frail boy. A gust of wind could bruise the boy for Pete's sake.

He paced offstage while hearing the quiet chatter of the Capitol. The black mirrored floor below him showed every imperfection. With each reflection he saw, his fear was amplified tenfold. The old suit that used to fit him was tailored to be more tight, as his body had shrunk since Constantine had stopped eating. Within the short time after he exited the arena he had a higher chance of dying than when he was in it. Memories were tainted by post-traumatic stress and actions were amplified and fake. The games had left him in ruin.

His bony spine slid down the wall he leaned on. Hands in hair, fingers feeling the scalp, stress engulfed him. The anxiousness of going on stage tore at him. The timid tryings to validate every life lost that became a stepping stone for him to return. Inside of him, his heart beat fast. It was the only part of him that still hadn't given up hope. In hope that he was worth living, in hope that he shouldn't die along with the other twenty-three tributes. Constantine looked to his side, eyeing the putrid modern chairs, the eager social barbarian fixing his bedazzled hair, the crowd of vultures ready to pick at every one of his rotting features.

The darkness of everything was eating at him already. The slow burn of the lights overhead only showed the ever growing craters of his lack of nutrition. It was fueled by false smiles when eating, only to rush to the bathroom later and throw it all up. It was pretending to be okay, as all victors should be happy to be alive. It was not letting the fear of closing your eyes overtake you. It was the trade of freedom for life. It was the fact that Constantine couldn't take it.

Negative thoughts swirled in his broken mind. The constant bicker of "Worthless" and "Child Killer". It mortalized his mentality, yet he suffered in silence. He sat on the ground waiting for his time to tarnish his shine. He waited for the fall of the emperor, the king of the dead teenagers. The interview where he would fumble over words trying to create some sort of reason behind him sitting there. He would try to put some sense of the winner being him not the boy from one, the the girl from four, or any other person that was more deserving to sit in that very spot.

The crew was shuffling about in all directions, fixing lights to accentuate every angle, trying to make the boy who felt ugly beautiful, to make the interviewer more confident than humanly possible. They were quickly moving about like worker bees in a gigantic hive. The honey made was just the comedic joy for the millions of queens they worked for. Drones worthless in the long run, once dead replaced without a moment's thought.

His fist clenched the tuxedo fabric, rumpling the ever perfect image the crowd was to perceive. He looked at the clock, each time tick of the slender second hand, the slow sixty countdown increased his fear. His end was counting down with the clock, the fall of Constantine wouldn't be at the hands of others, it would be from himself and the test of time. It would be fear. It would crack at the foundation, ruin his creation, tearing down the walls, burning the halls, there would be no bigger destruction than that of what distress can bring forth.

His body began to shake. Through stress and through weakness he had begun to shut down, closing himself off, rusting. He stood up, eyes open wide. His bags began to seep through the makeup, there were cracks in the makeup's foundation. Head spinning round he became a fish out of water, he was helpless in the breathless world.

To his left side there was a hallway, it was his only possible point of escape. Plans flew through his mind. Whether to book it or stay, that was the question. Without a second thought he chose the former. He began his abscond down the halls, passing workers upon worker, moving through the labyrinth of a hallway. Each turn was another hallway closer towards the heart, each step was another space covered into avoiding the inevitable.

Before long, as the boy had circled around the messy tangle of halls, Constantine hadn't noticed the senior citizen dressed in blue. She sat at the end of the long hallway overlooking it all. Her steel curls wrapped like spools of thread. Her eyes the color of fertile soil, they carried with them wisdom of sorrow. The past victor was nothing like the girl she once was, her golden hair dulled as time went on, her smile rarely peeking through her pursed lips.

With hands on his head he returned back to the hallway. He paced back and forth, fingers massaging his head throbbing with stress. His makeup had begun to fade, his imperfections were showing through the binds. As he crossed the woman in the cerulean jacket he stopped. He turned to see the kind person who had mentored him. One who had been absent from substances and spent their sorrows in helping others. She had fought through the pain, after all it was what her brothers would have wanted.

He saw Cadette Lance. The sixty-five year old who had nurtured the anxious boy on the train ride, who had given tips and tricks to try and save the sweet child. Who hadn't expected to reap a victor during her lifetime. She looked up from her ever distant pensive state.

"Why, Mr.Craine, isn't this a surprise," she said to him, her arms shaking as she pushed herself up. He looked surprised at the conversation but it was calming to see a familiar face. Constantine nodded in response. "How are you?" she asked.

"I've been better," he replied. His body shivered at the stress slowly evaporating from his body. He took a deep breath before continuing his thought. "I'm really stressed about the interview." He was stunned at his new honesty, but it felt good to get verbalise the reason. Caddette stepped forward placing a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"You'll do fine. Even if you fuck-up up it won't matter. There have been worse victors and there always will be," she quickly inhaled through her nose, a short laugh at upcoming humor "At least you didn't learn your brothers were dead and your entire life was a lie." It was a morbid joke, self-deprecating of her experiences while being in the arena.

"Yeah... I guess," he gave a small smile. He felt a bit better but the emotional baggage of stress still pushed down on his chest. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes. He was still scared, still filled with fear. He had gained some confidence to go on stage, yet moving his legs felt impossible. When he finally opened the ninety-fourth victor was still looking back.

"Kid, here's some advice to calm yourself. Talk less, and smile more. The Capitol loves a smile, and hates a victor who run their mouths." Her lips curled into a small smirk, a remnant of a past smile, yet it was still empty. She turned his body, then playfully pushed him closer to the stage. Returning to his original spot he saw the curtains being drawn, lights being fixed with minuscule adjustments.

He felt strength in him, he had grown a tiny bit within the short time. Proverbs had been instilled into his head, something he would carry for time to come. He felt hints of pride in himself, his regret went to back of his mind, ever creeping on his state but never the main inhabitant.

Finally, after a short time of waiting, he was given the cue to walk on. In the background the Panem anthem played and the shrill laughter of the interrogator could be heard. As the time ticked down he walked into the light, watching the crowd cheer and scream with joy. He waved his hands smiling back at them. He wasn't going to throw away his shot at a good life, not yet.

As the blinding lights followed him everything fell into place. There were no more mountains to climb, no more streams to ford, no more obstacles. Constantine was free, he was free to entertain and free to be happy.

It was the start of his reign, and it was showtime.

★HERZEL KOZLOWSKI★

District Three; asleep. Even Seven and Twelve, stuck a few hours behind, are asleep by now. Everyone except for Hertzel Kozlowski is asleep. The sputtering backlight lantern dangling from a joystick switch of his capacitor may be the only light in Panem, the Capital being the obvious exception. As always.

He may need to splurge and light another, for the aforementioned only pitifully glows upon the underbelly the machine which he is finagling. Wiring is no job to traipse through - the string of blisters twirling down his thumb flare - but he could finish in his sleep, let alone the dark, at this point. Still, he can't remember his next move. He thinks. He squirms.

