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chapter ten
HER RESPONSIBILITY

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Being back on the Reaping stage feels like living in a memory. Her past has returned, the deja vu of it all making it almost impossible to recognize the present. Suspended between time and space, a hazy veil casts itself across her vision as she stares out to the crowd of children rounded up from across the District. Unlike last year, she's sitting in one of the chairs that promises her she's safe. A Victor's chair, a solemn Shep beside her. Next to him is Alondra, who appears more tired than usual. At the very end of the row is Ten's oldest Victor, Barrow, who probably hasn't come out of his house since the last Reaping.

Sweat drips down the back of her neck from the sweltering July sun as her fingers tremble on her lap. She's unsure what to do with them. Knit them together, rest them neatly, maybe adjust her black hair that's beginning to stick to her flesh. There's no time to decide as District Ten's Mayor Gallus introduces Philo along the stage.

Her Escort is clad in a cow print tuxedo, his wig a shimmering black that might be the most natural his hair has come to in most recent years. Sage can't help but quirk a brow at the slight shift in her Escort's demeanor as he stalks toward the microphone this year. At first, she can't quite put her finger on it, it subtle at first. Then when he taps along the microphone twice, sending an echo across the silent crowd, she recognizes it.

Pride. The way his shoulders are squared, the bright smile along his features, and the way he almost stands on poised tip-toes in front of the entire District.

Of course. Ten managed to bring a Victor home after twenty years of slaughter upon slaughter of its children. To him, this is more than a miracle, it's a medal. One that he thinks belongs to him to wear as their Escort. She clenches her jaw.

There's brief recognition in Sage's direction for her victory in the previous year, and she manages a small smile and wave toward the crowd. Then comes the recorded propaganda they're forced to watch every year. It always starts off pleasant, painting the world before this one as a sort of Utopia, everyone smiling at one another, holding hands and singing joyous gratitude to the civilization around them. Who would want to ruin that?

Well, everyone knows no one would. Hence, making the whole entire clip even more laughable.

There's a rippling explosion as the peace is shattered by war of ungrateful Districts, President Snow's voice echoing the words, "War. Terrible war." Then the citizens corralled like lambs to the slaughter are scolded like school children, issued their stinging consequences in the fashion of two bowls holding names of kids who weren't even alive to commit the crime.

It's all so senseless.

"So moving, isn't it?" Philo chirps once the video ends. The crowd stares mutely and hungrily. He doesn't even flinch as he smiles a big smile, raising his brows devilishly. "Let's begin! Ladies first."

He walks on his tip toes toward one of the gleaming bowls nearly overflowing with names. Sage starts to gnaw on her fingernails, then stops, expecting the slap of a palm. No one even looks in her direction. Her heart pounds in her sour stomach. She couldn't bear to eat this morning without it most likely coming back up again. Philo's hand rustles through the names as he strains to reach the very bottom. He's so short that it almost seems like he'll fall into the bowl. With a huff, he finally pulls out the cursed child's slip of paper.

Philo approaches the stage again, toes still pointed. He raises his brows with a cheesy grin, crossing his fingers in the air for all to see. "Fingers crossed it's a good one."

Sage's knee bobs up and down anxiously on the stage, causing it to creak as Philo opens the slip of paper.

"The female tribute for District Ten is..." He smiles a sharp smile again. "Taura Santos."

All but one expel a collectively held breath of relief, offering just a moment of a brief breeze throughout the District. Sage straightens in her chair as she scours the crowd for the unfortunate soul. She thinks she sees a shift at the cluster of Sixteens, but she isn't sure. Her name echoes in her mind like a prayer, lips nervously reciting it with a whisper over and over.

Taura Santos, Taura Santos, Taura Santos.

It doesn't sound familiar. Thank God it doesn't sound familiar.

The girl materializes from the crowd like a phantom. She looks like one too despite the natural hues of her complexion as she shakily walks toward the stage, Peacekeepers circling her like a pack of wolves. Sage feels her shoulders slump, a knot forming in her stomach. She can't be older than fifteen. The petrified girl slips going up the stairs, barely grabbing onto the railing in time. Sage almost stands to help her, then thinks better of it. She can't make a spectacle of it— it'll only make her look weak.

