CHAPTER ONE;
the vicious cycle

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     No matter how smoothly the bullet train sails along the tracks, there's always some intricate tremor only Vesper can sense that wakes her up early. With a low grunt at the back of her throat she shifts in her bed. A thick, feathery duvet envelops her like a cloud, just like the ones back at the Victor's Village. Despite her eyelids being heavy with laboured and lost sleep, she concentrates in coaxing them open. The ceiling is like a blank canvas above her except for the small rattling chandelier... it is far too tempting to stay in bed.

     If you don't wake yourself up now, Hermia will, Vesper reminds herself.

And she damn well knows which option she would rather take.

Grumbling to herself, Vesper rips off the duvet and feels small pin-pricks of air-conditioned cold on her legs. She walks over to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, a sure way to snap her into focus. It involves pushing the heels of her hands into her eyelids with a grumble before looking up at her reflection.

     She'll be twenty-four in August, but some days Vesper swears she feels older. And yet, when she looks in the mirror, she struggles to know whether anything has changed drastically. The young woman staring back at her could be recognisable as the teenager from Vagary — except her features are more defined, matured. But when she is in the Capitol, that Vesper is unrecognisable. She used to think she'd never be able to perform until she had to, in her own way.

     How else would she have adapted and survived mentoring all these years?

     Vesper gets herself dressed for the occasion; a black button-down shirt, tucked into sleek charcoal trousers and riding boots. She scrapes her hair back into a low ponytail, the lower half past the hair tie bursting into her mane of natural waves. Simple as that. Once dressed, she walks over to the window and peers through the blinds. The view greeting her in return contains flashes of orchards lining the train tracks — District Eleven, evidently — the nameless faces of fruit-pickers indiscernible as the bullet train shoots past.

     "Here we go..." she mutters, a note of bitterness in her voice. Hitting her hand on the square pad next to the light switch, the door to her bedroom opens with a whoosh, instead unleashing Vesper into the long hallway.

     Deja vu taunts her cruelly. How many times has she walked down this corridor, meeting her tributes for breakfast, only for them to meet their deaths in the arena weeks later? Finding the motivation to root for each kid has become a more taxing task each year.

     When she reaches the main compartment, filled with plush couches and crystallised (fake) fruit bowls, she sees baskets of fresh bread on the coffee table, along with jugs of orange juice, water and a large block of butter. Amidst it all is the same sight from every year Vesper has mentored — Irma Bentley, sat cross-legged and sipping a herbal tea.

Nothing has really changed about her fellow mentor in all the time past. Irma still possesses the same peaceful demeanour about her. Her expression is still as gentle as it has always been, framed by her long blonde locks, and she floats everywhere she walks in pale silky tunics. The tough trials of a mentor age many victors beyond their years but Irma is not one of them — the Capitol may think otherwise, deeming anyone over thirty practically ancient, but Vesper also doesn't trust the opinions of people who surgically alter their skin with reptilian scales as a fashion statement.

     "Good-morning," says Irma calmly.

     "G'morning..." Vesper grumbles back, lunging for a bread roll to sink her teeth into.

     Another thing that has not changed in the last few years — Irma Bentley's ceaseless faith in their tributes. It takes root in her nurturing nature and applies it to their tributes like a soothing balm. Vesper never understood where she got it from as her mentee, and now when working with Irma, she is just as clueless.

     "You're up early," Irma notes coyly.

     "I wanted to beat the human alarm clock," Vesper deadpans; by that, they both know she means Hermia, their escort.

     Irma chuckles wryly and sets down her gold-rimmed teacup, running her eyes. "Have you watched the Reapings yet?"

"No. Have you?"

"Not yet..."

They would usually have their breakfast in the dining compartment, but their task this morning requires multi-tasking and a large screen. Vesper remembers being greeted with the re-caps of the Reapings the very same afternoon she and Icarus stepped onto that train — yesterday, however, their tributes had been so distraught (particularly the girl, Avia, who ended up shaking like a leaf after puking in the bathroom) that it was pretty unanimously decided that the Reapings could wait.

In the cold light of day, however, Vesper isn't so sure. "Do you think we waited too long to show them the re-caps?"

"They seemed too distraught yesterday. You can't take anything in when your brain is..." Irma sighs and shuts her eyes. A vein flares in her temple, throbbing with conflicted feelings. "I think they've settled enough now to concentrate on it. It should be better now."

     "Sure. Because that's a nightmarish way to start the morning if I ever heard one. Why delay the inevitable?"