Dolley wheels screech as he wriggles atop them. His splayed left arm (the spare) rustles awake, and slithers through the gap between body and metal. It dives into a frothy tangle of hair, and pulls, and splays, and generally messes up. Then reemerges clod with ash and grease. Though having just gone through the trouble to tousle his hair a mere inch abreast from electrocution, it is now that Hertzel scoots from the workspace. To do so five seconds earlier would've made perfect sense, but his mind is far too frazzled, too obsessed, to do anything which makes sense. He comes out looking like a mechanic, which is dreadfully unbecoming. That's a nervous system overhead; not a hunk of scrap.

Gasping, he leans back with vigor. Resultant noises ping around the room, and his hair splays against the control panel. His hair is always splayed. Above is the capacitor, petulant as always, and the pyre, dim, but blinding as a product of contrast over time. Walls of rows of buttons smile at him; laugh. Twisted, rather than hearty, but he wouldn't expect anything else. Not from the capacitor. The fiend!

The way he snatches at his notes from the edge of the desk looks reflexive, but the action is fogged with apprehension. If he didn't grab them quickly, he would've manufactured a reason to not grab them at all. If only he could manufacture this project. With hope of achieving that, he reads. The notes are postured as you'd imagine: scrawls and scribbles loosely tied by a web of arrows. Connections and clauses he thought he'd remember when writ, now look as foggy as they always were. Every single time, hindsight hits like a train overstocked with obvious, but never hard enough to jolt him out from his ways. He thinks. He squints, even though the font is clear - well, no, it's not - but he is used to it, and that is not where the disjunction lies. It lies in the hair brained half-understanding grasp he has on the topic.

He rushes. The clock is moving gracefully slow, but still, time wanes.

Reaping day is tomorrow - no, today, technically. And what would he be if not technical? As much as Hertzel avoids the news, he cannot avoid knowing that. Not as a citizen, less so a mentor. A travesty!

The 154th Annual Hunger Games. Plastered on the streets, the sky, our eyelids. This edition comes with some terrible tease. It started as murmurs, but exponential grew in backing. If the theorized twist has been announced yet, Hertzel is oblivious. He just hopes the number of tributes won't grow. Two is well enough. Whatever's in store, he'll be gone. Whisked away for a week? A month? He doesn't know which to root for. The frustration surrounding the dilemma is pedantic, as rooting for any wouldn't make a difference. It's out of hand. A fact strangely comforting. All he can control is finishing the build before town square beckons. If he doesn't he'll just be more behind schedule when he returns and inevitably has to start from scratch. His mind will have been thoroughly purged of these half-finished procedures. He's tried it, unsuccessfully, too many times to kid himself. He thinks, but not about what he should.

Mind is sprinting. Running in circles. Jogging in place. Standing still. Stuck.

That's the problem with teaching yourself. The silliest things derail the whole production. Sleep is so tempting, seductive. He could sleep and he could forget about everything. And nobody would notice. He's a victor, he's supposed to be snacking on game hens and seltzers. But no; he has to go above and beyond, as always. He's not one to rest on his laurels. Coffee is his seltzer, and he sticks to normal-sized chicken like some middle class pleb.

Coffee is a load of crap. Placebo, social construct, ineffective sludge. He can't stop drinking it, though, and praying that this is the time it invigorates. To warm the blood. To irritate the mind. Why can't he just listen and believe? Ignorance would be awful nice for a change.

Why can't he just think straight?

Back to the notes, gonna give it a real go. The copper wire goes from the positive terminal to the whatever-you-call-it. The lead cord connects to the twisty bit from the thingy... Who is he kidding?

The night is a syrup. Suffocating. His mouth contorts into a muted scream. His eyelids drag. The coffee is a load of crap. There are four empty bedrooms on the estate, but right here is just fine. A cement mattress, jigsawed by sharp corners and aluminum boxes and caustic acids, covers halfway on. Even the sheet metal pillow is alluring. Sleep is on the mind, exclusively.

Perhaps he will remember all this when it's over. It's possible. His mind is bright, and just about desensitized to the drudgery of mentorship. They die. He won't even think about hoping this year. He'll think about this; wiring and capacitors. And he'll remember it. Right?

Content, his eyes close.

All the numbers melt away. Replacing them, enters a rhyme he hasn't heard in years. The singsong cadence of his mother, crystalline. He'd feel childish if he were conscious.

Hertzel Kozlowski; asleep. The sputtering backlight lantern dangling from a joystick switch of his capacitor may be the only light in Panem, the Capital being the obvious exception. As always.

He may need to splurge and light another, for he is a listless man who would rather wallow in the nothingness of sleep, than the anythingness of anything else.

★SEBASTIAN MERCIER★

148 Days After

I can't remember the last time my hand held a pen. For me, it has always been a sword. Even now I can still feel the metal in my hand, hear the constant buzzing of the cicadas from the arena. It has been 148 days since I was announced Victor, and I still can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see a different moment in the arena. No matter how hard I try, I can't see anything else. Perhaps if I write it down, I'll be able to sleep.

24 Days Before

Before the reaping, Amara was my favorite cousin. We were the closest in age, and she was always up for excitement. I remember thinking of her more like an older sister than a cousin, she was around so often. I think that's why no one can look at me anymore. If I could kill her so easily, had I really cared about her at all? Had I really cared about any of them?

I met with my cousin before we went into the arena. It was a given that we would be allies, though everyone knew one of us would have to betray that alliance sooner or later. I think everyone expected it would be me, even Amara, for I was the ideal Career, ready to sacrifice anything and anyone to become a Victor. I don't think anyone thought I would kill her so soon though.

We talked a lot that day, but we didn't really say anything. Nothing important. Right before I left, Amara hugged me. She'd done it a million times before, but this time was different. This time, I didn't hug her back. Instead I just stood there, like we were strangers.

20 Days Before

The first day was-

I don't remem-

Amara didn't-

This is more difficult than I expected. I am afraid to write everything I remember in these pages. I do not want to see the truth, written so baldly, in my own hand. I do not want to remember what I have been trying to forget. But I must.

Out of all the days I spent in the arena, it is the first that remains entrenched in my memory. There is nothing spectacular about that day. Well, apart from the fact that that's the day Amara died. I like to think I was kind about it. Well, as kind as one can be when killing their cousin. I wasn't cruel. At least, not then. She felt no pain, I'm certain of that. I learned all of the ways to cause the most pain when inflicting an injury back in Two, and I made sure I did none of those things. No, I saved the pain for others.

I was-

She didn't-

I remember standing next to her, right after we'd been put in the arena. We were next to the Cornucopia, and I'd given her a spear to defend herself with, even though I already planned to kill her that night. In the hours between the bloodbath and nightfall, I never strayed too far from her. I told myself I was, in my own twisted way, protecting her. Making sure that I would be the one to kill her, so that she wouldn't go through the pain previous District Two tributes had in the past.

When the light finally faded that day, I remember telling everyone I would take the first watch. And for a while, I did. Eventually though, I decided that it was time. It wasn't the large, flashy event everyone wanted to see. There was no tearful heart-to-heart talk, no bloody fight, no begging for mercy.

There was only me, kneeling over my cousin with a knife in my hand. She woke up of course, she was always a light sleeper, but for some reason she didn't scream. She just stared at me. Even now, I can't quite remember the expression on her face, just the look in her eyes. Part fear, part disappointment, and part sadness, but no surprise. I expected her to fight back—her spear was only a few inches away, but she didn't. I think... I think what stopped her from fighting back was the fact that she didn't think I was actually going to do it.

