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chapter thirteen
FUELED BY FEAR, RULED BY HEART

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Sage is still simmering nearly twelve hours after the incident of this morning. Embers radiate heat beneath her flesh, while anxious butterfly wings flutter chaotically in her gut. They lost four hours of Training because of One. Four valuable hours of training. Sage knows better than anyone that every minute— every second counts in Games like these. She didn't have success with snares until her third day where everything finally clicked and SNAP! A promise that she might not starve.

What will their lost time cost them? Food? Water? Their lives?

From her end of the couch, she eyes Mateo's bandaged knuckles again, a dark bruise staining his jaw like a blob of ink. What could that have done to his Training Score? What could that do in two days, when his pedestal has risen and the clock is ticking down? Then poor Taura, eyes still puffy and swollen from her tears. She was already nervous for her evaluation as it was.

"There you are! There you are, Sage!" Philo cries, pointing a quivering finger of delight to the television. His eyes beam as he grins a proud, almost sappy grin. "Our Victor."

It's true. There she is, the recaps of last year's Games being replayed before the reveal of the Training Scores. Sage stares in the direction of the screen, but keeps her gaze cast downward toward the stand rather than the images. Some of the shapes and colors she recognizes from her averted vision. The oranges and reds of the dry canyons. The almost ceremonious thunderstorms that struck every night, offering the only source of water for the thirsty Tributes. By morning, everything would be dry as a bone again.

They show what they consider her "highlights," her shining moments. It's strange to hear her own scream when her jaw is clamped shut. The crunch of flesh and bone, her hatchet blindly finding a home in Niels's throat. She drops her gaze to her fingers as she picks at the cushion beneath her. Axel's cries for his mother, her strangely calm voice beckoning Calla for everything she needs to stop the bleeding, then offering reassurance to the dying boy that it's okay, it's not that bad, he's going to make it. The cannon rings the only truth. She flinches, and a stare or two burns into her cheek.

She averts both her Tributes' watchful gazes.

She can tell they've moved onto the attack at dawn, the whistling of the arrow that killed Calla like a wicked whisper in her ear. For whatever reason, she glances up to the screen. Well, she knows why. She wants to see if she knew what she was going to do. But when she looks into her own eyes, all she can see is an animal acting on instinct to survive as she hurls her hatchet into Carnelia's skull from fifteen feet away.

They skip over her next two days of survival. Her moments of delirium as she saw a hawk in front of her while she rested beneath a dead, barren tree. She remembers that very moment vividly. She thought she was dying, and an angel was coming to collect her. Now she knows, that wasn't the message the hawk intended to send.

Then, Midas finds her.

After tracking her down for hours, he finally found her exactly where she wanted to be found. Her heart picks up its pace at the sight of him chasing her, the angle disorienting to view, contrasting with her memories of the orange dirt blurring beneath her rapid strides. The crossing of the dead tree. The wavering of her ankle. She almost fell, the depth of the canyon sending her heart into her throat. She had to crawl the rest of the way across. By the time Midas had caught up, the dead tree was trembling beneath his added weight. He realized too late that he needed to turn around.

The leap to the cliff's edge where all she could do was close her eyes, praying the descent was short. Rumbling...dirt and pebbles giving.

CR-ACK!

She remembers the slam of unwavering earth into her ribs. And then came Midas's scream as he fell through the air, like a rock plopped into a river, the crunch of his bones shattering the atmosphere and making her wince then and now. His moaning and groaning as he laid paralyzed felt like it went on for hours, but it was only a few seconds for him to succumb to his internal bleeding. The cannon's explosion.

Then the crown.

Philo wipes a tear from his cheek as he shudders. "I get chills every time."

"That's our girl, Ms. Sage Navarro!" Caesar Flickerman coos. "Charming and clever as ever."

Claudius Templesmith nods and smiles in agreement. "I can see why a certain Legacy from Two likes her so much."

Sage clenches her jaw, cheeks flushing. She expects a dirty look in her direction from Mateo, but he isn't looking at her, only playing with the bandages wrapped around his knuckles.

"Oh don't even get me started on those two. I'm giddy just thinking about it." Caesar straightens as he adjusts the cards in his hands, clicking them against the booth beneath. "Now, before I get off topic, because you know I will, let us refocus our attention to who she may hand off the crown to!"

"Yes, let's!" Claudius agrees.

"The scores are in ladies and gentleman."

A queasy groan from the arm chair beside Sage, Taura pulling her knees to her chest. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"There, there," Tatiana comforts, patting the girl gently on the back. "You don't want to ruin that gorgeous sweater, do you?"

You can practically hear the eyerolls from Sage and Mateo in the room.

Bitterness fills the air at the first two Tributes. Of course, they always start with One. Even Philo is scowling as Caesar reads off their numbers. Merlot— or Merloser, as Mateo wittingly calls him, earns a solid 9.  Typical for a Career. Anything below an eight is rare and practically unheard of. The girl, Porcelin, matches her District Partner's score.

Then comes the second half of the Career Pack, Ptolemus's Tributes. Scowls are replaced with wary unease. Marcellus, predictably yet startlingly earns an 11, those dark, knowing eyes haunting the screen momentarily. Sage swears she can see the reflection of the crown in his irises. Kleo earns a 10.

District Three is depressing, both Tributes so young, earning a 3 and 4. The kids from Four earn a 7 and 8. When they get to Seven, both of them match each other with even 8's. The Districts in between are underwhelming, including Taura's newfound friend Khora.  Finally, it's time for Ten's big reveal.

"I'm so nervous!" Philo blurts, leaning forward and drawing his nails to his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut as he wriggles along the sofa beside Sage. "I can't watch!"

"Oh," tuts Tatiana. "Have faith, Philo."

"And now, from District Ten, Mateo Mince," Caesar starts, glancing down to his cards. Beside him on the screen, the image of the scarred boy scowls back at them, curls casting shadows over his eyes. Sage's heart pounds in her chest like a war drum as she sits deathly still. Next to Philo on the opposing side of the couch, Mateo just glares at the floor with a hung head.

Caesar raises his brows with an amused but delighted grin. "Nine."

Relief washes over Sage, remedying the anxious flutter of her heart. She closes her eyes briefly, the number nine echoing in her mind over and over again like a prayer. Nine... nine... nine. More confirmation that he stands a chance.

