THINGS FALL APART.

Inch by bloody inch, destruction seeps into the tightly-wound system Atlas had built for himself, like a crack that starts deep inside a stone, spreading and spreading over time, spiderwebbing and growing outward, until it reaches the end and the whole stone falls to pieces. It takes only a day, a single tap of just the right pressure. Just like the stone, you see the problem unravelling only after it all falls apart.

The centre cannot hold.

The most troubling thing is that Atlas doesn't understand how it all spiralled out of his hands so quickly. One moment they're in the Square, awaiting the names to be pulled by their escort, Alastor Hatter, a man with paper-white skin and an explosion of flame red hair sticking out beneath a ridiculous top hat, the next, there were cameras flashing in his face as both him and Alecto were being escorted onto the train, Evander and Iko hobbling on her crutches trailing behind them, waving to the camera crews. There hadn't been time for visitations—Atlas didn't know why they'd decided to cut that out of the program—before they were rushed towards the platform. Amidst the crowd cheering, the blinding flashes, Alecto's white-blonde hair glowing in the sunlight, he'd managed to slip into his old Career tribute persona, one he'd culled and cultivated and sculpted into perfection back in his prime. Back when all he'd wanted was the first lick of glory, the crown on his head, and the tide of destruction became the blood in his veins. There was that golden grin, the menacing flash of teeth, the sharpness in his eyes. When the train doors closed behind them with a mechanical hiss, all he knows is the roaring of his blood in his ears and the slow poison of horror saturating his veins and Alecto, back on the train, the wrong cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse. Reality set in just as the train jerked, and began to move, thundering away from District 2 on its tracks. Instantly, Iko collapsed against Evander, who caught her with ease, concern etched on his features. And silence came down upon them like a guillotine.

"Dammit," Iko growled, tossing aside her crutches with more force than required as Alastor Hatter dragged a chair over to Iko. Her crutches clattered to the ground, loud as bombs. They were out of view of the camera crews now, so Iko could afford to look as diminished as she did now. Pale faced, gritting her teeth like between them ran her lifeline.

"Hey, take it easy," Evander said, softly, kneeling before her. Iko buried her face in her palms, massaging her temples. Taking her wrists in his hands, Evander frowned. He'd been her mentor during her Games, one of the only people who knew what the Games took from her. More than anyone else, Evander understood what being on this train meant to Iko.

"I can't—" Iko squeezed her eyes shut, at first, Atlas thought it was the pain, the effort from walking all the way down the red carpet towards the train, but as Iko cut a freezing glare at Alecto, Atlas realised it was the rage inside. Rage, as she seethed, "what the hell were you thinking?"

Naturally, Alecto didn't answer. Merely glared back, her iceberg eyes twin scythes of blue fire. She hovered by the dining table, half-in half-out of the present, a ghost ready to melt into the walls and disappear once they took their eyes off her.

"This wasn't part of the plan," Iko snapped. "You weren't meant to be here."

"How would you have fought?" Atlas pointed out, finally finding his voice. "You stand no chance while you're on crutches."

"You don't even get me started," Iko roared, nearly lunging out of her chair on her good leg as she jabbed an accusatory finger in Atlas' chest. Evander caught her just in time before she could do any damage, pushing her back onto the chair. But her teeth were bared and her eyes were burning, live coals of black, the embers of fury ravaging every last nerve, thermonuclear furnaces set to rip and rend the world apart. If she really wanted to, she could have Evander flat on his back and Atlas pinned to the wall of the train in seconds.

Atlas let out a slow exhale. "I couldn't let her go in alone."

"Brutus would've protected her," Iko said, her words burning against his gut like acid.

A shadow passed over Atlas' face, but there was nothing more to say. No actions to defend. Atlas had done what he needed to do—he trusted nobody else to keep his child safe. Whatever Alecto had been up to didn't matter now. What did, however, was the eminent problem of whether or not he could get her out of this. Alive. Other than that, his options were limited. This would be his last glimpse of District 2. There was no going back for him. Some part of Atlas wondered how he was so calm about this. Shock, perhaps. His reeling mind still hadn't caught up with what his body had done. There was no point in exploding on Alecto. No point in words. All the people he would miss were on this train, anyway. And the one person he didn't have the opportunity to say goodbye to had been dead for nineteen years, and unlike the rest, this train was one step closer to him being closer to her again.