I almost didn't. I almost dropped the knife, turned away. There was a moment when I considered leaving her alone and taking the chance that someone else would kill her for me. Then her hand twitched, though whether it was to grab her spear or stop my hand I don't know, and I stabbed her. There was no guilt when I did, at least not then. There was only relief, that I wouldn't have to worry about her later, and pride, that I had succeeded in waking no one else up.

The Day Of

After Amara, I killed eight other tributes. Two of them were Careers, the rest from districts I remembered only when I took the victory tour. When I recall fighting them, it's as if I'm seeing someone else's actions, someone else's memory. My final fight was between me and the boy from One. It's hard to put down on paper—the memory of it. There are no words to adequately describe the fear and the exhaustion, the loneliness and desperate, overwhelming wish for it to simply be over.

But we dragged it out, he and I. Even at the end, we put on a show—the show everyone else wanted. I remember it best in flashes, in the memory of sensations and feelings.

I remember he fought with a sword, like I did. The sound of the blades crossing when we fought was like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. We fought with our fists too, when the swords became too heavy to lift. I remember salt and copper lining my mouth. A tooth on the ground, his or mine I couldn't tell. His skin had been stretched too tight over a gaunt face. A sharp flare of pain, a bruise the shape of a fist covering my ribs. Hot blood, dripping from where skin used to be. And I remember pain. Seeing it in his face, hearing it in his screams, feeling it in his shaking his limbs before he fell to the ground.

And then silence, complete and utter silence.

The silence was-

He looked-

I remembered-

The other boy hadn't even been dead an hour when I was picked up by the hovercraft. My arm was healed, my body put back together. I was once again transformed, once again made up for the Capital. I don't remember much of it. I just remember hearing the same three words, over and over again. In the hovercraft, during the victory interview, right after the victor's crown was placed on my head in front of thousands of cheering people as I was announced the winner of the 141st Hunger Games.

"Congratulations. You won." 

★JOSEF THOMAS★

Footsteps were the most threatening of sounds.

Every breathe hurt to let out as hearts pounded mercilessly against ribs. Tree bark raked against flesh as the pair slide down even further. Green eyes searched desperately for brown ones, the exchanged look conveying nothing but fear and regret. Hands clutched around crude daggers or curled into useless fists. Outrunning the beasts was impossible, the girl from seven had proven that. All there was, was the hope of hiding.

Brush rustled and dried leaves crunched behind them. The sounds grew closer as the tributes nerves grew thinner. Breathe was cut out completely, while eyes squeezed shut in wait. A branch snapped so close that the boy visibly jumped, his shoulders trembling as he desperately tried to keep himself from caving. The girl shot him a murderous look, and all fell silent, too silent.

"Are we interrupting the party?"

A sweet voice bounced through the trees, the origin from directly between the two. Both heads snapped to see the girl. Short, black hair curled around her face and tucked behind her ears, framing a small smile and twinkling brown eyes.

The girl on the ground stared dumbstruck. Her muscles twitched, yet her mind kept her frozen, eyes searching desperately for something, anything, a loophole, a fighting chance, mercy even. The boy didn't stay to find out their luck. His hands sunk into damp soil, using it to launch to his feet. Knees scraped against rocky terrain and elbows fought against brambles.

Pink lips parted to reveal a sharp toothed grin, "Josef, can you go catch the pig?"

Branches trembled as a red headed boy stepped out from a heavily wooded area. Thick curls brushed the top of his eyebrows, and he shoved them back as a large grin took over his soft face. It was an odd combination with the short height and stringy features he possessed, though the half sword slung through his makeshift belt loop made it hard to argue. His glacier eyes locked onto the tribute instantly, his daredevil smile inching wider.

"No problem."

A quick peck was left on the girl's cheek as his legs took off sprinting. Josef barely blinked as his jump neatly cleared the revien, muddy footprints being left on the embankment. Green leaves scratched at his legs as he slipped below a precarious dead log, mind too focused to notice the poison ivy trampled underfoot. His fingers latched onto the boy's hood, yanking him backward with one sharp tug. Cut off from air, the green eyed boy stumbled, arms slashing in any reachable direction as his knees buckled.

He was meet with a faceful of dirt, mud caking flushed skin and mingling with damp brown hair. Teeth scraped mud as he attempted to hold back a yelp, a harsh kick to the ribs making him want to curl up into a ball. The ginger boy stood over him for a minute, admiring the handwork before turning and rushing back to make sure Molly still had the situation handled.

His feet paused at the edge of the ravine. Blood trickled down dark skin as brown eyes fluttered frantically to fight unconsciousness. The tip of a sword poked out from between her ribs as glossy as it was red. Reaching up, the girl's fingers brushed the wound, her brass bracelet sliding past her wrist. Her head tilted up just enough to meet the boy's eyes one final time. Then, she fell.

Everything froze. Josef's throat tightened. There were no screams nor sobs, even the birds had fallen gravely ill. His feet remained planted in the silence, icy eyes watching mercilessly as the body crumpled to the mossy ground. Crimson leaked onto the plants, the trickle as loud as thousands of cannons. Yet his face remained impassive, the corner of his mouth barely managing a twitch.

"That's not how it happened."

The soft words filled the hollow, masking the silence for the briefest of moment. He tried to tear his eyes away, but they were stuck, glued to the memory of what could have been. Except it wasn't a memory, it was a nightmare, and those were two very different things.

"Hey Joe," a voice sang, arms looping over his shoulders.

He turned to find a replica of the girl he had just seen stabbed. A wolf like grin had overtake her face, the smile holding the destruction the eyes lacked. Blood continued to spill from the wound in her stomach, helping to plaster her gold interview dress to her skin and make his own clothes bleed red. He yanked away harshly, eyes turning to iced daggers.

"Stop it," Josef warned, the words barely making it above a whisper.

"Josef help!" the scream penetrated through the thick trees, echoing even after the original scream had died out.

Eyes widened briefly in recognition of a memory, his resolve crumbling. Teeth gnashed inside his head and anger flared. Squeezing his eyes shut, the boy clamped his hands over his ear and focused. All he wanted was for it to go away, for himself to wake up.

A footstep sounded, the old boards of the house creaking under its weight.

Ice blue eyes flickered open.

The man rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it past dark circles and over an unshaved chin. His vision was met with darkness, the smells of sawdust and lavender infiltrating his nose. He laid perfectly still, eyes searching the ceiling pointlessly as he strained his ear. It took only a second for the boards outside his door to creak again.

Instantly wide awake, he threw off the sheet covering him and let his feet slide noiselessly to the floor. Fumbling in the dark, his hand brushed over a bracelet and found the small cutler knife hidden behind the nightstand. He held it down by his side, half hidden by his back as he crept forward. The footsteps continued on the other side of the door, soft enough that it made Josef's back shudder. Brushing up against the wood, he gave it a gentle push with the pads of his fingers. It creaked open just enough to peer through, soft light filtering in from the window across the hall.