Philo springs up from his seat with a jubilant cry, fist punched into the air. "I knew it! I knew he'd get it! What did I tell you?"

Taura gasps, blinking wide-eyed as a grin pulls at her lips. "That's amazing, Teo!"

Shep pats the boy gently on the back, and he just shrugs, scratching at his curls silently. When Sage peeks over at him, she isn't sure if she's hallucinating, but she swears she sees a twitch of a smile.

"Taura Santos, from District Ten..." Everyone's focuses shift again, and the girl starts to cower and shrink. Caesar nods to the camera after reading the card. "Six."

"How lovely!" Tatiana cheers, squeezing her shoulder's encouragingly as she hovers behind her chair.

The doe-eyed girl straightens with intrigue, peeking over at Sage for confirmation. Her Mentor nods, smiling a soft smile. "That's a great score, Taura. You should be proud of yourself."

"Yes, half a chance!" Philo cheers.

And just like that, poor Taura deflates again like a balloon. Mateo straightens, glowering at the Escort, upper lip twitching as he chews on his remarks. It almost pains him to yield. Then his gaze shifts past Sage's shoulder and to Taura. He offers her a steady nod.

"Nice job, Taura."

Parts of Sage's heart warms at the signs of friendship building between her two Tributes. It's comforting, somewhat relieving, to know that they might have each other. When living through a Hell like this one, it always pays to have someone. Someone you can almost call a friend.

Until it doesn't anymore.

The butterflies return, their wings made of concrete as they heave against her ribs. She catches herself glancing between her two Tributes. Nine... Six... The way Mateo's scars smile when he rarely does, or the warm chocolate pools of Taura's eyes. Imagining this room quiet, their chairs empty, their pictures in the sky and their bodies buried beneath the earth...

How is she supposed to only bring one of them home?

━━━━

The morning after the Training Scores is Philo's favorite part of the entire experience, the Escort savoring every moment every single year. He's radiating with eagerness and superiority, practically prancing on his toes with elation and modeling the different etiquettes. This is his time to shine as he coaches the Tributes in preparation for the evening's interviews. Sage watches while Shep is recruiting more Sponsors.

It seems he repeats his lessons, both Taura and Mateo forced to practice their walks, their postures, and of course, their smiles. "Whatever you do, don't pout!"

Taura earns his favor with her nature anyway, the grace, the poise and the softness all coming to her naturally. Beside her, Mateo still slouches and scowls darkly. His heated gaze almost chars the wallpaper across from him. When Philo tries to use his fingers to pull up the corners of Mateo's lips into a grin, the boy bites his finger like a carrot, earning a "YOW-EEEE!" from the Escort, which is eventually accompanied by another firm scolding. Sage looks to her feet to hide her chuckle.

By noon, Philo is exhausted, a visible shine of sweat glistening across his forehead that he dabs at with a violet handkerchief. He guzzles from his water bottle before shrugging to a watchful Sage. "I've done all I can do. She—" he points to Taura. "She is delightful. But him?" Mateo slouches in his chair, arms folded across his chest and knees spread. The close-lipped smile he offers Philo is sickeningly sweet. The Escort shakes his head with disapproval as he saunters off. "Oof."

"Thank you, Philo," Sage nods, propping herself off the wall. "I think I can take it from here."

Another gulp of water, and he opens the apartment door. Maybe to go hide on Floor Five and a Half. "Good luck."

With that, the door is shut behind him, his footsteps padding down the hall. Both the Tributes seem to release a visible breath now that their Escort is gone. Sage lowers herself into a chair in front of them.

"So now what?" Mateo asks. "Are you going to try to teach me how to sit like a lady again?"

"Nope. Sit however you'd like. We have the next hour to talk about interview strategy."

That earns her an eyeroll from Mateo. He slaps his palms onto his knees, heaving himself out of his chair with a grunt. "I need a break from all this shit. Can we do this separate or something?"

"That's fine." She glances to an uneasy Taura, offering a nod. "This isn't really something meant to be a team effort, so... Be back in a half hour for your session."

"Can't wait," he mutters, staggering off down the hall toward the Tributes' Quarters. After a few moments, his bedroom door slams shut.

Sage looks to Taura again. The girl anxiously waits, gaze even and fingers folded neatly along her lap. However, there's still a nervous bob to her throat. A soft and small smile pulls at Sage's lips, and she wraps her palm around her Tribute's hands.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Taura lies, her pitch tight and high. She nods as if to convince herself as well. "I'm... fine. What's my strategy?" Something shifts in her eyes, and she straightens. "For tonight, I mean..."

"Well, you're in luck. This part might be the easiest. Just... be you, Taura."

A pause, her dark brows twitching together ever so slightly. She just blinks at her Mentor, nodding slowly.

"I know, not very direct but..." Sage shrugs. "It's what Alondra told me to do a year ago and I'd say it worked. I'm still here." She squeezes the girl's hand again. "They adore you Taura. Shep and I have noticed that with the Sponsors. They think you're sweet."

Taura's lips fold into a frown, and she kicks her dangling foot lightly at the carpet below. Her gaze casts downward. "Sweet isn't really going to help me in the Arena, though. The Sponsors have to realize that."

"It's true, you're not going to kill someone with your kindness. Despite the saying." Sage ducks into the girl's vision. "But even the brutal ones, even the fighters... they aren't always the ones that come out of the Arena. The survivors do. Your skills are valuable, Taura. Your sweetness, your patience, your... diplomacy is valuable."

Taura seems to be soaking this in, a thoughtfulness blanketing her features. Her defeated posture stands a little taller.

"So be yourself tonight." Sage smiles again and straightens. "Talk about something that makes you happy."

"Like my sisters?"

"Exactly like your sisters."

The Tribute nods, a fond lightness feigning her features. Sage recalls her own nerves the night of her Interview. The last evening that she might remain whole. Yet to be maimed mentally and physically by the horrors of the Arena. The corners of her lips hurt as her muscles remember the strength of her smile that evening, or the ache of her jaw as she methodically articulated her responses in cadence to Caesar's inquiries.

"It was strange watching your Games again," Taura admits suddenly, drawing Sage from the corridors of her mind. They lock gazes, and the Mentor feels her heart curling into itself with insecurity.

