CHAPTER THREE;
death sentences

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Eight hundred thousand people — that's a rough estimation for the population of Six cramming themselves into the square, including the adults and younger children spectating from the sidelines.

Every Reaping Day, Vesper is reminded of just how many people she doesn't know. If she were picked, would anyone bother to volunteer? Partly because it's a tradition out of practice — the absurdity of stepping forward for what is essentially suicide — but she knows she couldn't count on the vast majority of the hanging faces in the crowd to bail her out. After all, she isn't sure she would do it for them — the flogging of the frail man still stands as a haunting example.

Twenty minutes from now, almost eight hundred thousand people, give or take a few thousand, will partake in the Reaping. The names of one girl and one boy will be picked — if not someone close to them, the majority of Six will carry on with their lives amidst the Games.

Blythe's still trailing cautiously at her side, reluctant to say her goodbyes, but she can't go any further when the seemingly endless queues of children begin to accumulate. She starts scanning the area around her, as if she's searching for a moment more to find the words she can't quite say. Solemnly, Vesper manages to catch her gaze and nods over to Axel, who's watching as stoically as he can with his parents as Icarus departs from them.

"Go," Vesper says. "I'll see you on the other side."

She hopes.

Wordlessly, Blythe complies. She doesn't turn to the queues until she's safe with Axel — who, without a moment's hesitation, slings his arm around her shoulders protectively — meaning she no longer has an excuse to postpone the eerie, annual grind of the Reaping routine.

Vesper, like everyone else, joins a wavering line of girls just like her, and yet not one of them could she place if she tried. Even with her sharp memory, the sheer vastness of Six's population makes finding any familiar faces a task equivalent to scouring for a needle in a haystack. A cough here, a choked sob there. Some of the older ones have numbed themselves to the rollercoaster ride that is the Reaping. The youngsters struggle more, as they cling onto their mothers and cry out, before being heartlessly pried away by a Peacekeeper.

As she draws closer to the tables — perhaps those same ones Dusty, their ride home last night, was delivering to the Epicentre — Vesper softly rubs the skin of her index finger with her thumb, as if she's preparing for the sharp pinprick that she and everyone else receives every year. It's nothing much, but for some reason it never ceases to fill her with a sense of dread.

The line begins to shrink and split into two, as sullen teenagers wander with bleeding fingertips to their allocated spaces in the square with people of their age. Before long, she's watching from behind as a girl goes through the whole procedure of signing in — the rough handling of her finger, the sharp inhale through gritted teeth as the machine makes the cut, and the pressing of her fingertips into the paper.

"Next," says the stern-looking woman at the table. Vesper steps forward, extending her hand out to her — in years gone by, she has learned not to restrain against the trials of the Reaping. She still remembers how on her first Reaping Day, when asked for her hand to sign in, she jerked it away and refused to give her blood. It nearly resulted in a public flogging — of a child — had her father not stepped in and calmed her down. The instinct to fight back is still there, but she suppresses it through her muscles gone rigid and her clenched jaw, as she feels the sharp sting of the needle piercing her fingertip. Her fingertip being pressed firmly onto a printed square on the pristinely white paper smudges the maroon bead into a smear on her skin, a fresh coat of the stuff oozing out of the tiny opening if she presses on the sides.

Blowing gently on the cut, she scales her way along the never-ending aisles of girls, for the distance from the stage to her place grows greater with every year, even if her surname alphabetically places her near the top. There's a girl up ahead, and the striking familiarity of her catches Vesper off guard — the blonde hair in a neat braid down her back, the dress on the washing line from yesterday. It's Cheyenne. It has to be.

She begins picking up her pace, overtaking other girls in front of her whilst remaining subtle — jogging would be disruptive and out of the question. If she's ends up getting beaten one day, she doesn't want it to be caught by the cameramen positioned at every corner and displayed on the giant screens by the stage. Once she's near enough to reach, Vesper is able to grab Cheyenne by the shoulder from behind. It startles the girl, the alarm in her eyes unfading even when she spins around and identifies her. There's a hint of genuine terror in her wild stare and it makes her wonder what she did wrong.

"Oh, my..." whispers Cheyenne, clutching a hand to her heart in relief. "I-I thought you were one of those Peacekeepers—"

"Sorry, sorry. Look, just... good luck, okay?" The nerves scramble her thoughts and meaningless words tumble of her mouth with no real purpose — she was hoping for something more thoughtful, since it's rare to bump into someone familiar this far into Reaping preparations.

     The giant clock on the statue of Mercury keeps ticking, and there is nothing Vesper can do to stop it or reverse it. Like yesterday, the sun beats down hard, the heat even more unbearable when radiating against the dark tarmac. It glistens on the vast stretch of water surrounding the docks in the horizon, where ships have halted in time for the Reaping. Only once a year, for one hour, does District Six — a place that never stops moving, never stops working — grind to a climactic halt.

Eventually, Vesper reconvenes with the large cluster of sixteen-year-old girls gathered towards the back end of the square. These are the girls she's grown up with through this process, and while she may hardly know them, there's an unexplainable kind of sorrow she would feel if any of them were picked. She remembers two years ago, when the girl to her left was chosen — she was a young baggage handler, she seems to remember — and how wrong it has felt since to see a different girl move along to her spot.