"Shall we watch the recaps of the Reapings?" Alastor offered, a sympathetic smile on his face. Nervously, he fiddled with his purple bowtie and adjusted his ugly top hat. He knew them fairly well. He'd been the escort relegated to District 2 since Alecto's Games, and here he was again, sending her off to the one place the Capitol promised they would be free of. Alecto was the first to trail after Alastor as he led the way to another carriage where they could screen the Reapings and pick apart their competition. Pain exploded across her expression as she got to her feet with laborious effort, the hands gripping her crutches quaking. Evander sighed, and swept her off her feet, carrying her to the projector room. As they disappeared through the doorway, Atlas heard the faint sounds of their whispered argument. A beat later, he tipped his head to the ceiling, took a deep breath, and followed.

Already, the recap was playing. As Atlas took a seat beside Evander, District 1 had the names of their victors picked. Cashmere and Gloss, the golden twins of District 1, glowing like starlets. Atlas felt his stomach turn to stone as he heart Evander whisper, damn, his eyes trained on Cashmere's figure onscreen. Like Atlas, he'd met the twins on one of his visits to the Capitol. But unlike Atlas, Evander had been requested at the Capitol on loan to his sponsors and anyone who wanted his company far more times than either Atlas or Alecto were required. He didn't have a choice. That was the fate of a beautiful victor. Prostitution. There was no peace or honour in that sort of life—he would never stop being a commodity to the Capitol. Atlas wondered how Evander kept it all together for so long, though he supposed the younger victor had to, or else his mind would be in pieces.

Atlas watched as District 2 flashed on screen, not missing the mountain range behind the marble Justice Building. Before the tributes were called, Atlas watched as Alecto walked onto the stage like it called to her, her silence prowling at her heels like a familiar, and before anyone could do anything, she shook Alastor's hand. Too late. The cameras had already trained their eyes on her. There was no mistaking the fierce warning flashing in her ice blue eyes, like an alpha wolf daring its pack to challenge its status. Nobody was able to volunteer after her. The decision was final.

And then there was Atlas, lunging forward to volunteer just as Alastor read out the male victor's name, a vicious twist to his lips, and then there they were, father and daughter standing side-by-side. There was no mistaking it. They had the same eyes, the same matching grins as they raised their linked hands for the camera. Atlas supposed he had their prior conditioning to thank. If they'd felt any shock or any other flicker of emotion at the time, they didn't show it. They were the picture perfect pair of Career tributes, one-of-a-kind pedigree. Two of District 2's finest monsters. But the relief didn't come. Instead, Atlas felt the slow poison of an oncoming panic creeping under his skin as he lost feeling in his tongue, as his throat ran dry, as his lungs constricted. Atlas almost jumped when Alastor laid a comforting hand on his knuckles, which had gone paper white as he dug his nails into his knees. Atlas blinked, but the tension in his short breaths didn't ease up.

"Looks like we've got another pair of family!" Caesar Flickerman's voice boomed. "Oh, man, Atlas has always been of my favourites to watch. Very fascinating guy. His focus was terrifying back in the day, eh? Alecto, too! Competition sure is ramping up this Quarter Quell."

Claudius Templeton chuckled. "This year is just one soap opera after another, isn't it?"

Slowly, the other tributes were offered up, like lambs to the slaughter. Only, they were lambs that'd survived the blade long ago. District 3's tributes were unremarkable. Beetee and Wiress—Atlas hadn't known either of them well, but Beetee had been cordial when they'd met during Alecto's Games, while the mentors were allowed to mingle with each other and the potential sponsors, even after Alecto slaughtered both District 3 tributes during the bloodbath. District 4 procured Finnick and Mags. Evander let out a low whistle. He'd known Finnick. Both of them were in the same line of business, and Atlas guessed they were friends. More friends, more people they knew. Familiar faces appeared on screen, one after another, like a slap in the face, like a kick to the chest each time Atlas realised getting Alecto out of the arena wouldn't be easy. District 7 spat Johanna Mason onstage, and Alecto went ramrod straight. Atlas wasn't aware if Alecto kept any ties to the other victors in their neighbouring districts. Alecto was private about everything, and Atlas respected that. Still, this visceral reaction was strange to him. He hadn't known that Alecto had any friends besides Iko.