God, is this what it's like to think like a Mentor now? Any other time and Sage wouldn't even hesitate.

Either way, she still silently begs Taura to look in her direction. Feeling her stare, the girl turns her head ever so slightly, wide brown eyes locking onto Sage's steady ones. She hopes she receives her message.

I'll protect you.

Philo scoops her up within a moment, his spare hand pressing between her shoulder blades to guide her forward. He hurries her across the stage impatiently with a strained chuckle. "Wonderful!" he coos. "You must be Taura, yes?"

He holds out the microphone for her, to which she nods first, eventually clearing her throat. "Yes."

"Lovely to meet you Taura. And how old are you?"

"F—fifteen."

"What a wonderful age!" Philo chirps loudly into the microphone, sparking prickling feedback that burrows uncomfortably in everyone's eardrums. "Just beginning to have a chance."

Sage almost drops her head into her hands as she stifles a groan. The girl cowers at that. Before she might say something back, he moves onto the selection of the next tribute. "Now for the boys!"

Her knee starts bobbing up and down again, and she inches forward in her seat. She watches Philo reach into the other bowl, papers crinkling as he digs through them. His technique seems to be digging as deep as he can to the bottom. She can't even remember watching him reach into the bowl at her Reaping, only the echo of her name and the buzzing up the right side of her head once the reality of it nailed itself into her brain. Finally, he finds one slip of paper to his liking, a soft hum vibrating in his throat.

Sage goes still as her eyes trail his elated figure back to the microphone. He clears his throat, shifting his weight back and forth on his toes. Another smile. "The male tribute for District Ten is... Roan Cerillo."

Where there was silence for the girl, there is an outcry for the boy. A sudden uproar erupts from a crowd of Seventeens, cursing and hollering like a pack of rabid wolves. The boys all wrap around a sickly looking one in particular as his shield, Peacekeepers starting toward them with their batons. Sage stands sharply from her chair with wide eyes while Philo awkwardly shifts his weight, nervously watching.

"Someone's excited, I take it?" he asks unconvincingly.

Just when Sage thinks about barreling down to help, the flash of the batons under the sweltering sun making her shiver, a wrathful voice roars. "I volunteer as tribute, you fucking assholes, I volunteer!"

Philo points toward the scuffle, his tone rising in pitch. Sage can't tell if it's nerves or excitement, or maybe both with a twinge of relief. "Ooh, a volunteer! A volunteer!"

Diverting from the sickly boy, the White Suits lurch toward District Ten's first volunteer in forty years. One latches onto the boy, and he jerks his arm out of their grip.

"—the fuck off me!"

Fuming, he marches toward the stage, the Peacekeepers hovering around him. He stomps up the stairs, dark curls hovering over his fiery eyes. A startled Philo isn't sure what to do, smiling awkwardly in greeting.

"And what might your name be?"

He doesn't answer into the microphone, simply mumbling under his breath. Thankfully, the speakers don't pick up on what he says. "Go fuck yourself."

His rage is startling yet understandable all at the same time. It's a shock the stage hasn't been swallowed up by flames, the heat rolling off him in waves. The curly-haired boy finds his place on stage in front of the crowd, nostrils flared. His glare burns into the section of Seventeens he just came from, the sickly boy and his protectors unharmed.

For now.

"I didn't quite catch that," Philo tries again, this time leaning the microphone toward the boy. His dark glare flits to it hovering by his lips with disgust.

"Mateo."

"And your last name?"

Running his tongue along his teeth, he looks Philo right in the eye, a sneer splintering across his lips. When he does this, Sage notices the scars across his nose and left brow. "Mince."

"Mateo Mince!" Philo cries enthusiastically to the crowd. It almost reminds Sage of Caesar Flickerman, except no one cheers or applauds. Everyone just blinks back somberly. "And might I ask why you volunteered for that young man over there?"

"No es asunto tuyo." Sage pales when the speakers pick up the whisper of his forbidden Spanish.