     "Why make them feel worse than they already do? You were a tribute once, Vesper, you remember it."

     Vesper clenches her jaw; she feels sickened, almost wanting to spit out her mouthful of bread. Slowly, she shifts in her seat, turning her cold stare to the glass windows. She would rather not think about that.

     Before either of them can dwell for too long, Hermia's shrill voice rings out through the train:

     "HELLOOO! RISE AND SHINE!"

     "Never mind," Vesper deadpans, "that is a nightmarish way to start the morning."

     Moments later, Hermia's heels come clip-clopping into the room, the Capitol escort looking flustered. She rarely ventures beyond her tried and trusted formula of blacks and other colours revolving around the darker palette, but still finds a way to experiment each year — for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, her hair is a dark plum shade and her lips a blood-red rouge. A tartan shawl is wrapped around her torso and what looks like a bed of raven feathers as a skirt. Vesper slowly tries to absorb this new fashion statement as she grabs an apple, biting a large chunk out of it as she props her feet on the coffee table.

     "That wake-up call should do the trick. The sooner we get to the Capitol, the better..." Hermia dabs her temple with the heel of her hands, careful not to smudge her make-up. Then, wrinkling her nose, she adds: "Vesper, feet off the table. You have an example to set!"

Vesper rolls her eyes and lifts her boots off the table. Although it could be worse. It is better than being the tributes on the receiving end of Hermia's scolding. Something miraculous happened when Vesper emerged from the Hunger Games — Hermia was... different. Or more toned down, at least. The more she spent time with her away from the tributes, the clearer it became to her that she had an elevated act when performing her duties as escort. She started to see a different Hermia behind closed doors when both tributes had died, or they shared a quieter moment between securing sponsors, in which she was more weary and passive-aggressive than her Capitol peers. Hermia feels a lot more human when she isn't faking it.

It is hard to tell whether Vesper likes this side of Hermia or not. She would certainly never admit it to her escort's face.

But do they still butt heads? Of course, absolutely.

"I hope you won't shower breadcrumbs all over that lovely couch," Hermia sighs, looking mournfully at the bread basket.

"We'll be careful, I promise," says Irma.

Hermia leans herself in the doorway for a brief moment. But when a tall-ish, pencil-like silhouette appears beside her, she snaps back into her sugarcoated escort persona. "Ah! He rises!" she cheers.

The "he" in question is the male tribute, Jason. The skinny sixteen year-old walks everywhere like he has something to fear, or something to cower away from. He even flinches when he and Vesper reach for a bread roll at the same time, as if she's going to bite. His dark brown eyes are always wide or scrutinising behind his flimsy pair of glasses. All in all, he's probably someone the Careers would snap in half like a toothpick. Vesper feared that from the moment he walked onto that stage during yesterday Reaping ceremony.

But she isn't here to judge him... not completely, anyway. She is here to help him. Vesper has already tried to see the positives — he seems like a bright enough kid, where learning survival tactics could buy him more time in the arena at the cost of avoiding hand-to-hand combat. Jason is the son of a cargo ship captain back in District Six, and until he succeeds his father in that role, he has a job on the passenger boat that does crossings from one side of Lake Mercury to the other, a faster alternative to get between the east and west of the district quicker. What Vesper has tried to deduce from this is that Jason could potentially have some people skills — somewhere, hiding in there — that could prove helpful when securing sponsors. Even awkward charm is charm enough.

Following in straight after him is Avia, the female tribute, who looks completely different to how she did yesterday. The hysterics and pale complexion is gone, replaced with a stoic exterior she has carefully manufactured. No more tears, she seems to have told herself. Vesper is taken aback... and also reminded too quickly that she did the very same thing after she was picked.

Don't think about that, she tells herself. Not now.

Instead she focuses on Avia, sitting down and immediately filling a glass of orange juice next to Jason. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she dresses, perhaps predictably for someone from District Six, in a black sweater and matching leggings she found in her room. Even before her meltdown yesterday, Vesper noticed the girl had more outward confidence than her district partner. Perhaps it could work in her favour. Aside from that, all she knows about the female tribute is that she has driven delivery trucks in the Epicentre, District Six's capital, and that she must have come from a large and loving family. The screams she heard during the Reaping said enough.

     "What?" Avia scowls, once she notices everyone staring at her.

     "Uh, n– nothing!" Jason stammers and blushes bright red.

     "How are you feeling?" Irma asks, considerably calmer than Jason just was. "You know... after yesterday..."