What do her eyes tell her? Did the Capitol make her realize how much of a killer Sage really is?

"Knowing you now and..." The Tribute shrugs. She picks at her bottom lip with her finger. "You looked...scared."

Oh. Well... yes.

"I was scared," Sage agrees. She studies the young girl carefully, tongue tentative but true. "I was scared just like you. Scared I wouldn't get to see my brothers again, or hug my mom one more time, or hear my dad's obnoxious laugh. Feel my horse run beneath me..."

At the mention of it, she swears she feels the ghosts of the breeze against her body, and the power of Sunshine's pounding hooves, like riding a beating heart, both of their rhythms chorusing together as one. It's so easy to grow lost in that. Just like her Tributes, Sage just wants to go home.

She squeezes Taura's hand again, partly for her, and partly to draw her back to reality.

"It's okay to be scared. It doesn't make you weaker because of it." Leaning forward, she holds her stare, hoping her advice finds the wounded parts of her that really need it right now. This isn't just cookie cutter crap. It's real and it's true and she deserves to know it. "Have faith in yourself, Taura."

A pause for a beat or two. Sage watches for the words to hit, to land somewhere and bloom. Taura's bottom lip starts to quiver as she blinks, gnawing on it quickly. A curt nod, and she swallows thickly. She straightens with a sharp inhale off the chair.

"I should get Teo. I think I need a nap before Tatiana dresses me up again."

With that, she's gone, started down the hall, her half-hour nowhere near over. Defeated and crestfallen, Sage's shoulders slump as she sinks into the plush leather chair. An ache magnifies in her jaw. She didn't even realize she'd been clenching and unclenching as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow it'll be a week since this nightmare has begun, despite the fact it feels like centuries of torment. She's only known these kids for six days. Their names, their faces, their unknown fates weigh so heavily on her heart her chest might cave in. Just when she's thinking about fetching a glass of water, or even tossing some pain pills to relieve her mounting headache, light footsteps approach.

"You look worse than me," Mateo quips, running his fingers through his disheveled curls. "I'm the one whose nap was interrupted. Oh, and I'm potentially dying tomorrow so..."

Sage's stomach churns, and now she does feel her jaw clench as she side-eyes her Tribute. Mateo heaves himself into the chair in front of her and crosses his arms, a devious glint sparking across his irises like lightning. However, midnight returns when he notes the lack of amusement from his Mentor.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he kicks his feet out in front of him, studying the patterns of the ornate carpet. "So. What ya got for me? Say please and thank you and kiss some Capitol ass?"

"Even if I asked you to do that I don't think you would."

"Not a chance."

"Well," Sage inhales, pain reverberating across her jaw. She eyes Mateo's own. Of course, the Prep Team will powder up the violent violet tones the stain his flesh for tonight. "Don't tell Philo I told you to do this but... I'm going to say the same thing I told Taura. Be yourself tonight. They like your edge."

The muscle beneath his scarred cheek twitches, and Mateo blinks stiffly at his Mentor. A cross between a scoff and a laugh of disbelief rumbles in his throat. "Are you serious?"

"Very," Sage confirms, holding his dark and skeptical stare evenly. She holds up a polished finger. "Within reason, of course. They like your edge because they're not at the blunt of it. Do your best to keep it that way."

Mateo's lips curl into an amused smile. "You sure you understand what you're giving me permission for?"

"You've never been one to worry about permission anyway." A soft nod. "So yes, I'm sure."

The boy studies her silently for several moments, gaze eventually falling back to the carpet. Judging by the glint of his eyes, he's retreating somewhere in his mind. The amusement fades quickly. Conquered by the seething beast within him that stakes its claims in his heart. Who knows how long it's called it home?

"What does it even matter though?" Mateo straightens suddenly, eyes narrowing and scowl deepening. "What the fuck do I need to censor anything for? I'm going to die anyway, I know I am—"

"No you don't," Sage corrects quickly. She tries to anchor him down from his spiral. Part of it is for herself too. "You have no idea what's going to happen in there."

"I have some," he quips. "I didn't volunteer to win, remember?"

She huffs. "I know you—"

"Quit beating yourself up over me all the time, anyway." Mateo shakes his head incredulously at her, the heat from his glare almost startling. Almost, but not quite, because the longer the rage takes the reins the longer she can really see it for what it is. His lips curl into a snarl. "I told you, focus on Taura. I don't care. I volunteered for this, I signed up for this, she didn't. I'm not asking you to fucking save me."

It's the same thing that lives in the wild stallions that refuse to be broken and conformed. Fueled by fear and ruled by heart.

It lives inside Sage too, except a little more dormant.

She watches him carefully, an untamed spirit feeling the horizon running out.

"I don't fucking care what they do to me anyway. I'll be dead by next week and then it'll be over. All this miserable bullshit will be fucking over."

Fury boils from his frame, and he gnaws on his good knuckles, chest heaving and stare glowering at the wall to his right again. However, even the radiating steam evaporates, and even the beast grows tired. Then what are you left with?

Sage watches Mateo tire, nowhere else to run, the sun setting and the world crumbling beneath his feet. Before he can fall, descend into the pits of his broken heart with no way to climb out until his beloved rage comes back, she reaches into the oblivion for him.

Her voice is soft and low, but without pity. "You didn't ask for this, Mateo."

He jerks, sneering. "I—"

"Listen." The cut of her tone and the ember of her eyes clamps his jaw shut. It's the same ember that burns in his. She repeats herself slowly so that it might sink in. "You didn't ask for any of this. You were backed into a corner, like the rest of us, and you volunteered to save your friend, something a lot of people might be too afraid to do. But— you didn't volunteer to die. You didn't volunteer to have your life taken from you."

There's a sheet of glass coating his eyes, stars twinkling in the night and threatening to fall in streaks down his cheeks. He clenches his jaw, hard, grimacing from his bruise, lashes knotting as he blinks them away. His body is rigid and taut like an iron cage. Something else, trapped inside, beats at the bars.

"You didn't deserve this, Mateo." Her own emotions are betraying her now too, and she feels the tears stinging. She leans forward, shaking her head sadly. "Fight like it."