There's only one other girl she distinctly pays attention to during the Reaping, the girl to her right who's been there from day one. She only learned her name last year, and makes the effort to include it when greeting her.

"Hey, Nell."

The olive-skinned girl seems taken aback by her memory, and shoots her a weak attempt at a smile. There's definitely warmth behind it, but most of the optimism is overshadowed by the dread of today. "Hey, Vesper." She remembered too. "You alright?"

"Could've been better. You?"

"Yeah..."

     For the first time today, Vesper musters the will to observe the stage properly. Immediately her eyes are drawn to District Six's escort from the Capitol, Hermia Winkle, waving a paper fan rapidly in her face — as expected, she's dressed to the nines in a manner so outrageously ridiculous to anyone outside of the aristocratic, indoctrinated bubble she and her fellows live in. Although, she doesn't look quite as blinding in colour as previous years. This year her hair is an inky black, fashioned upwards into something resembling a beehive; her dress, fashioned with puffed shoulder pads, is a deep sangria with something wiry coiled around the sleeves — it's hard to see from this far away, but if she squints hard enough, Vesper thinks they might be rose thorns. Sometimes she wonders if Hermia is naturally slim or if she's modified herself somehow to have such prominent cheekbones... for if it weren't for all the make-up and puffy clothes, she'd closely resemble a skeleton. Perhaps it's a side affect from the baby she was carrying at last year's Reaping, and the one three years before. Not that Vesper knows anything about maternity.

     "She looks closer to being human than before," she remarks, unable to tear her eyes away from her boldly painted, pursed lips that identically match her dark dress. "Makes an improvement from the walking mound of grass last year."

     "And the neon green hair." Nell almost chuckles.

     "I think even Hermia hated that..."

     Vesper's only joking, but she wonders if there's a ring of truth to the assumption — inky black is the colour their escort always seems to return to, after experimenting with lighter colours, and it's always the same story with her outfits. This year, she looks more like herself again... whatever that means.

     The sun glints against the two glass bowls, filled with paper slips that are fastened shut with squares of black tape. Nineteen of those are mine, Vesper thinks, her heart dropping into her stomach as she gazes at the bowl for eligible females. She can only pray that none of those nineteen are touched by Hermia's bony, manicured hands in the next ten minutes.

     Seated beyond the glass bowls of doom — as Vesper likes to call them — are the remaining victors of District Six. Unlike some other districts, as far as anyone knows all of Six's tributes are living. There's a total of three sitting at the back, although allegedly there are supposed to be four: all she knows is they had a victor of the Eighth Games, but he up and vanished before the Victor's Village was established, and no one has seen or heard from him since. So, they are left with the strange trio seated at the Justice Building. There's Enzo Guerra, the eldest of them all who mentored through three decades without seeing a victory from his home district — most likely a result of his dangerously explosive anger, that only the second victor lived to tell the tale of. It must have scared the tributes senseless. But with the two younger mentors at hand, a wrinkled, sickly-skinned Enzo spends his days catatonic to the world with a brain poisoned by drug abuse.

It's a similar story with Dale Tadros, the second victor. He seems to swim in and out of awareness of what's around him, but at least he managed to bring a tribute home a lot more swiftly than Enzo. Another victim of Morphling addiction, like everyone else here it seems, he slumps in his chair with a couple of his shirt buttons undone. Dale's head lulls back almost lifelessly, as he dabs at some sweat on his forehead with the back of his wrist — at the gentle touch of Irma Bentley's hand on his knee, a nurturing but demanding gesture, he whips his head back to a normal level and seems to heave a huge sigh through his chest. If it weren't for Irma, there might be no redeemable qualities about Six's victors whatsoever, for she appears to keep the two functionless men in one piece.

     Even by the way she sits in the third chair, you can tell Irma feels a responsibility of some sort, or a duty to fulfil. Unsurprisingly, too, for she is undoubtedly the most renowned victor Six has had — for starters, no one forgets how she entered the arena and left it as a pacifist. Refusing to inflict violence on anyone, even when under attack. It was a nonsensical promise to make, everyone thought initially, until Panem saw how she really did live by her word. Survive by her word. The only winning tribute from Six that Vesper's been alive to witness the Games for, she still remembers vividly the calmness that came across in her interview with Caesar, and the same calmness that has survived, unwavering after almost ten years.

     But it's not just that. Virtually everyone in Six loves her, largely due to something that happened about five years ago. In the cold winter, during the victory tour of District Two's Enobaria, there was a tragic train collision that caused irreparable damage, the fatalities of the youth highlighting to Panem the labour that teenagers in Six begin earlier than anyone else. Their own leader, Mayor Davenport, didn't even turn up to the scene to show his support — he was probably drowning himself in Morphling, Vesper imagined. But who did go there and encourage the families left behind? Irma Bentley, of course. She didn't have to, but ever since then District Six has idolised her as the face of their people, as opposed to the useless Mayor.

It would seem that Irma really is pulling everyone's weight.

"Dale looks tired this year," Nell remarks sadly, scratching her elbow obsessively.

"He always looks tired."

"Didn't his wife die this Spring?"

Oh yeah. Vesper had forgotten about that. She was never one to tune into mainstream news from the Capitol, however it was difficult to avoid images of the once Mrs. Tadros and the now widowed Dale, either splashed on front pages or displayed on giant screens in the city. The mere thought of having her privacy cracked open and spilled out like that for gossip sickens her to the stomach. Whoever is reaped this year, there's no doubt that Dale will be worse when mentoring... if he can even do that.

