WALKING INTO THE IVANOVICH HOUSEHOLD felt like walking through a rip in the universe to an alternate reality. It was disorienting as it was unfathomable. In stark contrast to her own house, made of cold walls and cold air and the bitter taste in the back of her mouth, Alex's home was exactly as she believed a home should be. A fireplace in the harsh winter, a roof that didn't leak in the thunderstorms, lush colour in the walls and cheeks, and people who were warm to the touch. They were a rowdy bunch, the Ivanovich's, filled with mutual adoration and bursting with colour. They were all kind to each other. Some part of her didn't want to believe such a family existed so tangibly, but they did. This was a real family, close-knit, respected, and dysfunctional in the best way. Battered, but unbreakable.

Another part of her wished she was a part of this family instead of her own. Fractured, irreparable.

But then she realised that she was. You're Alex's best friend, Alex's father had said to her, once, someone who matters just as much to us as one of our own.

What do you mean? She had asked, completely baffled. Strangers didn't do nice things unless they wanted something out of it. Something to benefit both parties. That was the human condition. People were kind so the world knew how to be kind to them. Karma had no deadline, but it's memory was as sharp as it was long.

It means welcome to the family, kid, the man had said, laughing. So perhaps they did have something to gain from it. Perhaps the benefit, on their end, was Alex's happiness. But she was a part of their family, not bound by flesh, but by sworn protection. In the end, it had nothing to do with the blood of the womb. Family ain't who you're born with, Alex's mother had said, years ago, while she was pushing Iko on the swings, it's who you'd die for.

From then on, she was an honorary Ivanovich. Loved, fed, and welcome.

Seven in the morning, seven hours to the Reaping and the living room was ablaze with a bustling routine. A chaotic symphony of pots and pans clashing, plates slicking across the wooden table, the synchronised scrape of a chair against the floor and a toothbrush against pearly teeth, a woman shouting for her children from the bottom of the stairs, a father shouting at the waffle iron in the kitchen. At the dining table, sat two teenage girls, two out of the five Ivanovich children. One with her head bowed into her plate with early morning exhaustion, half-asleep in her waffles and chocolate syrup, and the other glaring with questionable contempt into her glass of orange juice.

Neither remarked on her unannounced presence when Alex and Iko raced down the stairs, shoving and hissing at each other, fumbling to reach the dining area first. It wasn't until the aroma of eggs and waffles perfuming the alcove had stained her senses and her stomach gave a wistful tug that Iko realised she was starving.

     "Morning, sunshine," Alex chirped, conveniently ruffling the aforementioned Sunshine's already artlessly messy hair as he strolled past the kitchen island stockpiled with an assortment of pancakes and other foods of the breakfast variety. Cassandra Ivanovich batted her brother's hand away tiredly, pouting through a mouthful of waffles. And then Alex's intrigued eyes fell upon Vesta, who sat directly opposite Cassandra across the island on another fancy barstool, all pale skin pockmarked with paint stains and incendiary scowl and silken hair sifting like flaxen sand against the sharp edge of her jaw. She looked like a porcelain figurine, something cut from tempered glass. She was as beautiful as she was perpetually moody.

"Vesta," Alex nodded, wide beam undiminished despite her demeaning sneer, only withering sardonically at the edges, "made anybody cry yet?"

"Oh, I don't know," Vesta shrugged, casting her brother a lazy, cat-like grin. Briefly, her uninterested gaze flickered over the rim of her glass of orange juice to Iko, who was already eyeing the other girl's expression in mild amusement. Vesta's eyes glistered with that very same unbridled malice she'd witnessed when they'd first met. There was no such humour behind it, but Iko knew Vesta thought Alex was being stupid. Vesta thought everybody was stupid. "It's only seven-thirty."

     "Hi, Iko!" Cassandra greeted, mouth crammed with waffles as she perked up like a tulip in fresh water. She patted the stool beside her. "Come sit."

Alex jokingly moved to take the seat. Cassandra scowled as she planted her palms against the seat defensively.

     "Not you," the thirteen year old said, turning her nose up at him, huffing, "you can stand."

     Exasperated, Alex glanced over at her for assistance. Iko lifted an unapologetic brow. Can't help you.

     "Mean," Alex tutted, affecting an exaggerated pout. Despite the empty hostility between the three siblings, Iko knew they would die for each other, just as well as Iko would kill for Alex and vice versa. Iko had watched them all grow up from bumbling toddlers to pre-teen potential Career tributes to the people they were now, proud and undaunted. Already, Cassandra was starting to be more ambitious about her shot at the Games. She attended the academy too, had been for the past six years, having proven herself lethal with a sword and an unshakable iron will.

Vesta raised a perfectly sculpted brow, cocked her head as she considered Iko, who'd gravitated towards the seat beside Cassandra. "I didn't know you spent the night."

Iko only gave the blonde girl a cryptic shrug. Vesta's eyes narrowed.