"Your girl's a fighter," Johanna had once told Atlas, once, on Alecto's victory tour. Her tone hadn't been cruel, but it hadn't been kind either and Atlas supposed he understood. Johanna was only two years older than Alecto, and Alecto had been a part of the Career alliance that'd hunted down and the pair of fourteen year old tributes Johanna had been mentoring. Once upon a time, they were all only children when they had to face monsters, and in order to survive, they had to become one themselves.

Finally, District 12 flashed across the screen and there was the girl on fire and the boy who loved her standing on stage, their mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, whom Atlas knew fairly well. Haymitch was an alcoholic. Had been since President Snow killed his family off because he refused to allow his body to be more of a commodity to the Capitol. Refusing his coercion into prostitution had cost him everything. The last time Atlas spoke to him was when they were at the same dinner in the Capitol—they seemed to have a few sponsors in common, which made them a little more than acquaintances.

And then it was over.

Evander, looking a little pale in the face, had been the first to excuse himself from the room. Minutes later, he was back, and there was water droplets on his shirt, like he'd splashed his face with water, and the acrid smell of sick lingering on his breath. Alastor offered him a mint and a napkin.

"Okay," Iko said, features like granite. "Allies."

Just like that, with those words, something inside Atlas clicked into place. Guilt, sorrow, regret—all other emotions seemed to lock themselves away. His old Career tribute conditioning seemed to take over the controls of his mind. Right now, there was a goal and he had an arsenal of options at his disposal. There was one mission he had to pour all his focus on. Survive. Give the Capitol a good show. At least until the senseless killing was over, and Alecto was the last one standing. Survive until he could guarantee his little girl's life. Alecto cheated death once. He didn't know if she could do it again, and he didn't know anyone who could, but he knew one thing: he would do whatever it took to get his daughter home. And if that meant he had to personally kill people he once knew, people he once thought to be his friends, so be it. But these were people who had blood on their hands too. These people weren't the helpless kid tributes whose abilities were untested. These people had killed and pillaged and soaked their souls in blood. They knew how to survive.

"Cashmere and Gloss are our safest bets," Atlas said, his tone was cold, matter-of-fact. "We know them both pretty well. Their mentors, too, probably. Mags is useless at her age, but we can't underestimate her survival skills. We have to get rid of her the first chance we get. Finnick is young, still in his prime. He'll be useful."

"Johanna's an ally worth considering," Evander pointed out. He shot a glance at Alecto.

Alecto shook her head.

Atlas' brows furrowed.

"She seems like a loose canon," Iko said thoughtfully. "She's a sly one—remember her Games? She could easily turn around and slit your throats while you're sleeping. I've spoken to her maybe, like, thrice, and she reminds me too much of..." Iko shook her head. "It doesn't matter. If you want to propose an alliance and she takes it, just be careful. Sleep with one eye open. My suggestion would be to steer clear of her. She's not worth the risk."

"Maybe our safest bet would be to kill her before she has a chance to do anything," Atlas said. His gaze was trained on Alecto, who sat there, no decipherable reaction on her face. Silence.

"What about the kids from Twelve?" Evander offered, biting down on his bottom lip.

Iko hummed pensively. "Worth a shot. Secure Cashmere, Gloss and Finnick first. Then we'll see what we can do about the others. Anyway, I doubt Katniss and Peeta would be willing to ally themselves with us. Plus, we should take a leaf out of last year's Career tributes' strategy. Kidnap Peeta. Keep him alive, maybe, until Katniss is within range, because wherever he is, she will go, and then kill them both."

"Love is weakness," Evander mused, a wry smile on his lips. A muscle in Iko's jaw ticked, and in the moment, it looked as though she might rip him to shreds with her bare hands. But the moment passed as Evander stood to his feet. "We should watch some of the tapes tonight to figure all our opponents out. Take some notes. Everyone going into the arena is an experienced killer. Don't forget that."

"I'll have the tapes sent over as soon as I can," Alastor offered. With a nervous little giggle, he clapped his gloved hands together. "Dinner will be served in an hour."

Atlas looked down at his ring finger, his wedding band gleaming in the light. How had it come to this?