There's a silence settling across the seemingly infinite crowds, and she becomes aware of Mayor Davenport stepping up to the podium. This is it. An icy chill runs over her skin, evoking an out-of-place shudder in the July heat. Crammed so closely together, her arm rubs against Nell's, who gives her a gentle nudge back.

"Good luck," she murmurs under her breath. "As always."

"You too."

The Mayor's sagging eyes drag over the speech printed on paper before him, but as always, Vesper loses track after the beginning words "War, terrible war..." — she knows the gist of it, anyway. It might as well be a history lecture, and normally it might send her off to sleep if it weren't for the impending paranoia of her name keeping her alert. Every district across the nation hears it — how Panem grew from the ashes of the Dark Days, and how the Games serve as a stark reminder to the rebels of the sacrifices they made. What were the words the President says — or the Mayor slurs, again?

     Oh, yes. "This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."

     When Mayor Davenport completes the compulsory speech, he introduces Hermia to the stage and takes a fashionably intoxicated stagger back to his seat. Smiling through a glint of embarrassment that flashes through her eyes, she takes a few small strides in her fitted dress to the microphone and taps it with a claw-like fingernail. All of a sudden, everything becomes too real — she thinks she might throw up. Knowing there's no point looking for her friends, Vesper instead looks to the side-lines, hopeful to find a familiar face. Yes — right there, nearer the stage, is the Brunel family, and under the close surveillance of Axel is Blythe. There's something unexpectedly comforting in the way she nestles herself under his arm, like she takes shelter in his strong build.

     Vesper doesn't know why she's only thinking like this now. Still, she hopes... no, she knows Axel would look after her stepsister if she got picked. But nothing's set in stone yet. The more she theorises, the more she spirals into hopelessness. Block it out. District Six is huge. There are people other than you.

     "Good afternoon, District Six..." Hermia's raspy voice — which always sounds like she's been smoking — snaps her attention back to the stage. Bracing herself for the Capitol-esque chirpiness, her insides turn to lead. "... and happy Hunger Games! May I just be the first to say how well you've cleaned yourselves up today," she announces excitedly, just like she does every year, and scans her cat-like eyes over the audience before her. "Spectacular!"

     When she is met only with an unimpressed, empty silence — a void filled only by a congested cough from a girl two rows in front of Vesper — and blank stares all around, she gives a small, erratic shiver of her head and clears her throat. Something about the woman is very confusing. One minute she's exactly the kind of product of the Capitol you're expecting, but then she cracks — showcasing a passive-aggressiveness so uncharacteristic from someone bred in her background. Covering her slip-up with an unnatural smile, she continues. "Now, without further ado, the time has come... to select the lucky lad and lass who will represent District Six in this year's Hunger Games! It is truly an honour to be able to bring forth that lucky pair to this stage, and I thank you all for your very..." she pauses, searching for the words through a slight wrinkle of her nose. "... warm welcome."

     Was that sarcasm? If it was, Vesper is almost tempted to chuckle. Almost.

     "And as always, may the odds... be ever in your favour. Ladies first."

     There it is. The deafening rift between her life now and what is possibly her death sentence. As the click-clack of Hermia's heels echoes through the square, her legs are set into concrete and her heart stops. With a grand flourish, the escort's hand plunges into the glass bowl for the females, rummaging for whoever will be sent to slaughter today. Like all the girls on the right side of the square, Vesper holds her breath. All those names she's brushing, all those lives that might be spared, but the one that will be sacrificed... they'll know soon enough. Wherever Cheyenne is, her nails dig into her palms in the equal fear of getting picked.

     A slip of white paper emerges, whipped out and displayed melodramatically to the people. The tip of Hermia's tongue flicks rapidly over her fingertip, pinching the sides of the paper as she rolls it out, taking a few moments to absorb the name, maybe let some suspense linger. You're killing me, Vesper thinks. She can see it right now. Imagining her vocal cords moving, lips forming to say the words —

     "Vesper Alfaro."

     It doesn't quite register for a few moments. She could be floating right now, her brain stuttering in a scramble to understand what's happening. Did she hear that right? Or is her dark imagination exceeding her? There's no way she can know for sure — that is, until she feels Nell turning to her, brushing against her sleeve as she does. Stop looking at me. Somewhere, she hopes there's another Vesper Alfaro who simply hasn't owned up yet.

Hermia repeats her name — yes, definitely her name. Even if she can't hear it through the blood roaring through her ears, her lips mime each syllable like five sharp slaps to the face. It prompts Nell to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The sympathetic gesture attracts the attention to her, surrounding strangers beginning to ogle at her. She hates it. Somewhere in the sea of boys and girls, her friends are trying to get a good look at her — she can't possibly look them in the eye if she's walking up to her death.

Following the wave of heads that are slowly turning, Hermia's eyes lock onto Vesper's, making her want to look away instantly — something about the way she singles her out like a predator finding its prey. "There you are!" she cups a hand over her eyes, mockingly leaning forward to squint into the distance. With a forced guffaw she adds, "Goodness, I must say this square seems to get bigger every year."

Something clicks in her mind, a driving force that aggressively shrugs Nell's hand off her shoulder. She doesn't need her pity. Not even trying to catch her gaze before leaving, Vesper begins to push past the girls whose despondent yet empty stares bore into the back of her head. Better to get this over with.