Before Vesta could interrogate her further, a short, wide-hipped woman breezed out of the kitchen and into the living room. Ophelia Ivanovich gave the room a sweeping scan, as though tallying a headcount of her children. When her eyes passed over Iko, still standing in front of Alex, she did a double-take.

     "Morning, Mrs Ivanovich," Iko said, smirking.

     "Iko!" Alex's mother exclaimed, an affectionate smile adorning her lips. "I didn't hear you at the door."

     "She spent the night," Vesta said, voice sweet as poison, shooting Alex a barbed smile.

     "No," Iko said, coolly brushing off Vesta's suggestive comment, "I was—"

          "Morning, mom, I'm here too," Alex interjected, stealing a sip from Vesta's orange juice. Annoyed, Vesta made a guttural growling noise in the back of her throat, snatching her glass back. Cass snickered behind a forkful of waffles and chocolate syrup.

          Passing Iko a plate, Ophelia rolled her eyes at her oldest son before handing him one as well, but she couldn't contain the mirthful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Help yourself to as much food as you want. There's always more. How's your mother, Iko?"

          "Fine," Iko said, with a tight grin. Alex sent his mother a warning look, shaking his head.

          "Good, good—" Ophelia glanced around the living room again, brows furrowed— "where on Earth are the twins?"

          Cassandra shrugged. "Last time I saw them, they were fighting over the hairbrush in the bathroom."

           Out of the blue, there's a stampede of feet thundering down the stairs, a riot of ebullient giggling, faint at first, then growing distinctly closer and closer. A high-pitched shriek that might've been a war-cry siphoned the silence and, suddenly, a pair of arms flung themselves around Iko's waist. Thrown off-balance and off-guard, Iko stumbled backwards into Alex. When she looked up at him, bewildered, he only grinned at her, nudging the small boy—who couldn't have been older than seven—clinging to his hip and outstretched arm like a sloth, who sported a grin that might've been of similar vibrance, but was missing his two front teeth. Mischief twinkled in the boy's bright, amber eyes and, for a moment, Iko could swear she was staring into a carbon copy of Alex's younger self.

         A small hand tugged at the hem of her shirt, demanding her attention. She glanced down, blinking nonplussed at the wide-eyed child wrapped around her legs. The girl—who, like the boy attached to Alex, couldn't have been older than seven—wore a smile that might've been deceitfully innocent on anyone else, but looked unreservedly devilish on her pixie-like features. The ends of her blonde hair hung in jagged waves around her shoulders, as though she might've put up a combative resistance to the shears from a haircut. In essence, Heron Ivanovich might have been a child, but she was every inch a fighter, a napalm bomb of explosive temperament. Coupled with her twin, Remus, an unfathomable replica of their older brother—from the radiant charm to down to the laze of their crooked grins—in every distinguishable way, they were an unstoppable force of backyard terrorism.

             "Heron," Ophelia said, levelling the little girl with stern disapproval, "get off Iko. Remus, stop trying to climb your brother, he's not a tree, and you're not a monkey."

           In a practiced manoeuvre, Alex swung his little brother onto a barstool and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, murmuring, "rascal," as he slumped onto stool next to Vesta. Obediently, Heron slipped her hand into Iko's and led her to the seat beside Cassandra before brusquely cramming herself onto Vesta's lap.

           "God, you're all animals," Vesta muttered darkly into her plate, blonde hair falling in a curtain shielding her face as she stabbed her fork into her stack of pancakes. Much to Vesta's dismay, Heron and Remus only shared a scheming grin that promised agonising trouble.

          "Where's dad?" Remus asked, setting his cutlery down and cramming a fistful of pancake into his mouth. Pursing her lips in bemusement, Iko reached over, napkin in palm, and caught the overflow that spilled out of his mouth before it could hit the floor. Ophelia shot her a tired smile, stitched with gratitude.

            "Right here," a gruff voice spoke at the same time a large, broad-shouldered man backtracked out of the doorway of the kitchen with a tray in his large, oven mitt covered hands. Odysseus Ivanovich was a blacksmith in one of the local weapon production factories. Nobody would've ever thought that someone like Ophelia, of old blood and old money and an extant family legacy of Hunger Games victors, would have even given him a second glance. But she had, and the result was an exultant household that never ceased its noise and boasted four perfectly moulded children with hair like spun gold and lambent eyes that glowed amber as the sun.

            This morning, they sit at the dining table like a family. The realest one she's ever known. This morning, with the sunlight only just filtering into the house, igniting their lambent eyes and the honey glittering on their sweet breakfast treats, all thoughts of the next four hours are held at bay. When Iko's gaze passes over each and every face, a stinging sensation pricks her chest. Perhaps it is the familiar green-eyed jealousy, perhaps it is the knowledge that she will never have this with her own blood. Either way, she cannot pinpoint its origin. She does not want to.