A shadow moved then, its frame small and wiry. The victor tensed, as if he expected a tribute to be standing in the hall, his brain not fully woken from the nightmare. The shadow then crossed into a being however, its height and stature too small for any games. Josef's body froze, the hand with the knife in it quickly sliding behind his back.

"Dad, what are you doing up?"

Attempting a flustered smile, the man tucked away his knife in the back of his jeans. His knees popped as he bent down, running a hand through the boy's curly black hair. "I think the more important question is what you're doing up, Ben," he insisted, his voice gaining a soft flowing tone purely on instinct.

"I can't find-" the boy stifled a yawn, "my kraken."

Josef's eyebrows furrowed as he trailed a thumb down the side of his son's face. "Where'd you last see it?"

"The living room," Ben huffed in response, clearly having already tried that option.

"Come on then," his father instructed, slipping his hand around the boy's small one.

Floor boards creaked as they padded softly down the hall, the old house complaining that they were up so late. Moonlight glinted off of the window they passed, showing a brief glimpse of the near empty farmland outside. The boy nearly ran into the coffee table in the dark, his father giving his arm a light tug at the last second.

"I told you I can't find it," Ben insisted as his father got onto his hands and knees to look.

Josef smiled knowingly, an expression that might have been mixed with smugness had it not been the he was with his own child. Stretching an arm under the couch, his hand swatted at dust bunnies until it found the soft fabric it was looking for. He slide the stuffed dragon out from under the couch, watching as Ben snatched it up instantly.

"Thank you," he mumbled as he pressed the toy against his face to give it a hug.

The man nodded and took his hand again, "Let's get you back to bed."

He took his hand again and lead him down the hallway until they reached the room at the end. The door was ajar, the light left on to reveal the mess the child had made in his searching attempts. Holding back a laugh, Josef helped him back to his bed and grabbed the comforter to tuck him in.

"Hey dad, can you tell me a story?"

"What kind?" he asked as he threw the sheets over the bed and sat down at the edge.

"About when you were a kid," Ben paused to build courage up for his next words. "About when you were in the arena."

Josef's blood ran a little colder, his shoulders stiffening up for a moment as he looked down at his son's brown eyes. Regaining his composer as swiftly as possible, he cleared his throat. "Ben-"

"If you do, I won't tell mom about the knife in your pocket," he interrupted, desperately trying to leverage the situation.

Running a hand over his face, his father let out a chuckle. "Promise?" he asked, sticking out his hand with his pinkie extended.

"Promise," the boy replied hurriedly, taking his father's pinkie in his.

"Alright. Once upon a time..."

★TEFF RANCOURT★

It had been two weeks since he returned.

Three weeks since the helicopters had pulled him out of the arena, grinning and covered in blood. Three weeks since he had made his last kill. Three weeks since he had felt alive.

It wasn't that he enjoyed killing, Teff mused as he pondered his math homework. It was the rush of adrenaline that came once the hunt came to an end, the insane feeling of accomplishment as he won a fight.

Four days of high after high, of feeling invincible. Then it was over, and Teff was expected to return to his old life as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn't murdered people. As if he didn't wish to do it again.

He stared at the equation he was supposed to solve. Why should he care? He was going to be a lumberjack for the rest of his life; it didn't matter whether he knew the quadratic formula. The thought infuriated him.

A lumberjack. Doing the same thing, day after day after day. Forever.

Teff groaned and slammed his head against the desk. What was wrong with him? He'd always known this, and it had never bothered him before.

What he needed was a boost. A little pick-me-up. Something to get him out of this ridiculously depressed state.

As the word drugs appeared in his mind, Teff tried to squash the idea. He had always been a perfect son, a boy who never smoked or got drunk, who came home at promptly 9:00 PM. Drugs was not a part of his vocabulary. At least, it didn't use to be. Now, everything had changed, Teff thought for the fifth time in as many minutes. He pushed himself up, off the chair, picked up his wallet, and walked through the door, hoping he looked confident.

It wasn't until a minute later when he was locking the door to his house that Teff realized that he had no idea where to get drugs. In fact, he wasn't even sure what type he wanted. There were types, weren't there?

Teff tried to concentrate, regretting suddenly that he had little knowledge of this world. Drugs were illegal. And where did one go to find illegal things? The Market. He'd heard some girls discussing it at school; what had they said again? Ah yes. It was dangerous to go there by yourself, especially without a weapon. Teff patted himself down, realizing that he didn't have a knife on him. Well, he reasoned, at least it would be an adventure.

~~~

The bad side of town was surprisingly well-lit. The lamplights glowed brightly, leaving almost no room on the crumbling walls of the buildings that surrounded Teff for the creeping shadows he'd envisioned. Teff wondered idly who paid for the oil, it being rather expensive at the moment.

He strolled casually along, trying not to notice how rapidly the sun was sinking, and how his stomach was rather echoing the movement. He would find the Market soon enough, Teff told himself. After all, how hard could it be to bump into a group of shifty tradesmen selling illegal goods in a district of 26 thousand residents?

Time for a new approach. Teff reached into his pocket and took his wallet out, then flipped through it, pretending to count the bills.

"Hmm..." he announced loudly. "A hundred, two hundred, five hundred. I sure do have a lot of money in here. Also, I am completely unarmed and defenseless. In fact, I am practically a sitting duck. A rich sitting duck."

Teff glanced behind him, trying to discern any human shapes moving among the shadows. No one appeared, however, and he turned forward again, disappointed. He was not looking forward to yet another hour of trudging through the streets, not sure himself of what he was searching for. He should probably give up, anyway.

He was turning around to head home when he felt a weight press firmly against his mouth. The first thing he noticed was the worn scratchiness of the glove. The second was the knife pressed against his neck.

"Do not attempt to scream," a voice hissed into his ear, low and dangerous. "If you do, I will kill you immediately and take the money you were oh-so-kindly showing off to the world."

Teff knew a serious threat when he heard it, and he knew that the owner of the voice wasn't messing around. His death would mean nothing to this person; just another job well done. Still, he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied the fear. Even if he didn't get the drugs he wanted tonight, he would still have gotten high.

"Why," he croaked, "don't you kill me anyway?"

The voice laughed, and Teff was surprised to recognize it as female. "Eager to die, aren't you? Don't worry, it's not my better nature keeping you alive. It's greed, plain and simple. If I kill you now, I get a one-time payment. I let you go, and you'll eventually come back. With more money for me."

Teff was relieved. Moral codes were fickle, buggy, and otherwise unreliable. Greed, on the other hand, was a basic, stable motivator. Greed he could deal with. Good nature, not so much.

"How much do you want?" he inquired, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I don't have that much, you know, and I still need enough to buy... the thing I'm going to buy."

"Oh, please. You're obviously after morphling. I want almost everything you've got; I'll leave you a hundred to pay for it, but try to hide anything else from me, and this story won't end well.

"Do not move, not even an inch, if you value your life. I will now put my hand into your front pocket, take your wallet, and pay myself, rather generously, as you can imagine. Then, I will blindfold you and take you to the Market, so that next time you won't have a choice but to employ my services."

And she did exactly that.

Teff didn't bother attempting to imprint the path they were taking on his memory; he knew that his captor would take him through a purposely twisted road so that he wouldn't be able to replicate it. She was clever, that much was clear. But then again, so was he.