Cameras from all four corners are magnetised to her, rotating with each stiff step she takes down the long, parted pathway that runs like a crevice between the males and females. She'd never realised how long of a walk it is. Almost half a minute of uncomfortable quietude has gone by, Peacekeepers both in front and behind forming a cage around her, and she's only just reached the starting bracket for the fifteen year olds. From now, she is being watched — it's the only thing keeping her chin level, her head held a little higher than what feels natural, as opposed to how she'd rather collapse into the earth beneath the tarmac and never emerge again. And then there, right in an opening in the crowd of girls, Cheyenne's eyes of steel pierce into her own darker ones, penetrating through any slither of bravery she's living off right now. Urgently, her head dips to avert eye contact, picking up her pace to an impatient power walk — partly due to Cheyenne, and partly since her knees might buckle in beneath her if she doesn't keep moving.

Coming around to a full minute, she can now see the finer details on Hermia's dress as she takes overly strong bounds up the steps that she regrets when she wobbles shakily at the top. "Come on, dear. That's right," her pale hand beckons for her to come forward, and before she can pull away Vesper's hands are interlocked in her ghostly pale ones. "Now, if I can just make you stand... right here," she places a hand on her shoulder blade, causing her to flinch. "Perfect! Thank you."

And then, she asks the imperative question. "Any volunteers?"

As expected, no one steps forward. Who can blame them? She wouldn't volunteer, either. It would have to be a monumental tragedy in the Reaping that ever moved her to do such a thing...

So, this is it. She's really doing this. There's no way she can face searching for people she knows in the crowds — there will be time for farewells later. Farewells... with a shake of her head, Vesper pulls her head up to focus on something else, anything else. The statue of Mercury in the distance gives off a polished glow bathing in the sun. Studying the winged sculpture absentmindedly, she lets her hands slide down her chest to her abdomen to calm her dread-churned bowels, clasping the other hand in their place. In a minute, it will be the hand whichever boy that gets picked holding hers instead.

     The best she can do is hope that boy isn't someone she knows. Maybe it'll be easier to fight for her own life, when her district partner — the person she'd most likely be forming an alliance with, if any — is someone she can dissociate herself from. Despite spending most of her days accompanied by friends, Vesper knows she works best alone. That would be a better strategy anyway, if it means she doesn't have to watch any allies die before her.

"Now, for the gentlemen."

As Hermia trots over to the glass bowl on the far right, her insides do several somersaults in one. A sickening thought paints beads of cold sweat across her forehead, the number forty-two tattooed in her eyelids — what if she picks Kirk? She scolds herself for thinking such a thing, but the thought still rebounds menacingly in her mind, taunting her; his name ringing in her ears before it's even spoken.

     Kirk Guzman...

     Kirk Guzman...

     "... Icarus Brunel!"

     Time stops. Her body plunges into shock; mind, heart, soul trying to catch up second by second.

     No. There's no way.

     "Icarus Brunel?" the woman calls out again, so insensitively, the rasp of her voice grainy like nails on a chalkboard, "Icarus, where are you? Raise your hand..."

Run, she thinks. Hide. Get out whilst you still can. Vesper glares wide-eyed, from Hermia to the glass bowl.

"Ah, there. A young one, I see — how exciting!" She is able to follow Hermia's pointed finger, which slices a direct line through the crowd of thirteen year olds to reveal the boy — a painful truth that this is, in fact, real, and not some kind of practical joke. Mouth hanging with parted lips, Icarus glances around him, eyes as wide as they can stretch... searching for someone he knows, someone who would willingly volunteer — who knows? He blinks back a flash of emotion that crosses his face — acceptance — and starts following the manicured hand that summons him up to the stage.

During his less lengthier walk to the front, she can't look at him. She can only search for them. Kirk, Bolt... the only ones she can count on to take his place. To not make this any harder than it already is. Surely they must know too, how anyone younger than fourteen entering the arena is usually infinitely more unlikely to make it out of the Bloodbath, let alone the Games as a whole. They can't possibly sit by and watch both of them go in —

     Because everyone knows that only one makes it out alive.

     He's on stage now, she can tell by the little murmurs Hermia makes as she guides him to his spot to stand. She asks for volunteers. The only thing heard from the silence that follows is a guilt that showcases remorse for the young boy, but nothing more than that. She suffocates on every breath she breathes, because it's laced with those of all the ungrateful people who won't try and take his place. A sixteen, almost seventeen-year-old girl with nothing to really lose is one thing, but a boy of thirteen who both wouldn't and couldn't hurt a fly...

     "No volunteers for the young man? No?"

     Please.

     Someone.

     Anyone.

     "Very well! That settles it, then." Hermia gives an inspired shiver of her shoulders, a signal to conclude the opportunity to opt voluntarily. Vesper has never wanted to buy time so desperately until now. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you this year's tributes from District Six — Vesper Alfaro and Icarus Brunel! A round of applause for these two brave souls."

The polite clapping of her hands, as always, flies right over the heads of the people packed in the square. Upon realisation that, as usual, she's not getting the desired response, she stops.

"Now, why don't we start off with a good old handshake, hm?"