━━━━

Before the start of the interviews, the Mentors are given a brief moment to shine as they enter the Theater, their Tributes still being pruned and polished by their Prep teams. Various Capitol socialites walk the red carpet as well. Musicians, actors, CEO's and potential Sponsors all bubble with excitement as the hour draws near, cameras flashing and reporters offering their inquiries.

They coo at Finnick Odair's entrance in his teal, satin suit, all the buttons undone. Haymitch Abernathy is forgotten as he stumbles inside, the focus shifting to a vengeful looking Johanna Mason. Augustus swells at the attention, reporters commending him on his selflessness for taking Gloss's place this year so that he may spend time with his newborn. Cashmere just rolls her eyes.

Ptolemus isn't surprised when his and Enobaria's limo rolls up at the exact same time as Ten's. His Escort, Deverra, smirks as she whispers into her ear piece. With a sharp inhale, he adjusts the jacket of his black suit, allowing Enobaria to slide out of the limo first. Already, he hears the cries of his name.

Here comes the smile. The mask he puts on is worn and familiar.

"Ptolemus! Enobaria! Can you expect a new neighbor in the Victor's Village this year?!"

Enobaria just flashes her teeth into a smirk, head held high and the silver spikes on the shoulders of her dress gleaming. She stalks through the red carpet proudly, like a freshly polished trophy delighted to be apart of the collection.

A black car door to his right whirs open, and the forgotten shadow of Shep Romero emerges, ducking his head and averting his gaze. He turns behind him, extending a hand. Ptolemus recognizes the one that reaches back, the beauty mark at the crease of her elbow. Sage emerges from Ten's limousine in a sleek sage green gown. His heart hiccups.

He hasn't seen her since the night of the Parade, the Avox passing him the crinkled note at dinner. If she's exhausted, he can't tell, her own mask crafted perfectly. When she turns her head, following behind a silent and solmen Shep, their gazes lock. The soft smile she bids in his direction slips through the mask. Ptolemus accepts her invitation, sidling up next to her carefully. That sends the crowd of reporters and photographers into a frenzy.

"Sage! Sage, look here!"

"Ptolemus! How's the handsome couple doing tonight?"

They merely nod and smile in general directions. Subtly, Ptolemus offers her his arm, and she takes it.

A microphone is shoved into Sage's face, the flashing of the lights blinding. She only catches the shape of the Reporter's demanding lips shouting at her. "Can we expect alliances between Two and Ten this year?!"

She does the best she can to ignore her, forcing her stare up ahead to the door. It's only ten paces away.

"Ptolemus, do you think your Tributes follow by example? Will they also find themselves alongside Tributes from Ten?"

They don't get an answer, just polite smiles, and they hate it.

A Reporter with pastel pink curls and lashes like spider legs inserts herself into their path. She smiles sweetly, but the mischief in her eyes is unsettling. Ptolemus attempts to weave around her. "Excuse us—"

"Sage, Ptolemus," she addresses sharply, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her gold irises flicker between the two Victors, and she grins cheekily. Sage smiles a tight and worn smile as she peers past her shoulder for the door with longing. "One question, real quick. The people just have to know— would you consider yourselves the competitive type of couple?"

Like a needle, her words dig beneath a thin layer of Sage's flesh, color draining from her face in shock. It takes everything in her not to smack the microphone out of her face. With wide eyes, she blinks, glossy lips twisting. "Excus—"

"No comment," Ptolemus interrupts pointedly, the chill in his eyes subtle as he glowers at the Reporter. His polite smile almost resembles a sneer. "Enjoy your evening."

With that, he leads Sage past the woman, the Victor from Ten's chest heaving and jaw clenching. She stares at her feet as they finally survive the swarm of ruthless and relentless paparrazi, emerging into the air conditioned auditorium. The roar dulls to a hum when the doors shut behind them. Like starved animals, they continue to chew and gnaw at all the vulnerable parts of Sage.

She huffs, shaking her head as Ptolemus and her follow Shep's shadow down the aisle. "These people."

"I know," he agrees.

Instead of finding their assigned seats, most of the Mentors maneuver backstage to speak with their Tributes before the start of the Interviews. Sage follows Shep, Ptolemus still at her side as they mount the stairs behind the curtain.

Sure enough, a hoard of Tributes, Stylists, Prep Teams and a few Mentors run around backstage with haste. The girl from One, Porcelin, is dressed in an ivory, shimmering gown with a dangerously high slit up the leg. Trellis, from Eleven, winces when his Stylist adjusts his tight collar. Sage stands on her tip toes, peering around the room carefully for her two Tributes. She hears Tatiana before she sees her.

"I've done it again! She looks like sunshine, doesn't she?!" the woman beams from somewhere across the room. Shep must see her, because he starts in a very definitive direction.

"I guess I should be going." Sage allows her arm to unlink with Ptolemus's. However, against her better judgment, she still clings to his hand. The slip of paper is wearing from sweat. "Will you sit with us?"

His eyes tick when he feels the small sliver of paper being pushed into his palm. Either way, he offers her a nod, wrapping his fingers around it. "Of course."

With that, she's off, the sage skirt of her gown eventually disappearing between all the vibrant patterns and colors of the evening. Ptolemus glances down to his palm, carefully unraveling the crinkled note. He peers around for wandering eyes before reading it. No one seems to be paying him any mind.

SAME PLACE, SAME TIME?

Just when he's about to feel the corner of his lips move upward, taking a lazy step forward as he rereads the note over and over, a shoulder bumps squarely into his.

The note almost spills from his grasp and flutters to the ground. Annoyance ripples down his spine, cold glare shooting toward the careless figure. But at the sight of his sea-green eyes, the annoyance is replaced by something that's been living in him since he was twelve years old. Something born kicking and screaming when he watched his trident pierce his sister's heart. Something burning and blistering.

Hate.

Finnick smiles one of his charming smiles, the same kind he uses to woo The Capitol, bidding Ptolemus a polite nod. "Passing notes, huh? Got to be more careful where you're walking."

Ptolemus has imagined killing Finnick many times. When he was twelve, the dummies began to have a face, his sword cutting and slicing through the air. And even though he was better than the other students his age, he always pictured himself avenging his sister once he was older, stronger, angrier. Just like he is now.

Except now, it's quite clear his bloodthirst for Finnick to pay for his sister's death will never be quenched. Instead, Ptolemus is forced to watch him parade around The Capitol, attend all the same parties he's invited to, even Mentor alongside him— Four tending to ally with One and Two most years.