     "Yeah, fine," Avia nods quickly and moves on. "So what are we supposed to remember from these recaps? The Careers, obviously."

     Vesper knows the feeling; no sentimentality, just focusing on the task ahead. She takes Avia's approach and goes with it. "Not just them. Memorise any faces that you can. This is your competition in the arena, and you're being pitted against them even before you're fighting for survival in there. It starts now." After saying it, Vesper feels a pang of hopelessness in her chest. Every year she has told a tribute this, they wind up dead, most often early in the Hunger Games. It has started to lose its meaning after years of failing to bring anyone home.

"It helps to feel somewhat... prepared. In your own small way," Irma adds, kindly restoring their hope at just the right moment.

     "Therefore it is paramount that you pay attention!" Hermia exclaims.

     At that, Vesper and Irma cannot help but exchange a knowing glance. The same phrase gets repeated every year by their escort, the same thing she said to them each in their respective years of victory, and to every tribute before, between and since.

     All of this... it is all one, long, vicious cycle.

     With that, they begin watching the re-caps of the Reapings. The Panem anthem blares through the television screen before switching to the highlights of the ceremonies in each district, ascending One through to Twelve. It is as much for the mentors as it is for the tributes, too — Vesper has come to realise that this is their opportunities to identify the biggest threats and single out potential allies, even this early on. So she remains eagle-eyed as she studies the screen and each Reaping ceremony.

     The main Careers, predictably, gloat at being picked or scramble to find their place as a tribute. District One has Glimmer and Marvel, while District Two has Clove and Cato. Vesper makes sure to remember each of their names. The Careers are always worth keeping a watchful eye on in every year. Jason seems to detect this too, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat with an anxious gulp.

District Three has less offerings of brute strength, two smaller tributes stepping forward. There is a young boy from District Four with a mass of curly hair, no older than thirteen, who makes Vesper flinch — seeing young kids being picked will never not be difficult.

They will always remind her of Icarus.

District Five is next, a girl with sleek red hair being chosen first. But that is not what Vesper is drawn to.

     Behind that girl, whose name she does not catch, there is a face standing amongst the other previous victors from Five who makes her do a double take. He looks so... familiar. Something about the dark, downturned eyes or the slightly withdrawn posture — his chin never quite rising above eye level — rings a bell for her, and yet feels too different to be recognisable. It catches her so off-guard that she forgets to look at the tributes from District Five.

Where would she remember that face from?

Vesper is on the precipice of connecting the dots. But she doesn't have much time to recall who it is, because the screen quickly switches to District Six and flushes away the thought. She sees herself and Irma standing onstage, Dale and Enzo nowhere to be seen — for the best in the Capitol's eyes, because no one wanted Morphling addicts staggering around. Hermia first calls out the female tribute, Avia Vettel, and a horrified, strangled cry erupts from the masses. Camera coverage shows it was her mother, who faints into the arms of her grown-up children. The sixteen year-old girl had put on such a brave face as she walked up to that stage and stared at an unmarked point in the distance... only to completely crumble once inside the train.

No one screams for Jason Cappitani when his name is called. But the cameras capture the man who must be his father, pale and forlorn as he watches his son walk stiffly towards the stage. The winds from Lake Mercury had whipped coolly through the square in a way no re-cap could convey.

Vesper steals a sideways glance at her tributes. Avia and Jason look completely sobered, the former transfixed on the screen and the latter trying to look away. She sighs sharply through her nose and continues making notes.

Districts Seven, Eight and Nine pass as faces that Vesper hopes she can forget by the end of all this. A boy from District Ten hobbles up to the stage with a limp, and then they are in District Eleven. Their escort calls out a name — Rue — and the cameras zoom in on a young girl towards the front of the crowd. The very sight of her makes Vesper's heart stop. Yet another young child. Curly-haired with dark skin and eyes, Rue walks up onto the stage alone, greeted with silence and the whistle of the wind when the escort asks for volunteers. There is an immediate innocence about her, mixed with something acutely aware of her surroundings that takes Vesper back to a place she cannot go right now... not to him.

     Finally, they reach District Twelve. Hermia stretches out her arms, expecting it to be a non-event as always, and Vesper has to admit that she is not expecting the most either. But it does not stop her heart from wrenching when Effie Trinket, Twelve's escort, calls out the name Primrose Everdeen and the camera settles on a twelve year-old girl right at the front. Not another one. Not only is she young, but she appears so soft and delicate, blonde hair in pigtail braids and her shirt untucked at the back of her skirt like a duckling's tail.

     "I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER!"