She'd rather not do such a cruel thing in front of almost eight hundred thousand people — present them as allies, when being thrown into an arena where at least one of them will be dead by the end of it all. God, what is she saying? Of course they're allies by default. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

For the first time since he got up on stage, Vesper at last finds the power to turn her head and look at him. He's already locked his glassy eyes on hers, searching for an answer, a way out of this. She wants that too. But right now, all she can do is somehow console him. Taking a couple of steps forward, she extends her hand out to him, and feels the uncontrollable trembling of his sweating palms. Her other hand instinctively reaches out and grabs his forearm, for steadiness — but steadiness for who? Him, or her?

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The first thing Vesper does, when finally left by herself, is scream.

     If you can call it that, anyway — once the door clicks shut behind her inside the Justice Building, there's a hundred emotions boiling up and seething through every crack, and they'll kill her if she doesn't find an outlet soon. Balling her hands into fists against her abdomen seems to be the only way to release some tension. She squeezes out an unsatisfyingly quieter wail than she'd anticipated, something resembling an animal on its last dying breath. A sorrowful cry for help.

Not enough. It's not enough to relieve her pain. She catches her breath, unable to cry, unable to even scream, as her eyes dart around various areas of the small, homely room she's been locked in for the next hour. In here, it could well be the last time she sees any of the people she loves — Blythe, Kirk, Cheyenne, Bolt.

Strangely, none of them matter right now. The only person she really wants to spend every passing minute with before she leaves is her father. She would exchange all of her lasting goodbyes for her last one to be with him.

But he's not here anymore.

And dwelling on that isn't helping. It adds gasoline to the fire that's already raging in her bones. However, when the door opens slowly and she's met with the two boys who failed to do anything for Icarus, she can't control herself.

"How... DARE you!" Vesper thumps her hands against Kirk's chest, sending him stumbling backwards in bewilderment. He and Bolt stare at her in a stunned and confused silence, a puffy-eyed Cheyenne trailing in behind them.

"How could you let him go through with this? Let me go through with this?!"

     "What, I—"

     "What the hell makes you think I know what to do?" she cuts him off in a fury, blinded by rage and upset. "Y-you... you're so selfish. So fucking selfish!"

     He holds his hands out defensively, taking a cautious step towards her — seeming to acknowledge the fact that she's a time bomb that's just completed its countdown. "Vesp, please..." Kirk murmurs softly, his eyes fluttering gently closed as he lets out a shaky sigh. "Just... calm down."

     "Calm down?" she roars incredulously. "CALM DOWN?"

     "Vesper—"

     "I'M THE ONE GOING INTO THAT FUCKING ARENA WITH HIM, NO THANKS TO YOU—"

Her words — empty in the air with no real promise of spite — die on her tongue when she sees one thing: Cheyenne is weeping. The tears that burst forth, the dam being breached, is enough to smack some sense into the head she's lost. What is she doing... what is she doing? Of course this isn't their fault. She knows better. If anything, she's the selfish one.

More than this she hates seeing Cheyenne or any of the others cry — and the other two already look like they're in danger of breaking too. "I..." Vesper fumbles on her words, lost for what to say next. She's still cowering in embarrassment over her outburst, so irrational and pointless. Time wasted where she could have been taking the time to say her farewells. "I'm... so sorry. I-I didn't mean to..."

Bolt manages a curt shrug, his bottom lip quivering. "... Guess you had to take it out on someone, r-right?"

"Yeah," she barely whispers. Admittedly, she does feel a little better after having her rage — she just wishes they weren't there to see her so vulnerable. Cheyenne's weeping has spiralled into hyperventilating between sobs, struggling to get a word in edgeways. Vesper can't bear to look at it. "C'mere..." she says. Placing a hand on the back of her head, she pulls the hysteric girl to her chest and lets her tears drench her sleeve through muffled cries. Over her shoulder, Bolt and Kirk watch with faces set in stone but teetering on breaking point. She sighs, raising a hand to usher them over. "All of you."

They don't waste a moment. The other boys rush to the two vacant sides of Vesper, enveloping her as they wrap their arms around her — so tight that she can't escape, but leaving enough breathing space. Their touch somehow is able to make the room a little bit brighter; a little bit warmer. Skin to skin like this, it's her fleeting escape from the coming weeks ahead. She doesn't think she'll have many more like this. Opening her eyes a crack, she glances around at her friends — her family — in their closeness. It is now that she must take in every detail whilst she still can: the mildly agitated, hilariously rigid stance Bolt always seems to have no matter what mood he's in... the impressive database of knowledge Cheyenne uses to hide the fact that, although she hates it as much as Vesper does herself, she's highly emotional... the smiles that Kirk never fails to bring to anyone's face, simply by being himself.

All of these things she may not live to experience again.

"Listen..." she pulls away an inch, just enough to bask in their presence and see their faces properly. "If there's one thing you can do for me, it's to not make a fuss." Kirk opens his mouth, but Vesper interjects firmly, "Don't go around wallowing over me, or anything. Got it?"

The two boys manage a reluctant nod, Cheyenne still mopping tears away with the fabric of her dress. "Chey?" she places her hands on the girl's shoulders, so she can't possibly look anywhere else. "You promise?"

"I..." sniff, "I promise."