It's a cruel punishment. A reminder every day that his sister is dead, and he isn't.

There's a rational part of him that knows it's not really Finnick's fault. But that does nothing to heal that wrathful, grief-stricken twelve year old boy who learned rather quickly that his family were not gods, his family was not unbeatable, his family could die just like everyone else.

Why did it have to be his sister?

"I'm just kidding," Finnick smiles. It's when he speaks that Ptolemus realizes he's been glaring mutely this entire time. He points to the note in his hand, and the Victor from Two stows it away in his pocket from unwanted eyes. Particularly, the ones in front of him. "I remember the note-passing phase. Exciting, isn't it?"

A cool sweep of his eyes across the tanned man in front of him. His chest is exposed, and Ptolemus glares daggers in hopes that one may materialize and pierce his beating heart. "You done?"

"Actually, I had a question." Finnick folds his hands neatly behind his back, shrugging. "Should I tell my Tributes to expect alliances with Ten? I heard about their scuffle with One and, well... that could disrupt the order of things. Whose side is Two choosing?"

"Whatever side won't result in them getting stabbed in the back by their allies," Ptolemus retorts sharply.

Finnick cocks his head to the side ever so slightly at that. Something glitters in his eyes. Amusement, maybe? Of course the arrogant asshole would be amused. Ptolemus grinds his teeth together as Finnick nods, his smile smaller but infuriating as ever. "Of course."

And with that, the Victor from Four saunters off, tending to his freshly beautified Tributes. Ptolemus feels his chest heaving, heart pounding like a furious war drum. Eventually, still caught in a haze of rage, he finds his own team near the snack table. Kleo, dressed in a golden gown, eyes the cookies longingly. Marcellus is dressed in a signature steel-colored suit, spikes protruding from the shoulders, similar to Enobaria's own dress.

The time goes quick. Soon, all the anxious and bleary-eyed Tributes are herded into a line organized by District. Some of them look older than they really are, layers of makeup caked onto their face and eyeliner bordering their eyes. However others appear just as they really are. Children. The Mentors are scurried off by the Stage Crew to head toward their seats.

Ptolemus earns himself a glare from Enobaria and the other Career Mentors when he files into the same row as Shep and Sage. Shep peers in his direction warily, almost like an uneasy sheep, as he lowers himself into his seat. However, when Ptolemus offers him a polite nod, he mirrors it, casting those green eyes downward again.

Soon, the night is rolling, bright golden spotlights centering on the stage while the familiar Hunger Games Anthem blares from the speakers. The crowd cheers and buzzes with enthusiasm.

Caesar's choice of wig, eyeshadow, and lips this year is a startling dark crimson, almost making him appear as if he's bleeding out. However, despite his looks, his demeanor remains his very vibrant and jubiliant self throughout the introductions and interviews.

Of course, he's easily charmed by the two from One, Porcelin and Merlot. Both play a flirty and cocky card in their shimmering attire, earning some giggles and whistles from the crowd. Ptolemus and Sage find themselves shifting uncomfortably in their seats. They both have some ideas of what those giggles and whistles can mean down the road.

Then comes Two. Kleo mostly maintains a serious facade, reiterating over and over that her eyes are clearly set on the prize. However, that teenage awkwardness still manages to slip through, even catching Caesar off guard when she inserts some unexpected jokes followed by her uncomfortable snort. The crowd, bemused but intrigued, still claps for her, her score undeniably demanding respect.

Marcellus is next. Not a single breath is uttered when he takes the stage, everyone seemingly mesmerized at the machine of a boy that seats himself beside Caesar. He makes the Host look like a toothpick to clean between his teeth and snap when he's finished. Despite his appearance, he's soft-spoken and pretty reserved for a Career. Ptolemus perks up when Caesar inquires about his volunteering.

"So, Marcellus. What has brought you to this stage? I think I can speak for the rest of us," Caesar pauses, gesturing toward the crowd with an inquisitive brow. "Can I speak for the rest of us?"

They nod in response like school children, and he quickly returns his attention to the Tribute.

"I think I can speak for the rest of us that you don't seem like one to only seek out glory and pride for your District. Is there any other reason why you've volunteered this year?"

Marcellus nods, glancing around the crowd warily. Ptolemus watches closely as he listens. Whatever he's about to offer is news to him as well, the boy mostly keeping to himself in The Academy.

"Yes... well..." For once, his carefully measured responses seem to falter. The boy licks his lips, inhaling sharply as he peers back at a waiting Caesar. "Two years ago, um, my father who worked in the mines became really ill. We tried to do what we could to keep him comfortable but..."

A shrug, and he pauses, the microphone barely picking up the shaky inhale of his breath. He moves on quickly.

"He passed, and ever since, my mom— she does the best she can to make ends meet. I see her. I see her taking those extra shifts, never buying herself anything nice even though she deserves it. She really does deserve it, Caesar."

"Of course," he breathes, nodding fervently. Both him and the crowd cling to the Career's every word. "She sounds like a wonderful woman."

"She is," Marcellus agrees. "So that's why I'm here. To win. So that she never has to work another extra shift in her life. So she can finally rest."

Marcellus turns to the camera now, eyes centered on the woman watching him through the screen back in Two. The way he holds his head so high, so proud, so certain, it's almost like he's balancing the crown again. His vow weighs like stone, written into history right here and now.

"This is for you, Mom. I love you."

As soon as the last word drips off his lips, the silent crowd stands in a thunderous uproar, hooting, cheering, calling and crying as they clap for the Career from Two. His timer goes up, and he bids them a respectful nod and a handshake for Caesar. They still chant and cry for him even when he's out of sight. Caesar wipes away at a tear to keep his eyeshadow from dripping down his cheek like blood.

Sage feels sick as she applauds absent-mindedly, peering around the elated crowd. Marcellus's interview is another punch to the gut. Another reminder that all these kids, not just the two she's responsible for, all have someone they want to make it home for.

They're all just kids that want to go home.

And yet, she's hoping the Fates will choose Taura or Mateo to be worthy of a second chance, when in reality, all of them are more than deserving. So how does Fate truly decide? How can anyone decide?