"Hm?"

Mateo's hisses through grit teeth. "None of your business."

Philo almost flinches, lips twisting into a scowl. However, he quickly returns his smile, strainingly giggling into the microphone. "Oh my, a spitfire, huh? Save it for the Arena!" When he pats his shoulder with a false sense of comradery, Mateo looks like he might rip his face off with his bare hands. Then he looks back to District Ten with beaming eyes. "Am I right?"

Another murmur under his breath. "Chato."

"Alrighty then. Quite a turn of events this Reaping. Let us shake hands."

The Escort gestures for the two tributes to face each other. Taura looks even more petrified, the blatantly expressed rage from her District Partner unsettling. Surprisingly, Mateo is the one to reach over first, his jaw clenched and glare averting her stare. They shake hands shortly and firmly. Sage sweeps her gaze across both of them over and over again, their names forged into a contract of her mind.

Taura Santos— Mateo Mince. Her responsibility. The weight nearly cracks her spine, so she sits taller in her seat.

"And now I present to you, the tributes from District Ten of the Seventy-Third Hunger Games... Taura Santos, and Mateo Mince!"

Their names etch themselves into her heart. I'll get you home.

"May the odds be ever in our favor... again."

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Crystal chandeliers jingle faintly from the momentum of the train as it races at top speed toward The Capitol. Despite Sage's efforts, Mateo has locked himself in his quarters from the moment Philo showed him where he'd be staying the next two nights. She asked the staff to send food to his room, but they only came back with full plates, the boy insisting he isn't hungry. Before she could try herself, Shep put a firm hand on her shoulder, offering a soft shake of his head.

Now her, her fellow Mentor, and the doe-eyed fifteen year old girl looking to them to save her life sit along the couches in front of a television screen.

Philo's loud voice sings through the air like a parrot, echoing the same phrases over and over again. "At least you'll have an easy 'in' to the Careers this year! With Sage and Ptolemus's... relationship, surely District Ten will move up in alliances."

Sage doesn't want to get the girl's hopes up, but she still offers her a sincere smile and an encouraging pat on the hand. "I'm going to do everything I can to help with allies and Sponsors." Then she motions toward a stoic Shep with her chin. "We both will."

"So I should try to ally with Two?" Taura gulps, brows pinched into an unconvinced frown. Her nervous gaze flickers between her two Mentors uneasily. "What about the other Careers? Would they even want me?"

"You mentioned you're from the Beef Sector, right?" Shep raises his brows and shrugs. "Any experience with knives?"

"No. I just work in one of the packing plants."

Sage masks her disappointment with a sharp inhale of her breath as she reaches for the remote. "Well, let's watch The Reapings before we think of any alliances. Maybe you'll find kids you'd rather work with instead."

The word 'kids' tastes bitter along her tongue, and she stifles a shudder.

The anthem plays as the screen brightens, a familiar roar chorusing with the bubbling excitement from District One. Quickly, Sage opens up her pad of paper, clicking her pen readily. Volunteers shout and cry until two starry-eyed teens finally mount the stage. Their arrogance and pride isn't shocking, it giving Sage flashbacks to Augustus's own blinding smile and mannerisms. She catches a glimpse of him on the stage. Her pen scratches along the paper with the new tributes' names.

Porcelin and Merlot.

District Two is next. Sage feels Philo's giddy stare boring into her cheek as he rocks back and forth in his seat. She clenches her jaw as she ignores him.

The clamor of the crowd is different than One. The excitement is there, but the the warrior-like determination is fervent, goosebumps blossoming along her flesh uneasily. The more she listens, the more she realizes they all seem to be chanting something rather than just nonsense. Her gaze narrows at the manner in which the volunteers make it to the stage despite the chaos of the various calls from all corners of the Square. She watches how the Escort seems to pick them out of the crowd methodically.

As expected, they're both terrifying. Taura shifts anxiously in her seat, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

The girl is petite, probably the same height as her, but the muscles of her biceps are so defined it looks like she's been carved out of stone. Then there's her partner, towering over her and probably any average-sized man. He's muscular, but that's not what's so intimidating. It's the calm knowing in his dark eyes. Like he's already seen the future, already knows his fate, and already has won the crown, balancing it on his head right now. She barely can hear the Escort say their names from the chanting of the crowd.