            "More pancakes, Iko?" Ophelia asks with a warm smile, a smile that she offers each of her radiant daughters. A smile that makes Iko feel a part of the brood of beautiful children, as much as she isn't. "Take as many as you want, we all know you should always have one last home-cooked meal before you head off to the Capitol, don't we?"

Cassandra scrambles over the table to dump four gloriously fluffy pancakes onto Iko's plate. Alex passes her the pitcher of honey, and makes a show of pretending to spill it over Heron's hair on the way over. Heron shrieked, ducking against Vesta's chest. Scowling, the eldest girl of the Ivanovich clan gripped tiny, tiny Heron under the arms and deposited her into Alex's lap.

     "This devil's your problem now," Vesta grumbled.

Alex ruffled Heron's hair.

     "Today's a big day," Alex's mother said, a declaration that carved a hole in Iko's stomach when the woman turns on her with a smile so bright it hurts more than it warms. "Are you ready?"

     "I've been waiting my whole life," Iko says, sounding almost bored. She has never felt more sure of anything else in her entire life. Deep in her gut, the familiarity of that bone-deep self-confidence burns a hole through the ice in her veins. Not once has she questioned herself of her abilities. While she knew better than to be complacent, being realistic didn't compromise her belief in her calculations and skill. When she raises her eyes to meet Alex's, she refuses to believe anything else.

* * *

BY NOON, THE TOWN SQUARE thrums with life, an unspeakable energy that resonates from skin-to-skin. Fervid and excitable whispers swarm the crowd. Cutting a warpath through the throng, Iko catches tail ends of uninteresting conversations, tuning them out. Children bounded about like little hummingbirds flitting about tall flowers, a frolicking freedom she looked upon without nostalgia. Today was a busy day. A day not worth commemoration, albeit, a day she needed to sharpen her image. Today was the day she'd show her face to the world, unrelenting.

And while Iko couldn't say that she blindly loved her own district because patriotism was for the mindless, she had to admit that they'd done a decent job of making the marble look less cold, less isolating. As a Career district, District Two regarded Reapings as ceremonies to be celebrated in vibrant bursts of colour. Everywhere, silk tapestries were hung up from windows and billowing in the light breeze, streamers and ribbons were tied to posts and royal blue banners hung from the white and slate grey stone buildings. Red paper lanterns swayed idly in the ambivalent breeze, and the aroma of hot food drifted about the Square where the teenagers streamed towards where the queue had been set up to sign in for the Reaping ceremony. Adults lingered by the sidelines, mingling amongst themselves and boasting about their own children. Iko's mother was not among them.

People were in a festive mood, adorned in their best clothes and dressed to the nines. All intensive labour at the mines and quarries were abandoned for this very moment. Peacekeepers traipsed about their district of origin, best known for churning out the finest soldiers to be shipped off to the Capitol. Even the Rocky Mountains of their district stood silent as gods gazing amidst trivial mortals, ancient as the world; the sunshine, though bright and radiant, wasn't so much unbearable heat as a beaming flush of white-gold.

It looked like a traditional fairground rather than a gathering. Sans the camera crews from the Capitol already rocking up on every corner and every face of the district, devouring every bit of scrupulous detail, leaving the little bits and pieces for the commentators to scrutinise and pick over. Like vultures. This is nothing but make-believe. This is the face the world wants to see. Not what it needs, but enough to believe that there is something good to come out of the slaughterhouse. To bury the guilt pinching their guts with reminders that these killers are human and these victims are children, and smiling when the tribute you didn't like because they had no sense of fashion didn't mean that you were any better than the soulless monsters who would butcher your favourite. But it's all just television isn't it?

To Iko, it looked less like a party and more of a sacrificial offering. Despite the events of today, and the prospective days to come, she felt an eerie sense of calm settle in the hollow of her chest. Not a nerve out of place. It felt all too surreal. Like a muffled, hazy dream. Right now her mind operated on three commands: volunteer, be the right kind of monster for the cameras, win.

They were the Career district with the largest pool of victors after all, raised on scars treated as spoils of battle, weaned on the idea of glory, of ruthlessly cutting opponents off at the knees and facing the world without mercy. It was an honour to be Reaped into the Games. An expectation to win.

"You look pretty. For once." An amused voice from behind her teases, snickering.

Starting, she whipped around, smacking Alex in the arm, eyes narrowed into slits and mouth curling in irritation. He burst into laughter at her violent reaction. She hadn't heard him sneak up behind her.

Irritation licked at her chest. How hadn't she heard him at all?

         Iko shot him a flat look.

Flashing her a blinding grin that all the girls at school seemed to fall for, Alex flicked her on the nose, and chuckled when she batted his hand away in bemusement. Earlier, she'd put on one of her mother's old dresses, a jade, silk number that rippled elegantly with every subtle movement. It had short sleeves, displaying all the scars on her arms and legs from previous training accidents. They were all ugly, some still angry and pink, stuffed with infection, some old and tired, mostly ruined tissue. Nothing glorious or proud. One could take it either of two ways: a) she was a survivor, the immense effort devoted to gruelling training written all over her skin, or b) she was just tragically accident prone. She figured she'd leave it to the Capitol to decide for themselves.