     The screams suddenly shatter the air in District Twelve, and shatter too the expectations of everyone in the train car. Vesper furrows her brows and leans forward to get a better look at everything unfolding. The cameraman seems confused too, shifting around the crowd to find the face of an older girl in her mid-teens, scrawny and underfed. Her expression is desperate, her grey Seam eyes piercing and wide as her chest heaves.

     "I volunteer as tribute!" she says, more clearly this time.

     "A volunteer? From Twelve?" Avia gapes in awe.

     All Vesper can do is shake her head; when she turns to Irma, she is as stunned as she is. This is unprecedented. Volunteers are usually known only to happen in the Career districts, where the tributes are highly-trained and typically raised to believe that winning the Hunger Games is an honour. Outside of that, no one in their right mind would sign themselves up for such a fate. Vesper certainly cannot recall a single District Six Reaping in her living memory where someone volunteered. But from District Twelve?

     Once the girl reaches the stage, Primrose crying and screaming after her, Effie asks the volunteer's name. "Katniss Everdeen," she mumbles into the mic.

     "It's her sister..." Irma whispers, voice strangled like there's a lump in her throat.

     Effie Trinket turns to the crowd and calls for applause, but they fall dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Then something extraordinary happens. Wordlessly, a handful of citizens from Twelve press three fingers on their left hand to their lips, before raising them in a silent salute. Soon the entire crowd is doing it, their expressions stony-faced and solemn. The silence is more deafening than any superficial applause would have been.

     It is powerful.

Vesper doesn't know what the salute means, exactly, but it still makes goosebumps erupt all over her skin.

But it does not last long, as Haymitch Abernathy — District Twelve's sole victor and mentor — stumbles onstage in a drunken stupor and falls over, snapping the tension. Effie uses the moment to move swiftly onto the men's, in which she picks a sturdily-built boy named Peeta Mellark. His face immediately pales at the mention, only intensifying the closer he gets to the stage, and to his fellow tribute. Peeta and Katniss shake hands, and the Panem anthem blares through the screen, bookending the re-caps with commentary from Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith.

     There is a strange feeling that has settled over the room. It was a powerful gesture — the salute seems like an old tradition in Twelve, perhaps, but even without knowing a thing Vesper felt something... shift. She cannot place exactly what that shift was, but it felt like something poked through the cracks of something age-old and ingrained into their lives. There was unity in that square in Twelve. She knows Irma must have felt it too, for her composure has wavered as she stares openly at the blank screen. Only Hermia remains oblivious as she stands up and walks in front of the television.

"Well..." Hermia clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "What did we learn?"

"That we'll be squashed like bugs," Jason replies feebly, "especially by that Cato guy."

Their escort lets out a scoff. "Not with that attitude! You must believe in yourselves. Hold your heads high, and remember, no one will want to sponsor a pitiful tribute."

     "Moving stuff, Hermia," Vesper mumbles, although still distracted by the last Reaping.

     Something tells her, for the first time ever, that she should keep an eye on the kids from Twelve.

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     Vesper and Irma have become a pretty good team over the years. An odd one, at first glance, but they balance each other out. Irma's always been the best when putting their tributes at ease or helping them prep for interviews, acting as the shoulder to cry on. Vesper has discovered she does not share these talents — she instead focuses on being resourceful, detecting the practical and physical strengths of her tributes and advising how they should best train.

     It is one of the many ways the pair have learned to share the burden. For far too long, Irma carried it both for herself and her fellow mentor. So they work a tricky balance. Irma raises the tributes with encouragement and nurturing, Vesper hardens them with tough love and brutal honesty.

     But they work. The two of them, a team. That's how it has been since Vesper first joined her to mentor for the Sixty-Ninth Games.

Dale has been out of the picture for quite some time now, and probably for his own good. He has not stepped foot into the Capitol ever since his overdose and subsequent rehabilitation which struck whilst Vesper was in the arena. These days, he spends most of his time in his house in the Victor's Village, seven years sober but channelling his addictive habits into other mundane activities. It has reached the point where Dale has become something of an agoraphobe — if he isn't in the outside world, it cannot hurt him.

Sometimes Vesper wishes she had the privilege of hiding away, too.

Instead, a couple days later, their train arrives in the Capitol as scheduled and the District Six mentors walk straight into the belly of the beast. Vesper's life for the next few weeks is about to become infested with garish colours and twisted sights she'll have to compartmentalise somehow. She has had a few years practice now, and it still blindsides her sometimes... but at least she isn't naive anymore.