Oh, Thalia, Atlas sighed, as the mentors began to launch into discussions about old sponsors they could count on. Johanna is right. Alecto's a fighter. She'll figure out what to do without me. I just wish you were here to show her how, but I guess I'll be seeing you soon.

Now that they weren't required at the moment, Alecto left the room. Evander had ordered himself and Iko a cup of coffee each, while Iko had ordered a peanut butter sandwich against Alastor's protests that it might spoil her appetite for dinner. In minutes, a couple Avoxes returned with their orders. When asked if he required anything, Atlas only shook his head and declined.

"I need to check in on Alecto," Atlas said, and excused himself from the carriage, working his way through the corridor to the private bedrooms. All the doors were open, showcasing the unoccupied quarters. All but one. Atlas figured that was where Alecto had holed up.

Raising a fist to the door, Atlas inhaled a steadying breath, shut his eyes. He knocked thrice and waited. Silence. And then the door opened, and so did his eyes, instantly locking in on Alecto's icy expression as she regarded him from the doorway. And then he planted both hands on her shoulders and steered her backwards into her room. The door shut behind them and Alecto flicked his hands off her. For a moment, they stood there, glaring at each other. Ice in their eyes clashing, a frost in their bones, the lethal electric rage lancing through their veins. Rage at the knowledge that one of them had done something irreversibly damaging. Rage at the knowledge that her actions had forced his hand. Despite their difficult circumstances, Atlas didn't explode on her. Try as he might to reach down to the anger at his core, to dredge up some semblance of hatred for his daughter, he could not.

Alecto lifted her chin in defiance. There was no trace of fragility in her expression, but the tensile strength of her cold, impenetrable countenance wasn't the subject being called into question.

"I need you to tell me right now if you had anything to do with Iko's injuries," Atlas said in a hushed voice, a low thunder in his tone.

But Alecto didn't break. Didn't look away, or give him a sign of regret or guilt about what she'd done. Didn't say anything.

Atlas swallowed. His desperation reeked, a smoke-thick tension radiating off his pallid skin. "Tell me, Alecto. Did you do this to her?"

Did you do this to us?

Her expression remained unmoved. Like everyday for the past two years, her silence was the only answer she would give.

Heaving a shaky breath, Atlas shut his eyes. It wasn't the answer he was looking for, but it was enough. Enough for him to know that his child was still the monster the Games had whetted and shaved of imperfections. The damage had already been done. He'd been afraid of facing this, and what she'd done had only proven that she had no plans to atone for her lost humanity. Alecto wasn't seeking absolution. For a long time Atlas thought her silence was her salvation, but it is now that the realisation dawns on him that it is quite the opposite. Her silence only staved off any hope for salvation. Without another word, he turned and left her standing there, staring after him. He didn't have any words in him to give. Words wouldn't fix anything.

✷

AFTER DINNER, THEY REVIEWED THE TAPES. The four former victors paid as much attention as they could to the other twenty-two tributes' Games. Committed their flaws and their abilities to memory, took notes on what to look out for and what they needed to compensate for. By the time they'd run out of Games to watch, it was late, and the train was still thundering towards the Capitol. Atlas predicted they had about eight hours of a journey left before their arrival. Enough to get in a quick rest before the opening ceremony and the dreadful tribute parade.

But the moment his head hits the pillow, Atlas realises that sleep won't come. Not for a long while. For a moment his heart gives a twist and he wants the smell of their dingy basement, the fluorescent lights, the punching bag twisting and lurching with every punch and kick, every heavy blow he could expel. He needed to tire himself out. Perhaps walking laps up and down the train would provide enough monotony to put him to sleep.

And it was when he was approaching the viewing room where they'd watched the old tapes that he heard noises coming from the projector inside. Atlas frowned. The room was dark, but his gaze latched onto the silhouetted figure seated on the sofa, the colours of the screen flitting across the room, casting shadows. White illuminated Alecto's hair in a silvery glow. And then red slashed across the screen, bathing the dark room red, as a tribute fell, his head chopped off by a sword and a familiar hand. His hand.

All the breath knocked out of his lungs.

Alecto was watching his Hunger Games.