He only shook his head at her confidence, letting out a breathy chuckle, before switching topics. "Have you signed in yet?"

Iko nodded. "When I first got here about half an hour ago. Have you?"

"Just. Couple minutes before I came over to you." Alex offers a friendly grin to a quick-passing classmate, and casts a wistful glance over the crowded Square that only grows denser and denser as more people file in with food balanced on disposable plates, while some carry sniffling children sensitive to the noise filling the air like a virus.

"Good," is all she says, and his eyes flicker over to her briefly before a few rowdy boys their age from the Academy bounce over, no doubt to greet Alex, faces flushed with easy-going grins, an excitable energy carried around them like an electric bubble. Iko vaguely recognises them, but doesn't put much thought to acknowledging them because they crowd around Alex instead, and she retreats into her invisible shell, a ghost.

He's smiling while talking to them—an impossible feat if it were left up to her to do all the talking. They congratulate him, clapping firm hands on his back and cheering, even so much as hooting, generally creating a hyped-up atmosphere. And not unexpectedly, Alex is fully immersed in conversation too, always the people person, ever so the charmer. She observes the scene with a cool detachment as she always does, and notes how his smiles are always genuine, fuelling the rapid-fire group exchange. She slips him a small smirk when no one's looking as he inconspicuously slants her a curious look. How there's so much to say, Iko doesn't understand. She's never been a talker, always a doer. Always using her knives and her cold exterior to part crowds. Alex could charm a whole room into submission with a champion's grin and a few diplomatic words.

Midway, she catches a few wandering eyes straying unabashedly over his figure. Admittedly, he did clean up nice, but Iko knows he didn't put that much effort into his appearance. And usually, he's never quite interested in any of the girls or boys who're daring enough to profess their undying crushes on him, but he's nice enough to let them down easy. Iko supposes that's why he's the most likeable and approachable one out of the both of them—handsome as the devil with an angelic heart and admirable intellect. An all-round perfect guy; a people person.

Quickly enough, Iko grows restless waiting on the sidelines. The boys don't even look close to ending their conversation. With a jerk of her chin, Iko catches Alex's eye before heading in the direction of a stall selling an assortment of home-made jewellery. Over her shoulder, she heard him politely excusing himself from the group to follow after her. When he'd caught up, Iko was already by the stall, picking up and admiring the pieces of jewellery on display. It's not uncommon for people to set up business on this day. Merchants tend to make the most of every given opportunity to grab some easy cash while it lasted. Especially when everybody's in a good mood, meaning they were more likely to splurge on luxuries.

Turning over a bracelet in her hands, Iko pursed her lips as she studied the shiny beads tucked between expertly interwoven string that contrasted in colours but formed an outlandishly striking pattern. Under her rough touch, the bracelet felt too clumsy and awkward, a relict of something beautiful striving against her callous-thick fingers, crosshatched with old scars and fading lacerations. Her hands were made for destruction, more acclimatised to the harsh sting of weapons and their cold hilts. Her hands were inclined to violence, not to holding such a pretty, dainty little thing.

Slicking her thumb over the smooth, transparent blue-green tinted beads that glistered in the pale sunlight, Iko pursed her lips. It looked expensive, nothing she could afford.

"Sea glass." The stall owner, a hunch-backed crone with a colourful shawl draped over her shoulders, rasped with a guttural, gravel-like quality. Iko's calculative eyes flicked up to the wrinkled woman, confusion scrawled across the sharp arch of her brow.

"Sea glass," the crone repeated, lips pulling back in a patient grin, showcasing her crooked, yellow-rotten teeth. "A long time ago, people threw glass into the ocean. Over time, the pieces of glass got thrown around in the tide, gets smoothed down into this round shape. Years later, this is what the ocean spits back onto our land. That's why it's so special. It is made, then unmade, then made again."

Iko felt the warmth of Alex's presence behind her, but she paid him no mind as she lifted the bracelet up to the light. The glass beads caught caught the light, shining blue and green with every turn and shift as she angled it against the sun. "You made this yourself?" The question came out more like a statement.

Beaming, the crone nodded, pride shining in her deep-set eyes.

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you, sweet child. Would you like to try it on?" The crone asked, with a wave of her gnarled fingers. A brittle grin traced Iko's lips. Trying it on indicated that she wanted to buy it, which she didn't have the money for.

"No," Iko said, shutting herself back into the cool mask of indifference as the old woman's face fell. Iko was never one to save feelings. Blunt force trauma was always her method. People learned better from concussive messages. Albeit, as an afterthought, Iko added, "It'd be wasted on me, anyway."

Without another word, Iko set the bracelet down, and backed into the passing crowd with Alex moving silently beside her. She felt his pressing gaze burning holes into her profile, but paid him no mind.