Kleo and—

The roar dulls to a buzzing silence for District Three. Sage scowls in frustration as she glances up to Shep. "What did they say his name was?"

"Marcellus."

Sage quickly scribbles it down as she half-listens to the Reaping of District Three. Her eyes bore into the letters along the paper, lingering longer than they should. She remembers the confidence in his. Not arrogance. Just confidence. She decides to underline his name twice. Something tells her he's one to watch out for, and not just because he's from a Career District.

She thinks about asking Ptolemus about him, but she knows that wouldn't be fair.

As they watch The Reapings, Sage feels an ache grow in her heart, falling open like a gaping hole at all the young faces. Two fourteen year old's are reaped from Three. The tributes from Four look strong and promising as always. A twelve year old from Five that no one volunteers for despite how much Sage silently pleads, her partner a giant at eighteen. Taura shows some interest in the boy and girl from Seven, both of them close to her age.

"One of my allies was from there. They'd be good to have on your side," Sage comments, glancing in her direction. The girl's doe eyes meet hers tentatively, and she offers a reassuring nod. "They have experience with axes and harsh environments. When it's time for training, it'd be worth getting to know them."

Sage puts a star next to their names. Carya and Palmer*

There's another tribute from Nine that sparks Taura's interest as they watch, both girls being close in age. Then comes the Reaping in Ten. Taura becomes painfully still as she watches Philo call out her name, the cameras eventually finding her in the crowd. She looks just as pale as she did a few hours ago on that stage. She flinches when Sage overlaps her palm with a tentative hand, but eventually, she clings to her Mentor like a lifeline.

Then comes the calling for the male tribute. Sage grimaces when the audio seems to catch some of Mateo's wrathful and furious commentary. They've censored out his curses with beeps as he stomps up the stage. Thankfully, the screen fails to truly capture the deadly rage that darkened his glare with shadows. It's nothing like it was in real time.

But it still doesn't look good to Sponsors.

It seems to take forever for the screen to move onto the next District. Caesar and Claudius mention something about Mateo being a spitfire before the stage of District Eleven appears. Philo squeals at that, "That's what I said!"

She replays their words over and over in her head, attempting to decipher their tone in hopes it might help her spin his story to give him a chance in the Arena. Already, her brain starts to throb.

There's a strong contender from Eleven named Trellis. The tributes from Twelve are underwhelming as usual. Once the recap is finished, Sage suggests that Taura get some sleep, to which she doesn't argue. Instead, she bids both her Mentors goodnight, softly padding toward her sleeping quarters. Once Sage can't hear her mentee anymore, she glances to a quiet Shep, the man resting his chin on his fists, elbows balanced along his knees in a daze.

"How are you holding up?" she asks, noting that strange hue in his green eyes again. He doesn't even flinch at her voice, so she tries again. "Shep?"

His name makes him frown. "Hm?"

"You okay?"

He doesn't offer her much, simply shrugging as he yawns. He rubs at the bags beneath his eyes tiredly. Lazily, he glances in her direction. The last time the two spoke this much to each other, she screamed at him for trying to help her in the Market and he cried in her kitchen over his dead mother.

Right now, he blends into two versions of himself, almost like a glitch. Glitching between Shep the Mentor— knowledgeable, matter of fact, a problem solver— and Shep the Victor— reclusive, anxious, jumpy and lost. She tries to remember what Alondra would say or do when Shep was in limbo, but it's nearly impossible. Back then, she wasn't thinking about how to hold her Mentor together. She was barely able to do so for herself.

Sage offers him a close-lipped smile and a curt nod, ducking her head from his weary green stare. She fidgets with the pen between her fingers, tapping it mindlessly along the pad of paper. Her eyes are skimming the names of the tributes reached from each District, but her brain isn't processing what they're saying at all. Instead, she remains lost in her thoughts, Claudius and Caesar's impressions of Mateo continuing to ring in her skull. Her stomach sours at the thought of The Capitol people's reactions to hearing his curses and noting his anger. Then she remembers what that slimeball Dionysus said at the Summer Solstice.