As always, the first event of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games is to kick off with a chariot parade. Benedict Whitlock and his twin brother, Lysander, have remained the stylists for the District Six tributes. Vesper would say they are in competent and reliable hands when it comes to stylists. Recently, however, she has come to wonder whether the Whitlocks are running out of steam when it comes to creative ideas. They appear like two sides of the same coin, both sporting bleached-blond hair slicked back but distinguished by their red and blue eyeshadow respectively.

     Vesper and Irma are presented with their tributes that evening, to find Avia and Jason donned with what look like halos (or frisbees, Vesper can't tell) around their heads, along with glittering vests and leggings to match. They all stand in the waiting room, both prep teams and stylists with their respective tributes reunited for the grand reveal.

     "Space travel... do you see it?" Benedict asks hopefully. "The rings of Saturn on their heads?"

     "I see it," Vesper nods, slowly and sceptically.

"Oh, thank goodness for that. I had this design bouncing around for quite a while — Lysander here didn't believe it would work, but I told him, my designs never grow stale!"

     "Does this stuff come off?" Avia asks, rubbing her skin with her fingernails. "It doesn't look like it comes off."

     "Great, I'm going to die looking like a sparkler," Jason laments as his voice cracks on the last word.

     "So sparkle, my boy!" Lysander cheers.

Avia and Jason both look like they would rather have the ground swallow them up than to sparkle right now.

"You've done a great job," Irma says diplomatically, "thank you. We should get going, so you can find your chariot."

Everyone floods out of the dressing room, walking down the hollow corridor buzzing with excitement (from the Capitol) and dread (from everyone else) at the beginning of another Hunger Games. Hermia meets them halfway as they continue processing through a wide hall, with overhead orange lights that skewer the ground as if the tributes were being grilled alive.

"Bless my lucky stars! Hermia Winkle!"

For the first time since her arrival in the Capitol, Vesper grins; Hermia has just shrunken into herself as she whirls around to find the source of the voice. "Oh, good Lord..." the escort whispers in agony.

On the horizon is what Vesper can only describe as a walking stick of candy floss. The vision in pink is in fact Romilly Duskridge, the long-time escort to District Five. The escorts are sometimes closer with those in their neighbouring districts in the running order, Five and Seven in this case. Although Hermia would probably prefer not to be familiar with Romilly — she is about ten times more energetic, obnoxious and sugary-sweet than Hermia is.

"Hermia, darling! You keep trying to escape me!" Romilly coos. The tall woman grabs her by the shoulders and plants a kiss on each of Hermia's cheeks; stood next to each other, it looks like a gloomy vampire was paired with a bright pink flower bouquet.

"Yes... and I almost succeeded..."

Romilly lets out a booming laugh, so harsh that Vesper swears it shattered her ear drums. "Ah, Hermia! Forever the joker! Oh, how wonderful it is to be back for another Hunger Games. I never tire of it. Can't you smell the excitement in the air?"

An awkward beat passes, where Jason actually raises his nose to the air out of curiosity.

"Lots of surprises too, this year," Romilly adds before anyone can stop her. "District Twelve have a new stylist, and the word is he's quite the expert... what could they possibly do with coal mining? Who knows?"

Hermia lets out a weak laugh and replies, "Thank you, dear Romilly. But we really have to—"

"And we have quite the surprise up our sleeves, too."

"Oh?"

"Didn't you see it in the re-caps from the Reapings? I really thought someone might notice."

When no one seems to be any the wiser, Romilly lets out a frustrated sigh, but there is a glint in her eye — as if she bears a secret of great mystery and intrigue. "You'll see, at the chariots," she says coyly.

Now annoyed, Hermia presses on. "Romilly, what is it?!"

"Ta-ta! Happy Hunger Games, my dears!"

"ROMILLY!"

"What was that about?" Avia asks, wrinkling her nose; it is unclear whether the cause is Romilly or her uncomfortable head-piece.

"I haven't the faintest idea..." Hermia squints, shaking her head. "Well, run along now, both of you! Those chariots won't dazzle the crowds on their own!"

As usual, it is chaos outside by the chariots. They are lined up chronologically from One to Twelve, and the costumes vary wildly like every year. Clove and Cato from Two have golden chest plates fastened to their torsos, whilst the tributes from District Ten stroll by in glittering cowboy hats ("See?" Vesper mutters to Jason and Avia, "It could've been a lot worse.") The air is rife with adrenaline and confusion as mentors and escorts alike go to get their tributes ready on their chariots.