As they assimilated into the intumescing tide of people, of knocking shoulders and shoving elbows colliding unforgivingly with ribs, Iko didn't look back once as they made a beeline for the Justice Building where the stage was set up and kids between twelve to eighteen were divided into sectors—youngest at the front, oldest towards the back—with the girls on the right and the boys on the left, separated by an aisle blanketed by a red carpet. Already, the spaces were filling up, but Iko and Alex took their time in joining the others.

"I could've bought that for you if you really wanted, you know?" He offered, but Iko shook her head.

"Didn't want you to."

Alex must've sensed the finality stamped in her tone because he only shrugs and drops the subject without further prompt. He tugs on her wrist, pointing out something in the distance. Iko followed his line of vision to the snow-capped mountain region sat in the distance, as he traced a finger beyond the outline of buildings and the factory smog, shrouded behind a veil of mist.

"Remember when we tried to climb that mountain but only got up to the one kilometre mark before getting tired and giving up?"

A glimmer of warmth flared in her chest. They were nine years old at the time, and it'd been a weekend where the training academy had been shut down for an emergency maintenance issue. Something about a chemical leak. Alex had proposed the idea to scale the mountain when they'd been walking to his house. Whoever got to the top first won and the loser had to do everything the winner demanded for a whole month. Too susceptible to her competitive spirit, Iko had immediately started off towards the mountain at a focused sprint upon hearing those words. Without missing a beat, Alex had followed, head-misted with adrenaline pumping like a river through their veins.

In retrospect, it seemed pretty foolish for two kids with their underdeveloped and waning stamina back then to think that they'd ever make it past the halfway point. The mountain, after all, was insurmountably massive, and it was unfamiliar terrain. Another case of kids biting off more than they could chew. Despite the multiple minor injuries sustained, and the beating she'd received from her mother for tearing her only good shirt, Iko regretted none of it.

"We were so weak," Iko scoffed.

Heaving a fond sigh, Alex grinned. "Eight years later, and here we are."

"Think we can climb that now?"

"In that dress?" Alex raised a brow, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She gave a nonchalant shrug. "I'd definitely beat you. Especially if we're both in dresses."

Rolling her eyes, Iko jammed her elbow into his side without ceremony, jostling him towards the boys' side of the square. "Go. The ceremony's starting soon."

           Alex's lips twisted. A shadow of something indecipherable, like he was holding back on something, tugged at the lines of his features. Iko brushed it off. Whatever he had to tell her, he'd let her know in the Justice Building during his three minutes of alone time with her. She walks away before he gets the chance to say it now.When she's settled among the other seventeen year old girls, he searches for her again, and catches a glimpse of a dark green dress against pale skin pockmarked with scars, but she doesn't once turn to look in his direction. She doesn't need his comfort. They'll see each other again, soon, when they let friends and family visit the tributes for the last time in a few weeks. They'll see each other again when she comes back home, a crown adorning her head, and the glory of her victory glinting like the sun in her eyes.

Two o'clock.

A wicked energy settles like a blanket of electricity over the crowd gathered in the Square, humming, hungry, holding onto the edge of their seats. Beside Iko, the tall, muscular blonde girl—one of the training academy attendees—glances over and flashes a brilliant, white-teethed grin. Joan, a blue-eyed beauty often underestimated because of her glittery personality and too-bright features. They'd hardly spoken, but Joan had been one of the less bitter girls who'd congratulated Iko upon being the academy's top pick as female tribute when the trainers had announced the news.

As far as acquaintances went, Joan was a valuable asset on a prospective career pack. Friendly enough, though nobody sensible wanted take their chances on the other end of a sword fight against her.

"Doing alright, Iko?" Joan asked, eyes glistering in the daylight.

"Always," Iko answered coolly.

A buoyant laugh bubbles from Joan's chest. All the tension seemed to disappear for awhile. "I like your confidence. Very cool. Guess we'll be seeing you up there next year," Joan said, jerking her chin at the row of past victors seated on the stage, gazing down at the crowd of fresh-faced candidates like vultures ready for the picking. A fair enough comparison, considering everyone else was a marked carcass. Iko had a better shot than all of these know-nothings. None of them were the right sort of monster required to survive the Games. Years of training, years of scars and pain and pushing and pushing and pushing forged Iko into that monster. Years of surviving childhood by herself—fatherless and loveless and rejected by her mother—has unmade the softness inside and cemented something darker. Something belonging to the wild, contained in the cage of her ribs.

"You know I will."

"Doesn't everyone?" A girl with chestnut hair and olivine skin pipes sardonically, a nasty snarl twisting her lips.

          Keeping her lackadaisical gaze trained on the podium, Iko ignored her.

Undeterred by Iko's cold shoulder, the girl presses on, slanting Iko an incendiary scowl. "You think you're so special just because they chose you over every other girl? You put in effort, I'll give you that, Moriyama. But effort can only go so far when you're a slow learner."