The rest of the Interviews seem to drag. Watching the two from Three is unsettling, both appearing so small on that stage and in those chairs. The boy from Six is painfully quiet, Caesar having to pull the answers out of him. The two from Seven are uncanningly similar, from their postures, their demeanors, even their humors. It's strange that they can't seem to get along. Khora—Taura's friend— is witty and sharp, her giggle almost contagious as even a few from the audience giggle with her.

After the boy from Nine, it's finally District Ten's turn. Sage feels her heart racing, and she fidgets with the skirt of her dress, eyes glued to the stage. When Caesar calls her name, Taura gracefully emerges into the spotlight in her lemondrop colored dress. She offers another one of her warm, sweet smiles, those doe-eyes peering out at the crowd brightly. Sage and her lock gazes just like they had on the Reaping Stage.

Be you.

Taura takes her Mentor's advice with stride for her whole three minutes. Caesar seems to adore her, even mentioning that even though her dress is the color of a lemon, she's sweet like lemonade. The crowd coos in agreement. They discuss her score of a six. When it seems she might falter, she doesn't. In fact, she even shocks Sage with what she has to say.

"My Escort, Philo, is a funny one. When my score was announced, he congratulated me and said that I had half a chance." Taura smiles out to the crowd, then back to the Caesar. "I'd say half a chance is enough to keep everyone on their toes, right?"

Caesar barks out a laugh at that, eyes wide as he squeezes her hand and peers at the audience. "My, my, I think she's right, folks!" Some heads bob in agreement. Caesar glances back to Taura, who straightens, still smiling. He squeezes her hand warmly again. "Well when you put it like that, I think you're absolutely correct, we need to keep an eye on you!"

A cheeky wink, and the timer buzzes.

"Taura Santos of District Ten, everyone!" Caesar stands, tugging her carefully with him as they stand beneath the golden spotlight. "Don't count her out!"

With that, she bids the clapping audience a sweet curtsy, turning on her heels and elegantly exiting the stage. Sage applauds proudly, a faint smile almost turning her lips. But she can't allow herself a breath just yet. Ten is only halfway done, and now, it's Mateo's turn.

"Up next, also from Ten," Caesar calls. "Mateo Mince!"

There's a mix of emotions from the crowd at the mention of the male Tribute. Some watch quietly, and others hoot and holler loudly, almost foaming at the mouth. They chant his name, but that's not what they really mean. Blood! Blood! Blood! they call. Rage! Rage! Rage!

Mateo enters, features even and expressionless, the shadow of his scar looming down his brow and across his cheek like lightning. However, his bruise is completely covered by layers of makeup. He doesn't smile, doesn't nod, and doesn't wave as he manuevers toward the velvet loveseat beneath the spotlight. Even though his smile is bright and blinding, Caesar studies the Tribute warily.

"Why! Look at that!" he gasps suddenly, pointing toward the boy's crimson attire. Mateo tries not to flinch. "We match. It seems great minds think alike."

"Hm." The boy shrugs and glances down to his suit briefly. He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he evenly meets the Host's friendly gaze. "Actually, my Stylist Chiron came up with it. Makes sense that you two would think alike."

While Caesar hears a compliment, Sage feels the ricochet of Mateo's subtly backhanded comment. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like anyone else does, straightening with interest at his sudden charm.

Caesar blushes. "How kind!" He pats the boy's knee lightly, and a muscle in Mateo's cheek twitches. "I suppose compliments to your Stylist then! Am I right, folks?"

The crowd nods and claps politely, still inching forward in their seats with curious anticipation.

"Now, Mateo, we the people have two very pressing questions for you this evening.
The first— your Training Score. The highest a Tribute from Ten has gotten in years! How did you manage that?"

Mateo shrugs another one of those careless shrugs. "I just imagined Merlot's face on the mannequin."

A few people from the crowd gasp at the boy's bold namedropping of another Tribute. However, their gasps and shock slowly turn to bewildered amusement. Even Sage struggles to hide her reaction, eyes widening and bones jolting beneath the flesh. The nausea slowly starts to return. Ptolemus squeezes her hand.

If Mateo didn't already have a target on his back from One, he definitely does now.

Maybe he doesn't even care.

"Ooh, am I sensing a rivalry already?" Caesar raises his brows mischieviously, shivering. "You just seem to be itching to get into that Arena."

"Crawling out of my skin," Mateo smiles sweetly.

"Which this perfectly brings me to my next question!" the Host announces definitively, nodding to the crowd. "You volunteered, something not many people from your District do. Why?"

Everyone waits breathlessly. The sudden silence in the room is startling, only the hum of the speakers vibrating between everyone's eardrums. Mateo just stares at Caesar, jaw ticking as he seems to chew on his words. The darkness in his eyes threatens to make the crimson on the Host's face more realistic.

Finally, he speaks.

"Because I hate bullies, Caesar."

The Host blinks.

"...Bullies?"

Careful, careful, careful, Sage silently pleads.

"Well, I thought it was pretty fucked up that Fate seemed to pick on a sick kid for the Arena," Mateo starts, and several people, including Caesar, wince at his language. "Roan wasn't going to stand a chance."

"Ah yes, Fate can be cruel," Caesar agrees. A drop of relief courses through Sage's veins at Mateo's carefully articulated shift in blame. He still has to play by their rules. He has to understand that. "Did you know the boy?"

Mateo nods, but doesn't delve into it, tucking their friendship away from The Capitol's wandering eyes. "Even if I didn't, I think I'd still be here. Sticking up for people who can't for themselves. Like Roan, like Taura, like my m—"

Mateo stops himself, staring at the marble floor along the stage distantly. His chest almost freezes, and for the first time, he appears visibly uncomfortable.

He wasn't planning to say that.

"Like...?" Caesar prods, inching forward in his seat.

DING!

The buzzer rings, saving Mateo from further inquiry. He seems to release a breath, the shock from his slip molding into a wry, winning smirk. "Guess I'll have to tell you next week, Caesar."

"Is our three minutes really over?" Caesar groans, peering up at the clock behind him. One of the cameramen nod at him sadly. He tuts his tongue. "Oh, alright. I hope you keep your promise, young man."

Caesar stands with the Tribute, shaking his hand and presenting him to The Capitol like an offering. Sage is surprised by the applause he receives, some even throwing him roses. Just like the Parade, he allows them to deflect, falling to his feet as he peers out stoically.