Vesper wordlessly pulls them back into the hug, burying her head in the darkness of their intertwined shadows. The worst thing any of them can do today is try to say 'Goodbye'. It would be the death of her. After all, this comfortable silence says so much more than any farewell could. Time slips through her fingers like sand so, anticipating the Peacekeepers entering and dragging them away themselves, she knows it's time to let go. She tells them it's important they get time with Icarus too, but really, she doesn't know how much longer she can handle being in the same room with them now.

She can't watch them leave. Instead, she stares mindlessly out of the window and waits until she hears the door clicking shut once again — but still, there's the carefully controlled breathing cutting through the stillness. Turning around, Vesper grudgingly softens at the sight of him.

"Don't go soft on me now, partner." says Vesper. She's never seen Kirk like this... so lost. He just stands there; light pours in from the window behind, casting her shadow on his feet, and illuminating his jade green eyes which take on an alarming seriousness. Kirk shakes his head slowly — like he's trying his hardest to comprehend it all.

"I just..." his voice wavers, and he inhales deeply to level it out. "I have t-too much to say to you."

Me too, she thinks. But she has to be brave. For herself. "Then don't. Whatever it is I think we both know it, anyway."

"I guess."

Vesper wanders over to him, drawing nearer to the aroma that constantly seems to surround him — boot polish. Usually she thinks nothing of it, but now, it just feels homely. She starts to remember how they first met, in the workshop when she had just turned twelve. Boot polish... smeared all over his hand, in patchy blotches across his face. But with a cheeky grin, a spanner tossed her way and a sandwich shared at lunch, the rest was history. For years since, he's been bringing a smile to her face, and the least she can do is return the favour in their last minutes together.

Her fist flies into his stomach — catching him off guard, coughing in bewilderment. Clutching his abdomen, Kirk furrows his brows at her and asks, "Shit! What the hell was that for?"

"Now you'll have a bruise to remember me by."

Kirk falters for a moment, confused by the sudden switch of mood — then he chuckles, managing a slight smile as he walks backwards to the door. His eyes are unmoving from Vesper, who's still smiling at him mischievously, before he vanishes from the room and this time, she really is left alone.

At least they left on a high note, like they always should. It's bittersweet.

With much of her contained hysteria now set free, Vesper is able to think with a clearer head. Though there's little time to process this meeting before she's moved onto the next; the sight of Blythe hovering in the doorway hesitantly. She must have been crying, for her eyes are already bloodshot and her cheeks pink with glistening stripes of tear stains — and from the way she bites her lip at the pure sight of Vesper, she's about to do it again.

     "Don't..." she pleads, tense with discomfort.

     Blythe manages a chortle somehow, and dabs her eyes with her knuckle. "Damp morning, huh?" she asks with a flat voice.

     "More like soaking. I don't think I can cope with any more tears today."

     "Alright. I'll try my best."

     To substitute for bottling her tears, much like Cheyenne, her stepsister approaches her with a few large strides and swaddles her in her urgent embrace. Vesper's hands brush along her back, trailing upwards with the intention to grab her shoulders, but a certain sensation against her fingertips sends a hot flush of unease down her neck — the feeling of each of Blythe's ribs protruding outwards in bumps. It's the same at her shoulders, with the notable lack of lean muscle surrounding them. She softens her grip on Blythe ever so slightly, out of fear that she might just suddenly snap in her arms. She knew she wasn't the most strongly built person, but she definitely never used to be this... frail. Guilt over not noticing earlier sits in Vesper's veins like ice, her eyes stinging with tears she has yet to shed today.

It doesn't help that when she pulls away, she gets a clear glimpse of Blythe's hands — dried out, riddled with calluses and flakes of peeling skin. Knuckles irritated, red, and on the brink of bloodshed. She sees images of Blythe cleaning those machine parts in the warehouses — all those harmful chemicals attacking her skin, eroding her. She remembers how even a brisk walk can leave her stepsister panting for breath. She notes how late she works every day, scraping together whatever income possible. Vesper swallows the lump in her throat and blinks away the burn in her eyes.

"You have to stop over-working yourself," she says. It seems to catch her stepsister off guard, for she squirms in demurral. "I know it's hard, especially... now. I get that you're trying for the money. But if you keep going so hard all the time, you... you'll be one of those girls dropping dead in the warehouse."

"I—"

"You will. And you know that."

Blythe averts her gaze away from her, instead focusing on a painting of a steam engine strung up on the wall. Because she knows she's right.

Vesper sighs. "If you need anything, you go to the Brunels. The others will definitely help you, but the Brunels take care of you the best. Trust me. Whether it's food, cleaning, a place to sleep, they will be there. And Axel..." she trails off, studying the way that Blythe's features grow gentler at the mention of his name. "... he'll take care of you. No doubt about it. A-also, if you—"

"Vesper, I'll be fine. Really."

Will she? All of a sudden, she really isn't so sure. Will her stern telling-off be enough to hammer in that she's simply weaker than she can handle?

She's standing back now, holding Vesper's hands in hers as she looks her up and down. "Gosh," she forces a bitter smile, "Maybe you were right about that dress."

Dress? Then just as it clicks, she catches a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror that stands in the corner of the room. In her mother's dress. In the same room that her same mother said goodbye to her father... and maybe even her. The harrowing concept of having been in this room before is one Vesper just can't shake now. She doesn't like to think about her in here — awaiting her eventual death, perhaps realising she'll never see her daughter grow up.

She doesn't like to think about it, so she doesn't.