Leaning his shoulder against the door frame, one foot in, one foot out, Atlas watched. Not the screen, because there was something too visceral about watching something he'd lived through and never wanted to live through again, but his daughter. Alecto hadn't noticed him. Too engrossed in watching her father on screen. Since he'd come home, Atlas refused to watch the tapes of his own Games. He didn't want to relive all that. At first, once he'd been crowned and allowed to come home, the rush of glory and victory still running through his veins like ichor, he thought he could handle it. Could handle all the blood on his hands and the knowledge that he'd killed children not any older than he was. But the truth was that after the first nightmare, in which he'd been back in the arena, weaponless, with all the faces of the kids he'd killed coming after him, chasing him deep into the snowy woods like hounds he couldn't shake, he knew that he was in trouble. There was no running from the aftershocks. So many victors turned to the bottle or the fancy Capitol drugs, but Atlas had a daughter to raise. he couldn't fall apart. so he built himself a system, a routine designed without flaw. He would take his anger out on the punching bag in the basement where his daughter couldn't see, and he would climb the mountains behind his house when he couldn't breathe down here, and he would raise his child and she would be safe.

Until Alecto had come home from school when she was ten and had decided she wanted to be exactly like him and no matter how much he denied her or shut her down when she argued, there was no swaying her. That was the first screw that'd come loose from his system. Alecto looked all her mother, but there was no denying that she had his eyes. Until then, he hadn't realised that wasn't where the resemblance stopped. She had his perfectionism and his tenacity. Atlas supposed he should've expected this. Children grew up. They developed minds of their own. It didn't matter what you taught them or what you told them. What mattered was what they did with all the information the world gave them and what they taught themselves. He should've known he couldn't protect Alecto forever.

Snow fell around him—his younger self—and the final tribute. Atlas watched himself deliver the last deathblow, watched the girl from District 1 fall, body arcing as her blood drenched the snow red, seeping into the ground, heard the last canon sound off, saw the sick triumph in his face, the smirk curving his boyish mouth. And then the screen cut to black. Once Alecto put the next tape in and sat back down, Atlas unstuck his body and went to join her in the darkness. She stiffened. He didn't speak even when the next tape began to roll, the commentators quipping in, dropping witty remarks, theiur voices warping and increasing gin pitch as Alecto held down the fast-forward button until the tribute parade and the interviews flickered past.

And there Alecto was. Standing in the middle of a room with checkered tiles, a cornucopia shaped like a large, round table fixed to the centre of the room, keys suspended from strings from the edge of the cornucopia, an arsenal of supplies under the table that towered over the tributes, dwarfing them easily, waiting for the clock to count down to zero so she could take the cornucopia with her allies.

Atlas wondered if she'd put it in because she'd sensed his presence earlier, or because she wanted to put herself through the turmoil again. Either way, Alecto didn't make to remove it.

"Do you remember what I told you the day you volunteered?" Atlas asked, unable to tear his eyes from the screen and the bloodbath saw bodies fall as the Career pack took control over the cornucopia. Gunshots rang out when Alecto had clambered onto the table, and began picking off the tributes from her vantage point with the rifle in her hand. She'd always been a good shot. By the time the bloodbath ended, seven tributes were dead, eight were injured, but, like the rest, had escaped with their keys and gotten through the little door, spilling out into a forest heavily blanketed by mist.

Alecto nodded.

ADAPT OR DIE. That was the unyielding rule the Hellers lived by. Adapt or die. A mantra drilled into Atlas' head from back in his training academy days, until it became blood in his veins, primal as killer instinct and survivalist code. It was how he'd gotten through his turn at the Hunger Games. Adapt or die. When the time came, he passed it down to his daughter, a family heirloom she wore like a talisman around her neck, between her teeth, burned into her pulse. Adapt or die. And when she'd taken her turn at the Games, she slashed through her opponents with the golden rule. She adapted.

As they watched Nikolai, Alecto's late district partner, hand her a blade so she could slit the throat of a tribute who'd gotten stuck in a flesh-eating bush, Atlas crossed his arms over his chest.

"Adapt or die," Atlas said. "Sleep with one eye open. Don't trust anyone."

He glanced at Alecto, and was surprised to find her already staring at him, her pale eyes slicing through his skin.

"Are you prepared to do it again?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
they make me so sad and i did not mean for this fic to be so sad agh

EXTRA CAST!!!!!!!

brenton thwaites as
EVANDER LOCKLEAR

jessica henwick as
IKO MORIYAMA