"Mateo Mince, ladies and gentlemen!"

━━━━

When Ptolemus arrives to the Garden, her shadow is already waiting for him. Perched by the fountain, she dips a finger into the water, tracing and creating ripples of her own. As he approaches, she slowly glances up at him. A sad, ghostly smile tugs at her lips. "I see you got my note."

"It was a pleasant surprise." Ptolemus slowly sits beside her, mirroring her expression with a nod. "How are you doing?"

Sage doesn't answer his question. Instead, she dries her wet finger, rubbing it gently against her navy satin pants. "I'm sorry I didn't come to see you the other night. I just— well, I'm sure you know how things can be."

"It's alright." Ptolemus inches closer to her, and she averts her gaze to the marble fountain. Her dark hair hides her features like a curtain. He tries his question again. "Are you alright?"

No. How can anyone be alright?

How can anyone be alright after coaching two children to survive when only one is permitted to? How can anyone be alright after holding, protecting and caring for those children? How can anyone be alright after they're forced to offer them up like sacrifices and know that their deaths are going to haunt you your entire life?

How can anyone be alright?

"I'm managing," Sage lies, the smile she forces almost painful. "That Reporter today, she—" She stops herself before the anger can take the reins, not ready to feel that feeling yet. It's too exhausting.

"I hugged them before they went to bed. They're hopefully sleeping now... resting for..."

She stops, breath almost hitching. When the rage can't be felt, the pain takes its place. Her lip quivers, her heart trembles, and her eyes betray her, pooling with tears. The feelings that ravage her very being like a storm demand to chorus their truth. They take siege, and she decides to stop lying.

"I don't know how I'm going to do this, Ptolemus," she murmurs, her voice breaking. Her tone does something to him, the instinct forging him into a shield.

Within a second, they're hip to hip, and his arm drapes around her like a blanket. He tugs her closer into his chest. She bites on her lip to keep it from trembling, but a tear has already slipped from her watery eyes. She shakes her head again, his chin brushing against the crown.

"I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight, let alone for the rest of my life if neither of them make it out."

He wraps both his arms around her now, holding her as close to him as he can. He kisses the top of her head before he can think about it.

"Sleeping before the Games is practically impossible. I always have at least one nightmare." When doesn't he have a nightmare? He feels her ribs tremble. "None of it's fair. What they do to them, what they do to us."

Ptolemus has been spared this fate more than Sage ever will. Two is the home of so many Mentors, his turn coming every few years. But her? It's just her and Alondra to cycle out. And even then... Alondra is older, and if he remembers correctly, sicker. He remembers Brutus mentioning how the woman had another dizzy spell toward the end of the Games last year.

But he still knows the names and the faces of these kids. Even if he doesn't accompany them on that train, he still coached them in that stupid Academy. His first year, he actually trained right alongside the boy he let die, shifting from peer to mentor. He clenches and unclenches his jaw at the memory of the crumbs of bread he left on his casket in Two at the funeral.

"I told Marcellus about Ten," Ptolemus starts, refocusing on the girl in his arms.

He feels Sage nod softly. "Mateo mentioned they invited them to train together. On Day Two."

"They could ally themselves..." His voice trails in a half-hearted question. "If they wanted..."

Sage's heart sinks. His intentions are pure, and allying with Two could save them a little while longer. But then there's One... and what happens when it's just them left? Who will the Careers turn on first? Of course, the kids from Ten. The outsiders. Besides, Mateo would never allow an alliance anyway.

"Maybe," she muses quietly.

There's several beats of silence between the two of them. Both of them cling to one another, drifting to the parts of their mind neither of them want to venture to. Ptolemus, his nightmares, and Sage, her imagination.

One year. This is just one year, and she already feels like she's going to cave into herself. Meanwhile, Shep has been doing this for twenty. Is this part of why he resembles a shell more than a man? Years and years of caving into himself?

Is that what Sage will become?

The sensation of Ptolemus's thumb tracing soothing circles into her shoulder anchors her back down. Rubbing at her teary eyes, she inhales a shaky breath. Her heart heaves, and she desperately attempts to alleviate the pressure. She sighs a pained sigh.

"Does this ever get any easier?"

Sage shifts, turning to face him, his arms still wrapped around her. Now that she's moved, Ptolemus can see the water pooling in her eyes, a faint dark streak of mascara painting down to her chin. He's about to wipe it away with his thumb when her gentle hands cup his face. Something about her touch almost makes him recoil.

He didn't know someone could hold him so carefully.

When the shock of her touch fades, he finds himself sinking into it like a pillow.

"You know, giving these kids hope, knowing that only one of them comes home?"

Ptolemus feels her words breeze through the parts of him that have been hollowed over the years, their tune chiming the truth. He sees the small spark of hope burning in her eyes, and he'd hate to be the one to snuff it out. Yet, he refuses to lie to her— not about this.

"No."

Her heart sinks, but she doesn't cry. She just gnaws on her bottom lip, bit by bit, accepting her fate. When she looks back up at him, she tucks a strand of hair away from his eyes. He almost shudders.

"I don't want to sleep alone tonight," she admits tentatively, dark eyes searching his. He hears the offer in her tone.

Ptolemus holds her steady gaze. The thought of fighting off the horrors of his mind causes him to agree.

"Neither do I."

━━━━

Ptolemus sneaks out before the sun has risen. Sage feels him go, but keeps her eyes closed as she listens to his careful steps, not even glancing up when she hears the door click shut.

Part of her hopes that if she never opens her eyes he won't be gone. The sun will refuse to rise, and her Tributes will remain peacefully asleep in their beds, safe and sound. However, her hopes are futile. Her body still grows cold from the absence of his, dawn's red halo still creeps through the window panes, and her Tributes are still awoken by Philo for a short breakfast before they're to be taken to the Arena with Chiron and Tatiana.

Sage can't even eat as she sits numbly at the dining table. It's clear neither Taura nor Mateo have the stomachs for sausages or fluffy peach pancakes, their skin ashen and fingers trembling, but they still feed themselves anyway. This could be the last proper meal they have for a while.