     "Just stand there," says Hermia, giving Avia a hand up, "and give us your best smile! The crowds will love you."

"I think I know the surprise the pink lady was talking about," Jason says, although half-distracted by the close proximity of the horses.

"What?" Vesper tilts her head.

He jumps as one of the horses whinnies loudly, but then re-composes himself. "Isn't that the guy from District Five who up and vanished?" he asks, pointing to somewhere over Vesper's shoulder. She sees the strong silhouette of Porter Millicent Tripp, a mentor from Five whose injuries in the arena led to her wearing her neck brace like a crown. In front of her stands a boy — no, a man — with downturned eyes, hands tucked into his pockets and looking uncomfortably out-of-place in the hustle out by the chariots.

But suddenly it makes sense — Vesper knows where else she has seen that face, except it wasn't on an adult man, but a twelve year-old who won his Hunger Games in a sickening twist of fate. He vanished from the public eye years ago with no explanation. That was why she was struggling to put a name to the face she saw in the re-caps. And yet it has to be him. It is him.

Emrys Hertz. The youngest victor in Hunger Games history.

The rest of the District Six team seem to clock it at the same time. "Emrys?" Irma breathes, a warm familiarity in her voice.

"What is he doing here? I thought he wasn't mentoring anymore?" Vesper asks.

     "Well, clearly this year is different," Avia murmurs, sounding curious. Neither she nor her district partner would have remembered Emrys' games.

"He looks so grown-up!" Hermia remarks. "And he shot up quite a bit. Well... you know, taller than he was."

If Emrys has noticed them staring, he is doing a good job of hiding it. Vesper somehow suspects he hasn't noticed, because she gets the feeling that if he did, he would crumble under the scrutiny.

"Why did he come back this year, then?" Vesper asks curiously. "Irma, did he– Irma?"

She looks around, wondering where her fellow mentor has gone. When she looks forwards again, she sees Irma has now approached Emrys and Porter. She smiles widely and protectively at Emrys, who gingerly accepts an embrace from her. Vesper can hear the words "How have you been?" and "You look well" drifting across. From afar, she watches the interaction like she is watching two zoo animals interact. It is only when Irma turns around and waves her over that Vesper is snapped into action.

"You heard the lady! Go on!" Hermia shoves her forwards.

"I'll be just a minute—" Vesper tries to tell her tributes, but the escort is already swooping in to coach and distract them. She is left with no choice except to walk forwards, meeting Irma and Emrys in the middle. Emrys has finally clocked her, a flicker of familiarity appearing in his eyes. His gaze shifts awkwardly between the two women, not sure who is meant to be talking first. Vesper hardly knows where to look either.

"I want you to meet Emrys Hertz," Irma introduces him casually.

I know who he is, she thinks to herself, but decides against mentioning it. Emrys looks uncomfortable enough as it is.

"Hi," Vesper says simply. She reaches out and shakes his hand — his skin is ice-cold for a hot July day when they touch, and it lingers like a chilled handprint on her palm when she pulls away. Emrys, too, reacts visibly as he flexes his hand afterwards, surprised by the strength of Vesper's grip.

"Hi," he replies. Fleetingly, she's surprised at the fact his voice doesn't sound like it did when he was a kid anymore.

"I'm Vesper."

"I know," says Emrys. Then the words seem to tumble out of him: "I– I mean, I just, you know... saw... at the time, uh, when—"

"I get it, I... saw you too," Vesper interjects, sparing him the trouble. It is difficult for them not to have seen one another, somehow, between the re-caps and the living memory of each other's Hunger Games. It serves as a strange reminder every time she meets a new mentor or victor, realising they probably watched her experience everything in that arena — all that she and Icarus went through together, when it felt like they were completely alone...

She clears her throat and slides her hands into her pockets, unsure what to say next. "So, what made you come back this year?"

Emrys swallows thickly. "Uh... obligation, I guess?"

"We all know that feeling," Vesper sighs.

A beat passes, filled with uncertain silence which neither of them know how to fill. Irma simply seems to enjoy the fact that Emrys is here, and that Vesper is meeting him.

Mercifully, Hermia's voice shatters the silence — "Where are my mentors? Or do I have to drag Dale out of his lair?" — and it gives Vesper and Irma an excuse to escape. She lets Irma deal with the pleasantries of a goodbye, slinking off right away back to the District Six chariot right behind Five's. But she does steal a glance back at Emrys when he thinks she isn't looking. He is stood looking around, seeming taut with tension, although it subsides for a moment when the District Five girl with the redhead catches his attention. Then he listens attentively to her question, as if pleased to be given something to do.