~~~

Fifteen minutes later, Teff's eyes flared with pain: the blindfold had been removed suddenly, and the street lamps' glow was brighter than ever. He whirled around, expecting to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but she was disappeared. He was on his own.

Around him, a thriving marketplace was set up; merchants selling everything from- were those human arms?- to gold occupied the ground, and the scents of unwashed bodies and exotic fruits alike filled the air.

He cautiously approached a booth with what looked like greens spread out over the counter.

"What do you want?" the owner, a man with a scraggly gray beard and curiously beady eyes growled. "You're not a regular."

"I- I was looking for- well-" Teff stammered, unsure himself of what he was looking for. "Do you have any- uh- drugs?"

The man blinked at him. "What do you think I sell here," he gestured, "onions?"

"Um- no. I mean," Teff collected himself. "I would like to buy some hash?" It came out as a question.

"Ah, you're a customer." The man's demeanor changed instantly. "Sometimes we have health inspectors around here- that's not important. Sure. How much do you want?"

There were different sizes? The world of drugs was a lot more complicated than Teff had originally expected.

"I want- a lot, please."

He handed over the hundred-dollar bill, and the man's eyebrows flew upward, although he didn't comment. Clearly, this boy would be a valuable customer.

"Do you want a straw to go with that, as well?"

"Sure," Teff replied, wondering what he was supposed to do with a straw, and how it related to the ingestion of hash.

~~~

Teff grinned

and sighed.

He had never felt this

good before

This wonderful

amazing

wonderful- oh, had he already used that word?

In the midst of euphoria, some instinct prompted Teff to reach into his pocket. He withdrew a slip of paper, on which was written:

Next Friday. 8 PM. Same spot. $700.

He sighed again, with contentment this time. Of course he would pay the money, if it meant he could experience this floating, bubbling feeling again.

★KAI ZALE★

Screams for help wake me up from my bed. And suddenly I was in District Four's streets hurrying to find the source of the screams.

I turned every corner, as the screams become louder and more desperate. I don't care if I get shot for coming out at night. It will be all worth it to save the person.

"Help me, help me," I recognize that as my sister's voice.

I shiver as a cold runs up my spine, and mind finally wraps around it.

My little sister needs my help. I thought she was supposed to be at the doctor right now. Where are my parents?

I step into an alleyway and there lays my little sister, who is 8. She breathing heavily as blood drips from her stomach.

A bullet wound. The peacekeepers found them.

"Where is mom and dad?" I question my dying sister.

Before she goes still, she points her hand across from me. Then at least thirty seconds after that her arm go dead on the ground.

"Noooooo"

BOOM

-----------------------------------

I wake up breathing heavily, gasping for air. I just relived the worst day of my life, where all of my loved were ripped away from me.

They were murdered by peacekeepers and I was shot too.

I then notice Dr. Rhodes is standing above me, staring making sure I am okay. Dr. Rhodes took me in after the accident, as she treated me, both physically and mentally. Because who would want a 10-year-old waking up asking for his family.

So she had an extra spare bed, she took me in feeling pity for the kid who lost his family. She is like a mother to me now.

"Ready for Reaping Day?" she says looking worried that she might use me, I'm her apprentice.

"It's not like I'm going to get picked, I only have my name in there twice," I say not trying to jinx my luck.

I then retreat to my closet and find my reaping suit, which Dr. Rhodes got for me last year.

-----------------------------

I walk through the town square, filled with scared little kids with me. All packed together, I shrink at the site of the Peacekeepers.

What if they remember me?

Just in case, I walk with my head down until I come to the identifying table. I am next in line, so I breathe hard. Seconds pass, and I find myself at the front of the line staring at Capitol officials.

I hold out one of my fingers, then hear a beeping noise as they draw blood from my finger. On the littler screen of the machine I can see: Kai Zale, 13.

The woman then tells me to proceed to the 13-year old boy section. I walk through the crowd, trying to squeeze through with my tiny figure.

Bump after bump I sigh, it is really hard to shuffle through the crowd without getting elbowed. Finally after what it seems like hundreds of elbowing I make it to my section. The line is filled, so I fill in the closest to the exit of the pen.

The mayor then walks to the stage seconds later.

"134 years ago, the Hunger Games starting and a new era began. Now, I want to welcome up to the stage, Thaila Huggleberry!"

Thaila walks up to the stage and she is wearing her signature reaping outfit she wears every year. She is wearing a relatively super short dress. The dress has all sorts of rainbow colors. It definitely draws everyone's attention, there must be 20-50 different shades of different colors. And get this she has no leggings or pantty hoes underneath. Her hair is in a braid tied into a messy bun and her face is caked in makeup.

Her eyeshadow is green, while her blush is a dark pink.

"Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor. Thank you for the applause, you district four are lovely,"

She must love her job because she receives a big round of applause.

"Now before we get started we will see a 5 minute short film on how the Hunger Games came to be. Enjoy!"

The video is about how the thirteen districts of Panem uprose against the Capitol. During the uprising, District Thirteen was totally destroyed. And to punish the 12 districts of Panem, the Capitol came up with the Hunger Games. Where the 12 districts of Panem would give up two tributes, young man and woman between the ages 12 and 18 to fight to the death.

"As usual ladies first,"

Everyone in the town square takes a deep breath. Hoping that their children won't get picked, but knowing a career will save them.

Thaila goes over to the girl's bowl and swirls her hand around the bowl. She picks a name close to the bottom. She then shuffles back to the microphone and takes a deep breath and reads the name.

"Adriana Fowl"

I scan the crowd for the lucky kid, and she turns out to be a muscular girl.

Everyone in the 18-year-old section steps out the way, for fear. All of them moving quickly out of the way, saying nothing. They don't have pity for this girl, indeed this girl looks like she wants to murder everyone in the square.

She walks up the to mike, peacekeepers behind, as they don't have to force her up. After awhile they notice so they drift back in the background. The peacekeepers look more scared of her then she looks of them.

Thalia doesn't even bother to ask her questions as she comes up. Adriana then steals the microphone and Thalia clearly lets her.

"I got a message for the other tributes, stay out of my way or I will carve you up myself," she then shits down as if she didn't say anything.

"Yes, good girl confidence is key," she says shakily.

"Now for the boys,"

She walks over to the boy's bowl. Swishes her hand around and around the bowl. Then she decides to pick a name at the top. I hold my breath awaiting the screaming of children. She clears her throat and continues.

"Kai Zale"

I almost fill all the breath leave my body, as I obediently stroll towards the stage. I try to look confident walking, but I fail majorly as all my emotions explode at once.

I am finally walking up the steps as the shivering starts, my body convulsing. Still shaking I walk up to the microphone.

"I'm 13" I say my voice shaking.

"Well district one we have your two tributes Adriana Fowl and Kai Zale,"

Then shortly afterwards I feel hands on my shoulders as peacekeepers escort me into the Justice Building. I then find myself in a room where I will say my final goodbyes. Since I have no family left, I sit in the room for 20 minutes fiddling with my hair. It isn't until 10 minutes later, that Dr. Rhodes is let in.

We just stare at each other as the minutes, both of us bawling our eyes out.