"We'll be watching the whole time," Sage starts, stomach somersaulting in her gut endlessly. She wonders if it'll ever stop. She brings her water to her lips mindlessly, something for her quivering hands to do, but never takes a sip as she eyes her silent Tributes. "We've gathered several promises from Sponsors. As soon as we can, we'll send something down."

"...Like what?" Taura asks, voice dragging through her windpipe.

"Whatever it is you need."

Mateo gnaws on his sausage with painfully small and slow bites. "Anything else?"

"Stay away from the Bloodbath," Shep advises pointedly. He peers over the steam of his coffee between the two of them. Sage nods in agreement. "Both of you."

Mateo scowls, and his lips part to argue. Before he can, there's a dreaded knock at the door. It sucks all the air out of the room to the point no one can speak, no one can hear, no one can breathe. Taura looks like she might start to cry, her bottom lip quivering. Philo clears his throat, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor.

"I'll get that."

As he's opening the door, the four of them all stand too. Mateo shoves in one last bite of his breakfast, chewing quickly and anxiously. Taura's starting to turn green. Sage quickly wraps her into a hug before she can crumble.

"It's going to be okay. Stick together. Alright?"

"I'm scared," Taura breathes shakily as she clings to her Mentor.

"I know. Remember what we talked about. Have faith in yourself, and we'll do everything we can to get you out. Both of you."

Sage releases the trembling girl, her eyes shifting toward a stiff Mateo. Shep doesn't attempt a hug, but he does give her a comforting squeeze to the shoulder. Sage reaches for her male Tribute, and surprisingly, he doesn't resist. She squeezes him tightly, noting how wiry he really is.

Mateo scoffs. "They'll never let two people win. But thanks for the effort."

"You never know," Sage sighs sadly. Already, she feels her eyes stinging, starting to betray her. She can't do this now. That's the absolute last thing her Tributes need right now. A corner of her lips tug upward flatly. "I can be pretty persuasive."

The two release one another, Tatiana and Ceres looming behind. Sage blinks the water away as she straightens. She wants to hug both of them again, hold onto them a little longer. If she never lets them go, they can't die, right? Their names continue to whisper against the strings of her heart where they etched themselves on Reaping Day.

I'll take care of you.

"I do hate this part," Tatiana starts, clapping her hands together. "But we must get going."

Mateo glances behind him, both the Stylists waiting. He swallows thickly, something on the very edge of his lips. "Should we ally with Two?" Mateo asks, shifting his weight uneasily.

Sage remembers Ptolemus's suggestion from last night. Because of it, a part of her almost says yes. However, despite her trust for him, that word tastes sour on her tongue.

"Do whatever you think is right, Mateo."

━━━━

Forty minutes later, and all the Mentors are corralled into a Viewing Room with twelve different sectors. Each sector has six televisions, three for each Tribute at every possible angle. There's a few chairs, a vending machine, even a couch that can fold out into a bed.

Sage stands alongside Shep, eyes trained on the screens before her that show all the same image, Caesar and Claudius at their Reporter's Box, the background reading "TWO MINUTES UNTIL LAUNCH."

"I think we have a fine group of Tributes this year, Claudius."

"It's a mixed bag, that's for sure."

"I'm shaking I'm so excited. Look!"

The screen changes. "ONE MINUTE UNTIL LAUNCH."

"Ooh, they're headed up into the tubes!" Claudius announces. He grins cheekily, adjusting the color of his paisley suit. "It's almost my cue."

Sage is suddenly painfully aware of the weight of her heart within her chest. It beats and pounds against the bone, sinking like an anchor. The butterfly wings turn into a tornado as she watches for the screen to change to the Arena.

"What could it be? Swamp? Coral island? They won't make it if it's a frozen wasteland."

Shep doesn't play into her anxiety-ridden questions. Instead, with calm knowing, he just watches quietly. "We're about to find out."

"Ooh, here we go!" Caesar cries, colors replacing the screen.

Unlike when Sage was riding up the tube, there is no blinding white searing her vision this time, eventually fading into blurs, then to distinct shapes. No. Instead of being on that pedestal, heart heaving and senses scattered, she's behind the screen, safe and sound. Everything in front of her is crystal clear.

Claudius Templesmith begins his famous countdown. "Sixty... fifty-nine... fifty-eight..."

The glint of the Cornucopia is painfully familiar. Peering over at one of Taura's screens, she sees the girl is sandwiched between Kleo from Two and the boy from Nine. When she peeks over at Mateo, he's beside the boy from Seven and the skeleton of a girl from Twelve. Both their chests heave as they take in their surroundings blindly.

"Forty-two... forty-one... forty..."

Some of the cameras pan to a view of the Arena. The oranges, reds and green are uncomfortably familiar, blending with the scenery of her own Games. Except, instead of the shapes of tall canyons and dry-barren trees, something else towers toward the sky.

It looks like something from another world. Shapes of ruined buildings quiver in the wind, and overgrown rubble covers the streets of a forgotten city. Forgotten, but still clear in her memory, the eerie familiarity of it nipping at the edges of her mind. Sage jumps with realization when Caesar gasps.

"My God, Seneca Crane, you certainly have outdone yourself! Bravo!"

Claudius nods in agreement, continuing his counting. Fifteen seconds. Skeletons of a city half the nation prays to fall seems to manifest its fate. Sage recognizes the ruined alley that the pedestals surround, the Cornucopia right at the heart. Memories of being paraded down that very street collide with the images in front of her now.

It's the Capitol.

"Four... three... Two..."

Sage can't help but cling to Shep's hand. He doesn't pull away.

"One."

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

WOWOWOW I'M SORRY THIS CHAPTER WAS LONG!!! I HAD SO MUCH I WANTED TO GET WRRITEN AND THEN THINGS WERE FLOWING AND HERE WE ARE!! thanks for reading my ramblings and I hope you enjoyed!! Please feel free to comment, I love hearing your thoughts!

Thoughts on their scores? On Sage's private talks with both of them before their Interviews?

Thoughts on the Interviews? Marcellus, Taura, Mateo?

Thoughts on Finnick and Ptolemus? That's a stressful one oof.

Thoughts on Sage and Ptolemus? And any predictions for what's to come these Games???

You don't have to answer all these questions, I just love hearing from you. I'm so excited to continue this story and thank you so much for the 10k reads. You guys are amazing!

Team Ten makes my heart hurt </3

Word Count: 9555