"Do you know him pretty well, then?" Vesper asks Irma. "It seemed like you guys had some catching up to do."

"Oh, not really," Irma shrugs, "we only crossed paths a few times over the years. But I always had a soft spot for him. He was just a kid, you know? I mean, they all are, but Emrys was just..."

"Really young. Yeah, I remember."

     Irma places a hand on her shoulder, which feels more like a leaf fluttering down from a tree branch. "I'm going to check on the sponsors during the parade. Can you handle it down here with Hermia while I'm gone?" she asks.

     "You know I can," Vesper nods curtly.

     Whilst her fellow mentor leaves, Vesper steps up to the District Six chariot. "Hey, listen up," she says, catching Avia and Jason's attention. "Just try to hold your head high, maybe wave if you can. The Capitol like confidence. That chariot you're standing on is a stage, so act like it's one. But I promise you... it will be over as soon as it's started, and then you can get some shut-eye. Got it?"

     The boy and girl nod obediently.

     "Good. I'll meet you guys after the parade."

     Slapping the side of the chariot with her hand, Vesper turns on her heel and filters through the crowds with other mentors, climbing the steps to the stands towering above the paved road where the procession will go. The nighttime lights of the Capitol are twinkling brighter than the stars they drown out, and the cheers and stamping of the crazed Hunger Games fanatics echoes everywhere. Most of the mentors end up in the same spot, half-bled in with the rest of the Capitol people to watch the show.

     Vesper sits herself halfway up the stands — not in the nosebleeds, but a good enough view — and squeezes past people until she snags the first seat she finds. The air carries the distinct smell of booze and sweat past her nostrils. She thinks she has an idea of who she's sat next to without having to look beside her.

     "Haymitch," she greets him.

     The District Twelve mentor grunts nonchalantly. "Vesper," he replies.

     There is not a need to exchange more pleasantries beyond that. Despite the fact that on the best days, Haymitch is a drunkard who can barely walk in a straight line, Vesper likes something about him. In his few and far between moments of sobriety, she's noticed his observations and tact as a mentor... the trouble is that it rarely gets the chance to be seen. She has only heard him slur words here and there, slumped over at the bar. Maybe Vesper just feels guilty when she watches the despair grow in Haymitch's eyes, every year when his tributes are killed off almost instantly, again.

     Vesper leans over and looks across Haymitch's lap at the other mentors seated in their row. She spots familiar faces, including Enobaria from Two, Gloss from One, Beetee from Three. Finnick Odair's sea-green eyes catch hers as she looks over, and he offers a friendly nod, which she gladly returns — he might be the Capitol's shiny plaything who can lather on the charm, but to Vesper he has never been anything special or desirable. Luckily that is just what Finnick seems to like about their acquaintance.

     Then Finnick leans back, and there he is yet again — Emrys. He makes eye contact with Vesper before he can tear it away, and his eyebrows shoot up. All she can do is shrug, as if to say Fancy seeing you here again, and he shrugs tiredly in return. The feeling is mutual. And she swears she saw the slightest quirk of his lips, even if not enough to commit to a smile.

     It leaves Vesper with a brief feeling of lightness just as the parade begins. The images of the tributes below are projected onto giant screens, Marvel and Glimmer up first as they wave confidently to the cameras. The tributes following them are less confident, more timid in their waving. District Six appears as the midpoint between them all, the lights capturing the glittering accents on Avia and Jason's outfits as they gape wide-eyed at the crowds. Avia is almost smiling as she waves, Jason less so as his chest rises and falls quickly.

     The other districts pass: Seven, Eight, Nine. Ten is about to emerge from the shadows with their cowboy hats, but Vesper — and surely everyone else's attention — is snatched up rapidly by something else.

     "Holy shit," Vesper whispers.

     At the tail-end, District Twelve are on fire. Literally.

     Katniss and Peeta's black costumes are being licked by large, realistic flames all over their bodies. Almost as though they were lumps of coal burning in the fire. Vesper has never seen anything like it. They stand stoically to begin with, side-by-side, until Peeta attempts to hold his partner's hand. Katniss flinches away initially; then, for whatever reason, she accepts and they raise their intertwined hands into the air. Unity.

     The crowd goes wild. Vesper hasn't heard such a rapture for two tributes in all her years mentoring. The audiences will surely eat up every crumb of it, Caesar's commentary already spouting poetry about how wonderful it is that District Twelve refuse to be undermined and overlooked. And as the last in the running order, they are sure to be burned into everyone's memories more than any other tribute.