Before she leaves she says, "Come home to me and don't let the Capitol take away your life, like your sister and parents,"

I nod, even though I don't plan on surviving that long.

I am on a mission of suicide.

★KIEFER ELWOOD★

It is sundown. Rays of orange light filter through the dirtied windows, a summer breeze seeping in from the cracks under the sills. The building is dim, a haze seeming to hang from the rafters even though smoking has been banned since a fire tore the building to its roots seven years ago. The walls are wood but there is a stone fireplace set behind a long counter, the grit between the stones packed with dirt and soot. There is never a lack of wood in Seven; though it occasionally gets too expensive to buy, when the season brings high demand. The floor is packed dirt—the patrons do not come for the aesthetic. Outside, a weather-worn sign let the citizens of Seven know precisely where they were: Dennis and Dennis Bar.

It was established by two brothers on the very outskirts of Seven, a place for the miscreants, loners, and outcasts to drink away their days and nights. Kiefer Elwood, victor of the one hundred thirty-third Hunger Games, is a regular patron. He sits on a stool that has been worn down by the many hundreds who have come before him. In his hand he holds golden amber, letting the light of the setting sun cast fractals onto the counter.

Only a few other patrons are in Dennis and Dennis—an older man who slurs stories to a dishevelled woman, and a frog-faced man of around forty who hiccoughs occasionally in a corner. Kiefer fits in well, though his gruff but silent demeanor casts him apart from the other patrons. He drinks, empties the glass, and sets in back onto the counter.

"Another," he calls, and a man who is washing the dishes in a small sink does not have to ask for his order before beginning to prepare it. He sets it in front of Kiefer. "Thanks, Moses."

"You gonna be heading out soon?"

Moses Dennis is the co-founder of the bar, and is attentive, caring, and all-around a pain in the ass when sober. At least, when Kiefer is drunk he is.

"Maybe."

"Your, uh, wife, called. Said something, you know, about some sort of party. Something about Lynden." Moses looks away from Kiefer, and focusses on cutting lemons for the impending evening rush. A melody of chopping and hiccoughs are the only sounds in the bar for a moment, and then a crack of sound bursts from the older man who spews out another litany of stories. Kiefer remains silent.

He is back there, back in the dark and damp, stone walls smothering him. Lynden is beneath him, and he is there: he is drunk on power, he is becoming a man, he tells himself, as his hands close around his brother's neck. The life begins to drain, Lynden's body grows heavy, heavier than Kiefer ever thought possible. He can see himself too, Kiefer sees the dried blood that rests in the creases of his face, the dirt than mangles his hair. He is a monster; he cannot help who he has become.

"Kiefer?"

He shudders, a violent involuntary urge to shake the memory from his mind. His son, his son Lynden, that's who he is talking about. He sees much of the old Lynden in him. Every movement, every bout of laughter that comes from the young child sounds like the laughter that torments his mind. He is even the oldest child. But in Kiefer's family, there is no third child, no new Kiefer, and for that, he is thankful. He did not breed a monster.

"Kiefer, Adel said you were missing a party for him. You should probably get going soon."

"Right, right, yeah. I, uh, I forgot. Dammit," he says, and he scrapes his chair backwards and stands up. "Here, I hope this'll cover it. If it doesn't, I'll pay later, yeah? Sorry, Moses, I'm just a bit out of it. That time of year, you know," he says.

He is greeted by a rush of summer wind as he exits the bar. He has no vehicle, and Victor's Village is on the opposite side of the District. He begins the trek back, following back roads that face dilapidated houses. Adel doesn't drink, but she denies her problems. Kiefer's seen it for years—she shoves away her problems until they spill from the seams of her heart. They do not love each other. They cannot. They face their problems in different ways. To hide the memories, to lock them away in a box, that is what Adel does, and she does it well. He cannot control them, he must suppress them, but they always return. He is weak, he is nothing more than a drunkard.

It takes him far longer than it should to return home. He stumbles, resting for moments against trees until his head begins to clear from the fog that always seems to linger. By the time his feet meet the rough gravel of the Victor's Village the sun has gone down. There are lights on in most of the houses—Seven always seems to be underestimated in the Games—but he meanders to the one closest to the forest—Adel's choosing.

It's a nice house, simple. He always wanted simple. Adelheid knit in her pastime, so the abundance of yarn and quilts around the home presented it as cozy rather than lonely, warm instead of a distant cold. His hand is greeted by cold doorknob and he lurches inside and shakes his head. He can control himself, he can remain present, he assures himself. He is greeted by the stony face of Adelheid, though his attention draws away from her gaze when Radley hobbles over to him.

"Papa, papa!"

"Hey, buddy," Kiefer says, but his attention quickly draws away from the clamoring child at his leg to face his wife.

"You missed the party. You promised you'd show. L's been up there moping ever since everyone left. Kief, we can't keep letting this go on."

He pushes Radley forward, urging him out of the hallway. He walks past her, brushing her aside. "I'm sorry, okay?" And he means it, he knows he means it, somewhere within him. "I'll make it up to him. He's got lots more birthdays, I'll pick something up for him tomorrow."

Adel sighs and runs her hands through her hair in frustration. They have had this conversation before. "You can't hide from a name, he's your son, Kiefer. Man up, face it—he's going to be here a while. He's a child, a kid, he deserves to have you in his life." She brushes her fingers against his beard. "Look at me."

Their eyes meet, but he despises what he sees. He hates the pity, the arrogance in her. She's beautiful but there is nothing but self-serving disappointment in her voice. He brushes her off and walks into the kitchen and sits with his head in his hands.

Adel stands, leaning against the doorframe. "Your father came by, too. He would've got you, but he's getting older, and—"

"Yes, I know what my father is like, Adel. I said," he raises his voice, "I'll handle it, okay?" By now his hand is raised in the air, and he points it no place in particular, seeking only to express his anger in a way that is controlled. Deep breaths, he was always told.

"You're not."

"Don't tell me what I am or am not doing, dammit!" He roars, lunging from his seat. He hates her expression, the way her eyebrows furrow in fake concern. The only thing that matters to her is their appearance. She extends an arm to him, but he grabs it and twists it until she yells. He sees Lynden beneath him, he sees all the people he killed in the arena, and yet he cannot help himself as he throws her to the ground.

Above, a pair of eyes and flushed cheeks watch from the staircase. Lynden runs to hide.

★ASHRE RELICKS★

"Let me tell you why you're named Keon."

The boy looked up at his uncle, green eyes shimmering like seaweed caught in rivulets. His hands were clasped together, Ashre noticed, fingers curled in anticipation. Keon loved his uncle's stories, particularly when he, himself, was the subject. The older man glanced up at the sky, smog rimming vision, and parted his lips.

Breath-

Then, "I almost died, you know? In the Hunger Games," he said, voice soft and dull. Each syllable was laced in a curtain, draped delicately; Ashre felt his heart beat in the spaces between words, silence lurking even when absent.

Keon's smile vanished. "You did?" he asked, his entwined fingers releasing, landing on the ground. He tugged at the grass, yanking up roots absentmindedly.

Ashre paused. He refused to close his eyes and breathe; with the memory so present in the foreground of his mind, he feared it. Darkness- closing out reality- so he stared at Keon with violet and silver and straightened his spine.