We get to decide if they live or die.

"My first two tributes died," Shep announces finally. His clear, matter-of-fact tone stills her busy fingers, and she slowly looks up at him. When she does, she realizes that he's morphed back into Shep the Mentor, the image of him sitting in this very chair on this very train blending with a memory from a year ago. Just like then, he's mentoring her again. "And the ones after that, and the ones after that. Until... well, you."

Sage frowns, an uneasy bitterness stinging the insides of her cheeks. Something tells her if he was presenting as Shep the Victor right now, she might not feel so rigid. "Why are you saying this?"

"Because. At least one of them is going to die."

Her heart plummets at his words. The common knowledge still feels like a slap to the face— like a shock. Even though he's right, even though a part of her knows their likely fate, she still shakes her head at him incredulously. Her voice cracks in her throat. "You don't think I know that?"

Shep's eyes fall to the notes in her lap, then drift to the hall that leads to Taura and Mateo's rooms. Sage feels her chest growing hot, and she's not sure as to why, her fingers rapidly tapping the pen again. Shep watches her silently, then sighs, stiffly standing from his chair. "I need to call Alondra and make sure she fed Arlo."

Sage's lips part as her breath hitches, irritation surging up her throat only to be forced back down into her chest. She clamps her jaw shut, eyes trailing her fellow Mentor's back with a wary glare. She has to take a deep breath or two, her heart hammering. Why is it hammering? Why does she feel so hot? And why does she feel so... defensive?

Maybe it was his tone. His tone and his passive line of questioning. She hated how he looked at her. Like a sad puppy who should know better.

Of course she knows at least one of them is going to die. Of course she knows that. So why remind her of the obvious like she's a naïve child?

His words circle around her skull, playing on an endless loop like a grotesque lullaby that seems to make her dizzy even as she lays in her bed later that night. Sage picks at the sheets, thread fraying. She twirls it around her fingers over and over as her dark gaze bores into the dark ceiling.

Both of my tributes died. Images of her District Partner Lance's picture in the sky replaces the ceiling above her. The thread digs into her flesh as she pulls tighter.

At least one of them is going to die. Taura's terrified doe eyes. Mateo's lips curled into a furious snarl. Both looking to her and Shep to save them from becoming lambs to the slaughter.

Both of them could die. The sound of Axel's cannon jolts her hammering heart against her chest bone, and the thread snaps.

Sage's fingers tremble as she lurches out of bed, that iron taste stinging the inside of her cheeks and the tip of her tongue. The cool floorboards against her bare feet offers only slight relief. It still isn't enough as the weight of her responsibilities drives her ribs into her bubbling stomach.

I can't do this. How the hell am I going to do this? Memories of Taura's sobbing family waiting to visit their daughter in the Justice Building paired with the group of Seventeens glowering outside Mateo's door to bid the boy a bitter farewell. They have people who care about them. People who ache for them to come home.

Her lungs heave. The train door to her quarters slides shut behind her. Sage's strides are quick down the hall and toward the kitchenette for some fresh water. She feels clammy.

She reaches for a pitcher of water left from earlier in the evening along the counter. Ice clinks into her glass, hand trembling. She's still shaking as she draws the water to her lips. The crisp chop of a blade nearby nearly sends the glass flying into the air. Sage whirls around to spot a shadowed figure perched on the couch in front of the television.

"The kids from Seven don't like each other," Mateo comments, slicing another chunk off a half-eaten apple with a gleaming blade. His scars seem larger on his face in the dark lighting. He points to the Reaping Recap with his knife. "You can tell by the way they looked at each other when they shook hands."

Sage just blinks in bewilderment at her suddenly materialized tribute, struggling to slow her racing heart. Then she remembers who she is now. She isn't just another shellshocked Victor anymore. She's his Mentor, and she needs to act like it.

She clenches the glass to still her shaking, attempting controlled and focused movements to gently place it back onto the counter. The nearby fruit basket is missing a few apples. At least he's eating now.