     Great news for Katniss and Peeta. Not so great for Vesper.

     Still, once the fanfare ends, she turns to Haymitch with an impressed expression. "Not bad, Haymitch. Not bad."

     "You think I made them do that?" he scoffs.

     "Yeah, right. No way. But it sure didn't hurt, now, did it?"

     Haymitch can't argue with that, as they both notice the cameras lingering on Katniss and Peeta. The disheveled mentor reveals a hip flask from his breast pocket and takes a large swig of the stuff.

When the chariots return on the confetti-doused ground, Avia and Jason are jittery with post-parade nerves. Vesper offers a hand to help each of them out of the chariot. "My knees feel all weird," says Jason, letting out a sharp sigh of relief.

"Everyone was so... loud," Avia shakes her head. "Did you see the tributes from Twelve? They were on fire—"

"Yeah, I saw," Vesper's smile tightens.

Hermia pats each tribute on the back. "You have both done very well. Now, go and have something to eat. But don't overstuff! You don't want indigestion in the night!"

Watching Avia and Jason wander off to the refreshments table, scanning the array of crackers and bottled water, feels strangely like sending children off to the playground. Except that Vesper is trying so hard what she has taught herself to do every year — do not get attached. The odds, sadly, are not in everyone's favour.

Benedict suddenly appears next to them, his red eyeshadow intensifying the wild look in his eyes. "Cinna has truly outdone himself. Fire? Fire?!" he throws his arms up in the air. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because we're the transport district, not coal-mining," Vesper reminds him.

"Yes, yes, but there must have been more I could do," he bites his nails whilst his thoughts accelerate. "Perhaps the costumes could have been more... aerodynamic? Something to catch the wind? Wings would be cheesy, you see, but– but perhaps– AH! What about a contraption that would rotate as it caught the breeze, like a propellor? Actually never mind, that's stupider. And District Five would try and accuse me of copying their windmills or something. Okay, wind-related accessories are off the table..."

Vesper doesn't hear the rest of what he says.

Behind him, almost obscured from sight, is the little girl from District Eleven. What was her name again? Rue. With a handful of neatly-sliced carrots in her hands she circles around to the horses at her chariot, starting to feed them the food. Her eyes twinkle as she lets out a little giggle at the horse receiving her gift. Vesper watches the girl with a sinking horror in the pit of her stomach.

     All she can see is Icarus.

     She sees him in metallic armour, silver face paint glistening against his dark skin. She remembers his childish grin as he petted the horse that would draw their chariot. She recalls how, after they got snacks, he tried feeding crackers to the animal, only for Hermia to swiftly intercept and steal the crackers back "for the sanity of the stable hands tomorrow."

The memory should make Vesper laugh. But instead, it feels like a knife being dragged slowly up her ribcage. It cuts straight through to the bone and leaves her in agony. He will never not haunt her. She hates repeating history like this. However, this is what it is. The vicious cycle doing its worst. Vesper feels it when she looks at Rue right now.

Because it isn't just the District Six tributes she fights getting attached to every year.

It is all of them. All twenty-four of them.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

writing this chapter felt so nostalgic but also so strange?! vesper, irma, hermia, benedict, i missed them all... but it's also been so long for me and for them, and obviously things are going to feel a bit different as well. i hope the tone wasn't too jarring! i'm still trying to get back into the swing of things. right now, vesper feels really numbed as a mentor after a few years of doing it — it's a vicious cycle as the chapter title says — but we know katniss and peeta are about to shake things up.

so evidently, this story actually begins with the 74th hunger games, although the pace will be quite a lot quicker. it was an interesting chance to see vesper (and irma) as mentors, as well as to have these two tributes, avia vettel & jason cappitani. i imagined them to be portrayed by emilia jones & rio mangini respectively, as pictured below:

(i'm gonna struggle not getting attached to these two 🥲)

the thing that excited me most about this chapter was introducing you to emrys hertz... you guys... this guy has been hiding in my drafts since 2020. his story has literally been YEARS in the making, and all while writing iron, i was so excited about getting to the point where he would finally meet vesper in the sequel. really interested to see how you guys react to his character, because he's been close to my heart for a while. hopefully it'll be worth the wait!

(also, i imagined the district five escort, romilly duskridge, to be played by hannah waddingham)

thank you for reading this chapter, any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

[ published: 18th june, 2024 ]
[ edited: 15th september, 2024 ]

— Imogen