            Fighting down the irritation sinking its agitated hooks into her flesh, Iko clamped her teeth together before she could let her mask of indifference slip. Before she could lunge at the girl—this inconsequential speck of a girl—and break her bones into pieces just to make her learn her place. Though the nasty, immature part of her compelled her to say: At least you know my name. Who are you, again?

"Cut it out, Yara," Joan hissed, smacking her friend lightly on the wrist. Yara Brostrom—Iko remembers now, vaguely recognising the name of the astringent girl with the brilliant, photographic memory, who'd instantly swept the trainers in the academy off their feet with her impressive array of skills and strength, but fell a hair's breadth short of first place just behind Iko.

           Huffing with injured pride, Yara turned her heated glare to Joan, who shot Iko an apologetic look.

A smirk spread across Iko's lips, cold and cruel and slow as a blade slipping between the ribs. Yara flushed bright red, fury thundering across her expression, but she doesn't say more otherwise. Second place must taste so bitter; so close but not good enough. Competition had always been smothering.

The hum of conversation in the crowd began dying down as the Mayor materialised onstage. Cameras posted around the Square tracked his every movement. Iko could hear every click and whir of their mechanical movements, automated by motion sensors. A camera swept over the crowd, live-streaming to the Capitol their herd of sheep to the slaughter. Iko waited until the camera passed the row of girls standing in front of her before flashing it a predatory grin, malice glinting in her eyes—I might run with the herd, but I am not one of the sheep. I am the wolf you have failed to subdue, the monster who you'll cart to the slaughterhouse, the girl who will emerge from the carnage, bloodied but unbeaten.

When the camera passes, Iko turns her gaze to the two glass containers placed on the edge of the stage, glistening mockingly as they catch the sunlight. Each container—one on the left for the boys and the other for the girls—contained hundreds of paper slips marked with the names of those eligible for the Games, and Iko's name had been entered thirty-six times. One draw and a name is called. There is luck, and then there is not. But here—unlike the non-Career districts where the kids are more likely to walk in as corpses and the Games are treated as a guillotine—volunteers surge forward like a tidal wave. In the case of multiple volunteers, the name on the drawn slip of paper doesn't matter. It's who the council wants in. And Iko knew she had to get onto that stage, no matter what.

As soon as the Mayor began his speech, Iko tuned the world out. Tuned out the Mayor's booming voice thundering across the square, regaling all of District 2 with its glory days and introductions of their past victors. Tuned out the chorus of cheers erupting from the crowd as each past victor stood and waved as their names were showered in honour. Tuned out the annually rehearsed tribute to the Dark Days that Iko had been taught about back in school. Tuned out Panem's anthem blaring through the space, loud enough to echo in the mountains in the distance. All this, she didn't need to hear. Impatience snuck under her skin as she waited for the formalities to pass.

            "And now, this year's mentors," the Mayor announced, a shark-like grin carving his lips. "Enobaria Kuriyakin, victor of the 62nd annual Hunger Games—"

             There was a detectable shift in the air, growing heavy with respect as, seated towards the centre of the council of past victors lined up onstage, a lean-cut woman with dark skin straightened to her feet. Enobaria swept her cold eyes over the crowd packing the square, flashing her teeth—clean, white rows of razor-sharp canines, infamous for their symbolic significance—as the crowd roared with approval. A chill ran down Iko's spine as Enobaria's gaze cleaved through her, almost like she could pick apart every one of their brains, figure out their biggest fears and their deepest secrets and run it through their chests like a blade.

              Throughout Enobaria's year, with every tribute she felled, there'd been some sort of art to her killings, some sort of cat-and-mouse waiting game she played to toy with the other tributes before going in for the kill. She'd won by a savage margin, ripping her final opponent's throat out with her teeth, emerging bathed in blood and victory. Hence, the surgically altered teeth that could have only been Capitol-made. Giving the Capitol the show they wanted, Enobaria had called it, during her final interview at the end of the Games. It was frightening to watch, sickening, even, that the hands of a sixteen-year-old girl could achieve such monstrous things, but Iko couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen the whole time. Every inch of Enobaria rippled with a predatory energy, wired like a lioness waiting to pounce, like a viper waiting for the right moment to strike. There was no mistaking how she'd won her Games. Not with charm or brute force, but with the patience of an iron-spiked trap waiting for a deer to stumble into its jaws and trigger the pressure point.

             "—and Evander Locklear, victor of last year's Hunger Games!"

           A mountain of a boy stood to his feet, and with the charm of a new-born war god, bid the rampant crowd a wave and a casual grin. Despite the nasty scars marring his once-handsome features, Evander Locklear was a Capitol favourite. He was eighteen when he entered, bigger than most of the boys in his age group, although his impressive size did nothing to hinder his dexterity and speed. Last year's arena—the ruins of a large, ancient Roman colosseum—had played to his advantage. Brandishing his charisma, he had all his allies wrapped around his fingers, puppeteering their every move, their every decision. His scars had been sustained in the final death-match between him and the penultimate tribute, who he'd cut in half at the waist with his sword. That day, as she lay in the Alex's living room to watch the Games, Iko remembered Alex scrambling to cover his younger siblings' eyes throughout the scene.