"Y-you still sure that you're not superstitious?" Blythe tries to ask lightheartedly, but her voice trembles.

"I'm not superstitious... I just have shit luck, that's what it is."

"Oh, Vesper..."

There's a small yelp from next door, which alerts the attention of them both — the Peacekeepers must be intervening. It's identifiable as Icarus's mother, who cries out her son's name in the hallway and declares how she loves him, how he's her baby, before the almighty thud of the doors slamming cuts her away from him. Her baby. He really is a baby, or at least feels like one. Virtually untouched by the trials of the world, it feels like the universe spitting on him to allow his name being picked. It's so unfair.

So unfair.

Vesper reflects on his life thus far, and the life he could have ahead of him — he's a bright boy receiving a good education, therefore opening doors of opportunity to any career he could want in Six. And what's that in comparison to her life? An aspiring mechanic stuck in the monotony of railroad maintenance, no living biological family to turn to as far as she knows, and who will probably live in this cycle forever — that is, before today's Reaping came and changed things. If Icarus lives, he could take those aviation classes like he mentioned earlier, chase his dreams —

The boy who wants to fly away could finally earn his wings.

"Well, maybe..." Pause. Think. Speak. "... maybe Icarus has a better chance than me."

She's not looking at Blythe, but she can hear the hesitation before she opens her mouth. "... What do you mean, 'better chance'?"

"I don't know... at life? I mean really, Blythe, think about it: if I died in that arena—"

"Which you won't."

"—But if I did, what would I leave behind? Nothing."

"What about me?"

     "Yeah, well—" Blythe's eyes have sharpened before she can take back her words, sounding dismissive in passing, as her 'frail' stature grows in posture and stands her ground. So much for pausing, thinking and speaking... they'd actually managed to go five minutes without provoking a pointless argument. A new record, surely. But now the damage is done.

     "Vesper," says Blythe, a muscle flaring in her jaw that Vesper didn't even know existed. "I know things have been tense between us lately, after your father died—"

     "No, I can't do this now." Absolutely not. It's the last thing she can cope with today. What in her right mind was she thinking, just springing that onto her now?

     "Then when will we do it? If you're so goddamn set on sacrificing yourself in that arena — or whatever your plan is, I don't care — then now's a better time than ever to make things right! Don't you want to leave knowing we didn't end things with a stupid row? We're sisters."

     "Stepsisters."

     "WHO CARES?! Blythe hollers. The abruptness of her change in volume frightens both she and Vesper, but she continues, "Has it occurred to you that maybe — just maybe — it would kill me to watch you die in that arena? Maybe you have other people you can count on, all your friends from work, but me? I have no one. No one except you. But... now I see that maybe I was wrong. Ever since your dad took me in, you never even tried, you—"

A flurry of polished mahogany whirls past as the doors soar open, two manned Peacekeepers looming in the open exit. Please, not now, Vesper pleads. She needs time to fix this. If only they'd barged in a few minutes ago, before she'd opened her mouth and said a thousand stupid things to ruin everything. But Blythe isn't hesitating — in fact, she's lifting herself from the soft velvet of the couch and posing herself to leave.

"I try... so... hard for you." she whispers. The words are left hanging in the air, haunting even after she dismisses herself from the room. Half of Vesper wants to run after her, hold her tightly again, tell her how she really feels about her. But the other half knows how she really feels about Blythe isn't as pretty as either of them would hope — it would be a lie to say there weren't some unresolved grudges she's struggled to free her stepsister from.

     None of that matters now, anyway. Because she's never seeing her again.

     She has to kick something.

     Cathartically, her compact frame relieves itself from withholding the rage, which flared up in double the time it took to subside originally — her foot flies into a patch of wall below the window, a tremor exuding through the shelf above. A vase careens off the side, and Vesper lurches forward in panic to cushion its fall before the porcelain can meet the hard floor below. Puffing out a disbelieved breath, she haphazardly tries to place the vase back where she found it, thinking of what the Peacekeepers outside the door might do to her as a result.

     Oh yeah, she remembers. They're already killing me, anyway.

     There's only time for one last visitor, perhaps the only other person she can fathom seeing right now. The moment Axel steps through the door, she feels herself crumble. Something about his hunched shoulders exudes a kind of inferiority that she's never seen in him; the helplessness of his age exceeding the eligibility to volunteer, at twenty. Suddenly she wonders if Blythe must have felt that way too, when her name was called out. She can't recall the journey of getting from A to B — but one minute she's by the window, and the next, she's launched herself into Axel's arms and buried her face in his shirt where he can't see her. It stays like this for what must be a good few minutes, no words exchanged.

In her previous exchanges, she felt as if she were in limbo — not entirely present as her friends and... family, wept over her. After all, she's not going to be crying if she's the one being sent back home in a wooden coffin.

     But now it feels real. In the arms of the brother to her district partner, she becomes grounded in the gruelling reality. Surprisingly, it brings a sort of comfort to her. Why does she have to cram a lifetime's worth of goodbyes to everyone she's ever loved in one hour?

     "How is he?"

     The question slips past her lips before she's thought it. She can feel his chest heave with a sigh. "You know... not great. He barely said a word, just cried the whole time. That was all he could do."

Of course it is. And meanwhile, Vesper's eyes feel drier by the minute as she begins numbing herself to whatever is ahead. Rationality is weeping into her consciousness — she can't change what has happened. She's going into that arena, whether she likes it or not. Now is the time to focus on what she can change.