Straightening her spine, she watches the Recaps for another moment. They've moved onto District Eight. A fifteen and seventeen year old who look starved. "Couldn't sleep?" Sage asks, raising her brows.

Mateo shrugs, cutting another slice of apple and tossing it into his mouth with a crunch. "No better than you."

Well, it's clear she isn't fooling him any time soon. At least not tonight.

"So," he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, finally turning to look at her. "Which one of us are you going to try to save?"

Sage can't even blink as she stares wide-eyed. Her jaw falls slack, voice cracking pitifully in her throat. All she can do is shake her head, fingers trembling again, barely croaking out the word, "B—both." Mateo rolls his eyes. He hangs his head in annoyance, glowering down at the coffee table in front of him. "We're going to try to save bo—"

"'At least one of them is going to die.' Isn't that what Shep said?" He raises his brows at her. Then he shrugs, lips curving into a faint grin. He almost seems to laugh at her. How can he laugh at her right now? "Don't worry. I mean, I wouldn't worry about it. Hence why I'm not."

His tone makes her frown deeply. She shakes her head dumbly. "How can you not worry about it?"

"Because I don't care." The blade gleams silver when he points it to the screen again. By now, they're at Ten's Reaping again, commentary from Claudius and Caesar focusing on Mateo's clear rage on the stage. He shakes his head, lips turning downward. "I don't care what they think about me or say about me. I don't."

Frustration ripples down her spine as she takes a step toward him, folding her arms across her chest. "You should care. I hate to say it, Mateo, but people's impressions of you weigh heavily in this Game. I would know."

"I'm sure you do," Mateo sneers. "Their impressions of you have been all over our screens in the ranch I work at." He cuts another chunk of apple off, stabbing the fruit and balancing it on the tip of his blade. He twirls it around in the dim lightning of the train car to inspect. He takes a bite, speaking through his chewing.

"Do you think I volunteered because I thought I'd win, or would want to try to win?" Mateo scowls and shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes. "I know I'm going to die. I volunteered so it'd be me, and not my best friend."

Sage feels herself soften at that detail. She watches him carefully, recounting the barricade of boys protecting the sickly one originally called to the stage. All futile attempts that would only earn them strikes from Peacekeeper batons or lashes from their whips— something that Sage unfortunately knows about. So Mateo did the only thing that would truly save his friend.

Her eyes are watering, and she realizes she must look so stupid to him. She shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper.

"What about your family?"

Mateo stabs through the apple's core with one fluid motion, shrugging. "Don't have one. Not the 'Mom and Dad' kind, anyway."

He twirls the blade in his grip as he glances to her. It's the solemn blankness in his gaze that evokes the feeling of the knife being twisted in her gut rather than through the air. It's almost chillingly similar to the calm knowing in the Tribute from Two's eyes— Marcellus. An acceptance of destiny. Two different ones for two different boys. For someone with so much rage, it's unnerving how cool he seems.

He stabs the blade into the coffee table, pinning the apple between the wood and the handle, straightening suddenly. Philo will surely have something to say about that.

"I would focus your energy on Taura." His shoulder brushes against hers as he starts toward the train car's sliding door. "She's the nice one with something to live for."

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Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you!!!

Ooooof this chapter took me FOREVER. I've started working full time again since my surgeries and I have classes so I'm always so tired. Please be patient with me when it comes to updates!

I'm ngl, I was excited to write the 73rd hunger games because I felt it'd be more of an opportunity for Sage and Ptolemus to bond as Mentors and Sage's character development, but as I'm writing it I just feel so bleh. Please let me know what you thought!

Next chapter Ptolemus should be there (according to my chapter plans). I also posted some videos with Sage and Ptolemus (I'm by no means a good video editor I just wanted to bring my babies to life) so feel free to check them out!! I'm working on Victory Tour posters for Ptolemus and Sage as well :)

Below is how I imagine Taura and Mateo.

What do you think of them and their characters so far? I love hearing from you!

Thank you for all the kindness and support on this story ❤️

Word Count: 5049