            After a minute of basking in the crowd's recognition, both mentors sat back down. Enobaria reverted back to her mask of cool calculation, while Evander crossed his legs, resting his ankle atop his knee, lounging with leonine arrogance.

The enthusiasm dials into a more disdainful rumble of collective sneers and jeering when the district's Capitol escort steps up to the podium. This year's escort is a tall, dark-haired male. One who looks almost human save for the brilliant, golden eyes that distinctly resemble a wildcat's, the sharp golden talons sharpened to a refined point on his hands, and the swishing, live lion tail (obviously one of those tacky surgical alterations that were commonplace in the Capitol) protruding from the base of his spine.

Escorts were typically flamboyant, comparable to the pictures of those exotic birds in the history books Iko used to study in school, but Iko supposed the muted gold streaks in Aeneas Prescott's hair and the formal black, white and red tones in his suit made an exception. It seemed that someone had the good graces to let Aeneas in on the secret: a more professional impression in front of a district that operated on power and ambition and bloodlust, where 'natural born killer' was synonymous with 'victor', was better received than frivolous dress.

"Welcome all, to the 68th annual Hunger Games Reaping ceremony!" Aeneas declared, deep voice thundering over the crowd. Iko scrunched her nose up at his clipped accent, marking him Capitol-born. The audience, still delirious on the thrill of the Games, screamed and whistled, thunderous applause. Aeneas pressed on, eyeing the crowd with a lazy grin. "The time has come to select your beloved tributes. Volunteers will be called upon shortly. And remember, any objection from the council cannot be overwritten. First, your female tribute..."

Without wasting a moment, Aeneas plunged a hand into the glass container holding the girls' names, and fished out a slip of paper. Smoothing it out, Aeneas cleared his throat over the microphone.

           "Your female tribute this year," Aeneas repeated, flashing a toothy grin at the crowd, shimmering with electric anticipation. "Serena Brambling!"

To Iko's knowledge, Serena Brambling was no one, until a ginger-haired girl no older than fourteen steps away from her sector and onto the carpeted aisle. With an angry whir, the cameras swivelled round to face Serena, assessing her critically, as she made her shaky walk towards the stage with two Peacekeepers flanking her. From where she stood, Iko could tell that Serena was struggling to hold it together—small hands curled into tight blanched fists, narrow shoulders pushed back with feigned pride, and a fierce but penetrable mask over her tangible fear. It seemed like the universe was playing a sick joke on them. Reaped tributes paved the first impressions of a District, and to have this scrap of pathetic-nothing up on that stage, staring down a crowd with a trembling chin and fear-flooded eyes, seemed a waste. Serena was stick-thin, manifestly lacking even the slightest hint of muscle definition, and clean of scars. And as Serena desperately searched the crowd for someone to take her place, it became apparent that she hadn't experienced a day of training in her entire life.

             Iko's hands itched with the sick compulsion to snap her spine just to see the girl crack.

            "And now, the moment we've all been waiting for," Aeneas said, regarding the crowd with a pressing look. "Volunteers, please step up now."

          But before Aeneas even finished his sentence, Iko was already moving. As the surging tide of volunteers began to make their way to the stage, Iko cut to the front, barely cognisant of the cameras trained on her, as well as the Peacekeepers on her tail.

Of course, she wasn't the first to volunteer. A flicker of motion in periphery caught her attention. Iko spotted Yara, flanked by two Peacekeepers, shadowing her movements, making her way to the front to await trial.

In the purgatorial silence, the council, an official collective of experienced trainers from all the academies in District 2, sat behind a table cloaked with a silver-grey tablecloth onstage, muttered amongst themselves. Iko caught them glancing over at her a couple times, but nothing else. It was only ever the Career districts that established these councils in a bid to maintain order and fairness as a result of the constant surplus of volunteers. A decision was made and the chosen tribute, announced. In the mean time, Aeneas approached Yara and inquired for her name.

"Yara Brostrom."

"And you?" Aeneas asked, pinning Iko with a curious stare.

Lifting her chin, Iko fixes the cameras closest to her with a cold stare. "Iko Moriyama."

A trainer steps away from the council gathering, and whispers something to Aeneas, who nods firmly and announces into the microphone in declaration, "Ladies and gentlemen, your District Two tribute, Iko Moriyama!"

Trembling with indignant rage, Yara slanted Iko an incendiary glare as she stormed off the stage with wounded pride, away to pick up the shreds of her ego. The world swayed as adrenaline shot through her veins, tilting her focus off-axis for an endless moment. This was it. She'd shut the doors on all other paths. This was her only course of action now. Every minute spent sweating it out on the gymnasium mats, every cut and bruise and reprimand she'd sustained, everything she'd bled for, came down to this. She was walking into the Games with nothing and everything. Most tributes brought tokens to ground themselves, as talismans of luck, but Iko didn't need luck, and she didn't need an object to keep her grounded. She was walking into the Games without possessions, albeit not empty-handed.