He never wanted to tell this story. But watching the ragged air spill from Keon's throat, the insensitive rise and fall of Keon's chest, and the shivers of his arms as the District Eight winds chilled them, Ashre knew he must. His nephew was dying; time was thinning.

"It started with a cupcake," he began, a rhythm of laughter arising. It was somber and quiet and a melancholy tune. "They started the Bloodbath by singing happy birthday to your old uncle. I was turning thirteen, a little older than you- " he paused, looking at the boy. "Wait, how old are you again? Nine? Ten?"

"Four!" Keon held up a hand, his thumb tucked back to reveal four fingers. Unlike Ashre, a full laugh burst from the boy. Like lightning, bright and sudden.

"Impossible. You're too tall to be four."

Keon chuckled, taking the time to count his fingers, making sure he was correct. Bright, bright boy, Ashre thought, Too bright for this world.

Breath-

"A sponsor gift I received was a cupcake for my birthday. Before someone killed me, I whined and they let me eat it before I'd die. A gift for the child," Ashre continued, placing each word carefully. "But when I reached for it in my pocket, I grabbed a knife instead. Attacked them. I didn't kill them, but do you know who did?" he asked, a poison grief filling the sky, towering above Ashre like rainfall. It was death, superimposed.

"Who?" Keon asked, wondering like any kid might wonder: without thought.

"Your Uncle Keon." Ashre smiled, but every bone in his body went alight, tremors trapped in marrow. His hands shook, palms concealing an earthquake. He watched his nephew's eyes brighten, stars and curiosity and awe and love overcoming him.

Ashre remembered Keon's protective arms around his, asleep through the night. Stirred heat, still breaths, aligned hearts. They'd been brothers in the arena; what had that been like?

"He left soon after, though," Ashre continued, the sleet of his eyes beginning to melt. Ice threatened to fall, as if winter harrowed the man and not pain. Keon placed a hand on his uncle's knee, but Ashre couldn't feel the touch. "I think he...He knew I was going to die. Right before, I had this long nightmare. There were crows and your grandparents and a funeral and- Keon." Ashre let his eyes close, blackness and imaginary lights swirling, a flood of the past. "He shot me in the head. I fell into a lake and drowned before the wound could kill me."

Keon didn't understand. Confusion washed over his face, tainted blue. Ashre's lips quivered, offbeat, shivering from the morning chill and uneasiness alike. "But, of course, he came back and helped me win," he said, shifting in the seat. He ended the story too quick; Keon was too young for depths.

Breath-

"I never wanted to win."

Ashre murmured the last part, so Keon didn't hear. The boy smiled wide, enthused by his namesake, proud to be named after such a helpful man. He didn't realize that Ashre resented it; his nephew was nothing like his uncle. Weak. Playful. Careless.

Free.

Keon suddenly jumped to his feet, knees stained green and cheeks pulling apart in a frivolous grin. "Daddy!" he yelled haphazardly, running past Ashre; it reminded him even more of the difference between his nephew and his ally. The old Keon never smiled. His nephew took it for granted.

Ashre watched Keon barrel towards Wherin, and for a second the two brothers met eyes. So much passed between them, but the moment petered out like fire. Keon hugged his father quickly, an embrace uncherished, misremembered, and when they separated everything meant the same as before. The clock unwound and his family disappeared; smoky winds and district sounds filled the world. Ashre turned back to his house, numb.

He'd forgotten how to breathe. How to see, or hear; Ashre Relicks no longer understood the exchange of love and hate. Heat against heat, skin meeting skin. Nothing. He felt nothing. Only the ache of knowing his heart's beats were silent.

Breath-

He cannot breathe.

Did Wherin and Keon say goodbye? Ashre sat against the table in his front yard, knuckles balling into fists until they paled. He wanted to take a deep breath, but his throat confined, cell bars locking each lung. Like stone. Heavy in his mouth.

"Come with me,

Victor.

You've won. It's over."

Words flowed through him when he was alone. Keon had died in third place, but Ashre didn't remember the other girl falling. Liliana Lumen had been her name- young, like a fairy. Her cannon went aloft in his mind, unheard. He'd seen recordings of her death, and he never saw his hands in the same light.

He stood and went inside, leaving patterns of flowerbeds and bushes behind. The house itself was eerie and empty, doors upon doors leading nowhere. But nowhere was somewhere to Ashre, because memories haunted him wherever he went.

Screams interloping screams, a throat gone ragged and dry. Thirst and hunger, spilled blood. Ashre is alone. He awoke that way; Keon is gone. He left?

A thrum, and the ground shakes. His vision blurs, fingers numb, heart fretting and freezing over to go completely still. One prick; one strike; one flick; it'd shatter.

A face in the sky. An underscore of ominous tone. Ashre wails. Keon stares down at him, his eyes open with fury and life. He's alive in the sky. Dead on the ground. Somewhere, where Ashre cannot reach.

He's alone.

"Come with me,"

A hand stretches towards him, palm open. A helicopter whirs to displace his hair, skin enforced by wind, like he's trapped in a tornado. Hurricane rising. His eyes close; he can feel his hands dripping. Are they melting? Is it rain?

He can't see the blood. His eyes stay shut. He's lifted into the sky and wonders how close he is to Keon's face. The distance is far. His eyes stay shut.

The man grabs him. Roughly. He pulls Ashre and suddenly the nightmare is over- has just begun.

When he opens his eyes, he's clean and quiet and shivering and silent.

"Victor."

He's shown what he did.

"You've won."

Crimson stains and death-

like a dream abducted, sent for shadow.

The boy killed a girl

and he flew.

"It's over."

Inside his bedroom, Ashre opened a drawer. It was empty, besides a disfigured sphere, hard of surface and discolored by age. Ashre hesitated, his hands itching to grasp its story. The fossil. Brown and grey and white and every dark shade found between.

Everything stirred when he held it. It was small enough to fit inside one hand, but it was heavy, and each finger helped keep it up.There was a faded, red stain on its sharpest edge, where his own blood mixed with hers

He didn't tell Keon the full tale. Eternity withheld the truth; Ashre reveled in forever.

He'd fallen and bled onto the fossil when he'd seen Keon's face in the sky, too senseless to feel his skin incised. Then, he'd used it to murder. To win the Hunger Games.

Breath-

His organs reopened and air flowed in. Tight in his grasp, it's like the fossil healed him, sealing wounds and cracks. He fell onto his bed.

"Victor."

of a game he was never meant to kill.

"It's over."

Incomplete.

★VALENTINE RACHMANINOFF★

It was hunger that woke him on that final day, its sharp claws raking themselves through his body. They traced his stomach, leaving hunger pains and cramps. They made their way up his esophagus, up past his larynx, and finally to his throat.

It was hunger that woke Nina as well. For a while, they sat in the cave together, watching the snow fall outside and enjoying what they assumed would be their last moments on the earth.

The snow fell, the pair starved, but the game was still far from over.

He wept when the feast was announced, the tears freezing on his cheeks. They would have to go, even in their condition. There was the possibility of death, of course, but who's to say there wouldn't be food for them?

The feast would commence sunset, and they would go.

A painful two minutes ticked by, the time dedicated to figuring out how to stand up again. Their bony bodies supported each other as they slowly lifted themselves off of the cave floor.

It was at this point, with both of them standing, that they had to figure out how to escape the cave they had sealed themselves into. The rocks seemed much heavier now, as their muscles and bones had weakened to such an extent that a mere five pounds seemed ten times heavier. Valentine tried to pry them away with his scythe but to no avail.