Now that she's a tribute, it's about time she started thinking like one.

"And you?" she asks.

"I'm coping, I guess." says Axel. He seems to be playing with a similar approach to Vesper — starting to distance himself from the pain, accepting what he can't control as his new truth. The only sure way they can keep themselves together. "And you?"

     Where does she begin? She has no idea how she'll learn to wield a weapon effectively, with a complete lack of experience. She can't even hunt. She's also pretty sure that Blythe hates her guts now.

     "... I don't know," Vesper finally replies, after a long pause.

     "You don't know?"

     "Well, I — no. I haven't had the chance to sit down and really think about it all yet."

Axel taps his finger on a corner of the wood desk that sits in the corner of the room, inspecting how immaculate everything is in here. He must feel the same way she does right now — so out of place. There's a grandfather clock next to the door, which he steals a glance at, before looking back at her. "We've got time now," he says, gesturing to the lavish couch on his way over to it. "We could think about it together?"

Before she can possibly object — which she doesn't plan on doing, anyway — Axel's sat himself on the couch, an empty space lingering next to him. Vesper fills it, only realising when seated what a relief it is to not try and balance on her legs, which tingle wildly with subconscious nerves. He starts recalling common knowledge obtained from watching previous games. The basics. First focus on finding food and water. Find something to start a small fire. Don't, under any circumstances, join the Careers.

At some point during Axel's instructions, she thinks of Icarus in the other room; confused, petrified, fearful of what his future holds. If he even has a future. Surely, he must know that he won't last long in the arena without an ally. He's switched on and educated, sure, and could be self-reliant if he tried. But if he was pounced on by a bloodthirsty Career, him too being clueless with weaponry? Dead in a matter of seconds.

That's when it becomes clear to her. For the first time this past hour, she's thinking clearer than ever. She knows what she has to do — the epiphany sparks a sudden sense of finality in her, a newfound bravery she didn't know she possessed. Her train of thought begins with a slow ascent, each piece of the plan still coming together, but by the time she speaks it, it speeds full steam ahead into existence.

"I'll bring him home."

Something doesn't quite compute with Axel; for a few seconds he's caught mid-sentence, blinking at her, perplexed. "... Sorry, what?" he asks, eventually.

He's hasn't quite reached an understanding of what she's saying, and perhaps neither has she — but they both know there's an emphasis behind her words which says more.

Vesper repeats it again, slower this time. "I'm going to bring Icarus home." she leans forward slightly, searching his eyes for some kind of response. "I'll do whatever it takes, I-I'll try my best to get him as far into those Games as I can. I promise. You have my word."

It takes a while for him to say something back. But when he finally opens his mouth, face set with sobriety, she isn't expecting the next word to come out of his mouth:

"Don't."

Don't? "Don't what?"

"Make promises you can't keep."

For some reason, this rubs Vesper the wrong way. It only makes her more adamant to protect Icarus in that arena — does he just not believe in her? Or does he not believe in him? The prospect crushes her — has he already given up on his little brother? "... What do you mean?" she challenges. The question sinks out of audibility under a breath she didn't know she was holding, but he still hears it. When he doesn't reply, she asks again, "Axel?"

   The door opens.

   Peacekeepers meander in from either side — and this time, they aren't waiting. Her insides engulfed in a flame of panic, she latches her hand onto Axel's wrist, her grip like setting iron. She's not ready. It's all happening too fast.

     "Axel—"

     "I'll look after Blythe, I promise," he cuts her off, just as he's pulled up from his seat by the Peacekeepers. Armoured arms hooked under his shoulders, he struggles to wrestle against their force as he's dragged towards the door.

     "Let him go! —" she cries, lurching forward to pull him away, before she ricochets backwards from the harsh shove of the faceless men. "— AXEL!"

     "You remember what I said, okay?!"

     "AXEL, PLEASE!" Vesper's screaming now. She takes a full run-up to the double doors as they begin closing, his face disappearing between the shrinking gap. "WHAT DID YOU MEAN—"

     BANG!

     And that's it. Her last life-line to her life back home, stolen from her when the moment weighed the heaviest on her shoulders. Vesper leans her temple against the cold wood of the door, letting her eyes shut as she traces her fingers along the hinges and circle the bronze door knob. Now she'll never know what Axel was trying to tell her. To save Icarus? To leave him? She's just so baffled...

     But Axel isn't the one going into the arena. She is.

     And her promise to herself, for her own sanity, is that she will bring Icarus home. She swears, if it's the last thing she does, her dying breath will be spent knowing she's been outlived by the embodiment of everything good in this world.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

things are: kicking off
i am: emotional
dale is: high, as usual

this chapter was much more difficult to write than i'd expected – the reaping itself wasn't the worst part, it was the goodbyes. i think it's because you have to get it right because they're so significant, being vesper's last moment w/ her loved ones, you know? i hope they came across as sincere enough... also, i don't particularly like doing argument scenes, because i feel like mine sometimes end up sounding petty 😂

also, we have our first glimpse of what i like to call "team district six" — i can't wait to write more of them in coming chapters! this is basically the end of where you see vesper's home life, and from now it'll be focused on the capitol-sequel process she and icarus have to go through, of course as well as the games *cough cough*

[ published: 15th july, 2020 ]

— Imogen