"Now for our male tribute," Aeneas said, procuring a second slip of paper from the container. "Roman Vale."

            Peacekeepers move to flank the scrawny boy of thirteen who steps out of his sector, brows contorted into some semblance of a glare, scrambling to hold his despair in. Iko almost scoffs at his false bravado. The cameras could see right past the cracks in his facade. The other tributes would swallow him for breakfast.

            "Any volunteers?" Aeneas asked. A redundant question, frankly. Volunteers were expected of this district.

           In retrospect, Iko should've known. The pale face that night in the academy's training facility, the thinly masked lies, the lingering looks, the words that seemed to be balanced on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said, and yet weren't. She should've known. And yet, she'd brushed it all off. She'd been focusing on the wrong truths today.

           Counting down the minutes dragging by as the cameras fixated on the crowd once more, Iko didn't bother singling out Julius from the crowd of eighteen-year-old boys. She expected to hear his voice in the second that Aeneas called for volunteers. As much as she despised Julius and his cocky attitude, Iko knew he was an asset to her team. The career pack she would build had to be water-tight. She would throw him to the wolves the second all the weaker tributes were dead. Even though Iko knew she would do anything to ensure her survival, murdering your own district partner didn't sit right with her. But leaving him for someone else to finish the job wasn't off the table.

            But it wasn't Julius' voice that cut across the square that day. It wasn't Julius and his lumbering gait that lunged towards the stage.

            "I volunteer," Alex said, calmly, fixing the cameras with a carefully composed look. As always, there was that all-American war hero look to him, the kind Iko saw in history textbooks in school, coded in the diplomat's smile curving his lips, the heartbreaker's glint in his amber-glass eyes and the tousled, sun-lit hair. As he strode towards the stage, confidence wicking off his shoulders, everything about him screamed power and valor and enchantment.

     The world, which had been swaying in Iko's vision, came to an abrupt stop. Suspended in the moment before the hurricane hits, where everything goes dead quiet and the air seemed to still. Suspended in the heart-stopping moments before Rome came crashing down. Iko's breath stalled painfully in her chest. Betrayal cleaved her lungs in two, as though Alex had put the blade there himself and twisted. Her blood roared in her ears, a furious cry drowning out the sounds of the crowd, drowning her composure, drowning the questions swarming in her head. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the Square as Alex made his way to the place beside her.

     "What's your name?" Aeneas asked, pointing the microphone at Alex.

Iko felt Alex's gaze flicker over to her, gauging her reaction. She kept her eyes trained on the crowd as the pain pounded into her chest, a crushing weight threatening to decimate her insides, break her ribs one-by-one for show. Albeit, she doesn't let her faltering emotions out of the locked and bolted cage at the bottom of her gut. And so she turns the grief and helplessness clawing at her throat into something she's more familiar with.

     "Alexandre Ivanovich."

No.

Rage burns in her eyes, a black flame glistering with icy heat. Rage, because winning the Games had always been something she'd been dreaming of since she was a child. Rage, because she was only ever going to achieve that for a price she didn't think she could stomach the weight of. Rage, because it wasn't fair that she had to choose between everything she's ever wanted, and everything that she's ever cared for.

No, no, no. This was all wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Winning the Games meant losing Alex. Losing the Games meant...

No. Losing was not an option.

A dark voice in her head whispered: cut your losses.

When they're made to shake hands, Iko's piercing gaze latched onto Alex's ones, schooled into a void of calculated composure. But even though his stare gave away no answers to the myriad of questions she wanted to shout into the abyss, she felt his calloused hand grasp hers a little tighter. As she held his gaze, a crippled thought crept like a malignant shadow into the forefront of her mind: what would it look like, to have the light fade from his eyes? She wanted to rip and rend the world to shreds. She wanted to tear the cameras from their posts and crush their lenses so they would stop scrutinising her every move. She wanted to bash Aeneas' skull in with the microphone. She wanted to shove Alex, wanted to throw a chair at his head, yell at him: How could you do this to me? As the horror snuck between her ribs like a knife, she wanted to seize the world by its shoulders and shake until the noise in her head dimmed, scream the burning question until her throat felt raw: Why?

As far as the cameras can see, there's a daredevil glint in their eyes, a gleam of something dangerous, something that makes your blood run cold and curdles your insides—two deadly companions ready for a massacre, two teenagers bred to become ruthless killing machines.

           "Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for this year's annual Hunger Games," Aeneas declared, lips spreading in a hungry grin as he clapped his hands together, "Iko Moriyama and Alexandre Ivanovich!"

And that's all the world will ever see.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
please i'm gonna be updating this like crazy soon i swear