The rocks were carried away from the front wall of the by hand, one by one, each requiring more effort than the previous. It took a great amount of time; by the time they were done, the sun was close to being directly above their cave. Its rays, although visible, only occasionally peeked from above the treetops, leaving the forest dark and cold.

Not only was it dark and cold, but according to Nina, it was also unusually quiet. Valentine didn't hear any difference. It sounded like a forest to him, with the faint gurgles of creeks and the wind whispering through the trees.

In time, the rocks were removed, and as the wall disappeared, water was free to drip into the cave from the treetops. They were wet now, yes, but the steady stream of water offered a comforting piece of information: the snow was melting.

They clutched each other as they took their first stumbling steps out of the cave. It had almost two days since they had last been outside. Bushes had somehow grown over the cave entrance overnight, but it took only a few minutes for Valentine to cut them all away with his scythe.

Nina was the one who led them. They hugged each other in an attempt to preserve body heat and stay balanced, but every move they made seemed to be countered by the forest itself. Roots constantly tripped them, and as they moved closer to the center of the arena, the snow became deeper.

It was Nina who led the way, but it was Valentine who insisted on turning back. It was clearly the Gamemakers who were messing with their path to the feast.

"Nina, I know we need it, but there's no way this is remotely natural. The snow was melting at our cave, so how is there somehow two feet of it here? We should turn around now, there's probably a berry bush somewhere."

"Are you denying the fact that we haven't seen a single bush or animal in thirty minutes of walking?" she said.

Valentine looked away, but she grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at her, "Val, have you even heard a single bird this whole day?"

"Well no, bu-"

Her face contorted into an expression that seemed celebratory yet angry, "I told you! There's nothing to help us now, so I'll give you an option. We either go to the feast or die here. You better choose fast, because I'm going to find a reliable source of food, thank you very much."

She turned and began to trudge through the snow. Why did it feel like the entire forest was trying to sabotage them? He wanted to stop her, to get her on his side, to keep her out of danger.

But, in the end, it was Nina who led him to the cornucopia.

* * * *

"Nina, are you sure about this?"

He knew the answer already, as did she. Neither of them would ever admit it to the other, though. Their eyes met, but only for a second before they flitted away nervously. They eventually looked at each other, and when they did, they both realized that they wouldn't ever be the same. Nothing would ever be the same.

The snow fell, the pair kissed, and the game reached its final stage.

The last ten tributes raced the center of the arena. Valentine noticed that all of them, including some of the larger kids, looked rather gaunt. Perhaps the Gamemakers had toyed with them after all.

As the tributes reached the cornucopia, Valentine observed that some people seemed to be missing. The next thing he noticed were the bodies littered around the horn, all covered with scrapes and cuts that turned the snow a sickening shade of red.

The boy from Two was the first to reach for a pack, his hand quickly wrapping around the straps. His frozen fingers fumbled with the zippers, and unluckily for him, his next most logical solution was to rip the bag open with his sword. Its blade ripped into the fabric of the pack without the slightest regard for its possible contents.

The boy's hand was the next to explore the inside of the bag, but when it was retracted, it came out empty-handed. His face changed expressions with almost comical lucidity, but one expression soon became dominant: panic, as one of the larger tributes barreled toward the boy.

"Val, grab a bag and GO!" screamed Nina from somewhere behind him. He turned to see the girl running back into the woods, a pack swinging wildly in her grasp. He didn't have to think twice; he snatched the nearest bag and followed Nina into the forest.

Nina let out a small gasp as Valentine crashed through the tree line, but she relaxed she saw the boy's face. She was squatting in the snow, ripping through her bag, but nothing seemed to be in it. She pulled the bag off of Valentine's shoulders and began the same process. There was nothing in the bags.

"I told you, Nina, they don't want to help us. They want us dead."

The last five tributes stumbled into the clearing. With every step, they became quicker, with every glance they became more passionate, and with every breath, they became more deadly. They were all motivated by their hunger, whether real or for something less tangible, like the touch of a mother's hand.

The girl from Four slowly crept behind the rest of the tributes. She counted three in front of her, and by the time she realized who her killer was going to be, the sword had already entered her back. Her last thought was, "Why doesn't it hurt?"

As Four bled out on the snow, Nina ran behind the girl from Seven and grabbed her by the leg, pulling them both into the snow. Nina reached for the girl's knife, but Seven was quicker, digging the silver blade into Nina's forearm. She screamed and scrambled away, allowing Seven to escape for the time being.

The boy from Two looked like a revenant, with trails of blood lining his face, and the skin on his forehead peeling away. He ran towards Nina, who was still trying to crawl away from the battle, blood flowing freely down her arm.

Valentine felt like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. He began to ran towards Nina, but an unseen force pushed him into the snow and twisted his scythe out of his hands.

Gasping, Valentine looked at his attacker. The girl from Seven stood over him, emotionless. As she raised her knife, Valentine rolled away as it was plunged into the snow mere centimeters from his head. The girl screamed in frustration and kicked him square in the chest, pinning him to the ground. Her knife was raised again, and this time it wouldn't miss its target.

Before the knife even made its second path down, a scream pierced the eerily quiet winter air. Seven looked up from Valentine and towards the source of the scream, allowing him to stand up and shove her to the ground.

Nina lay on the ground a few meters away with Two right in front of her. She crawled backward, her eyes panicked and darting left and right, as if to find someone to run to. Her eyes met with Valentine's, and she began to say his name.

Two's sword passed clean through Nina's neck, almost completely severing her head from her body. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering Two's jacket with red.

Valentine's hunger ceased. His eyesight tunneled and focused on Two, who was still slicing Nina's neck. The pain in his chest diluted to almost nothing against his rage. His scythe was still in the snow; he picked it up. The metal of the handle was unbearably cold, but his grip tightened. The only thing Valentine could hear was the sound of blood rushing in his ears. That, and the sound of Nina's last scream echoing in his mind.

He ran towards Two, planning out his death. A nice slash in the gut, maybe. Perhaps he would give him the same death as Nina. Yes, that would be fitting. Maybe that would be too pleasing for the Capital, though. Now that he thought about it, he should quickly kill Two, and deny the Capital the show they were surely desperate to receive. After all, the Gamemakers were Nina's true killers.

The tip of the scythe pierced the side of Two's skull. Quick, yet brutal.

He stared at the body beneath him, hoping to feel some form of satisfaction at the retribution of his partner's killer. Instead, there was emptiness.

Seven watched as the boy continued to stare at the corpse. It was her chance, she decided. As she ran towards the boy, he turned around, and it was he who decided his scythe's new home: her jugular, and her ultimate fate: death.

The snow fell, the boy cried, and the game ended.