DELLA

THEN: SEVEN YEARS AGO

Della did not remember very much at all from her visitation hour before she boarded the train to take her to the Capitol. When she tried to think back to it even twenty minutes later, in the oppressive silence of the train, she struggled to remember the look on her mother's face or the things her family said. Here was what she did know:

Her father wept.

Her mother said very little, but whispered that she loved her and smoothed a hand over her hair.

Cyber took one look at her and then rushed to the wastebin in the corner of the room and vomited.

Mod rambled on about strategies Della could use to survive, but she didn't hear a word of it.

(Absently, she thought about how strange it was that in such a moment of terrible grief, the twins traded places the way they had: Cyber was quieter than Della could ever remember her being, and grave Mod could not stop talking if he tried).

Zip did not fully understand that he would never see her again, but perceptive as young children often are, he picked up on the grief everyone else was already feeling and began to cry. Their grandmother took him out of the room, her brittle, wrinkled hands shaking as she ushered him away.

Della, like her mother, said almost nothing at all. A strange calmness had drifted through her in the moments after the Peacekeepers took her and Glitch inside the Justice Building and instructed them to wait in separate rooms. She sat down heavily in the armchair in the center of the room, and her mind had almost felt like it was floating far away from the horrors that were soon to befall her. By the time her family arrived, she felt like she wasn't there at all, but rather living in some sort of dream.

She thought, I love all of you, very much, and heard, as if it was coming from far away, her voice saying those same words, sounding just as detached as she felt in the moment.

(She thought everyone was crying after that, but she couldn't be certain. Her own eyes were dry and tearless).

She knew some girls from school visited her after her family was told to leave. Pix and Cloud were her closest friends, but they were standing with the fifteen year old girls and she hadn't seen them during the Reaping. She liked the dress Pix was wearing. It was a soft pink with buttons down the front. And Cloud's headband was pretty, too. Della thought, suddenly, that maybe she liked pretty things. She'd never thought about it before. What a waste to realize it now.

Glitch's mother and father stepped inside too, briefly, just to say they were sorry. Della didn't say anything, but she wished then that she'd been graceful enough to thank them. But she was still in that too-calm trance, that dreamlike state, and she merely stared through them, hearing but not processing a word of it.

She only vaguely remembered how the Peacekeepers came back inside and took her away, escorting her, Glitch, Beetee, Wiress, and Prossie down to the train station in a grim, motley parade.

When she came back to herself, the train had already left District 3 behind and she realized she had seen her loved ones for the last time and she hardly remembered it. The thought should have hurt, but instead she was relieved. When she remembered her father, she would remember him humming to himself over the stove, and she would remember her mother smiling proudly down at her, and she would remember Cyber braiding her hair and Mod gruffly allowing her to hug him and Zip giggling over the stories she told him before bed sometimes. She would remember her grandmother rocking peacefully in her chair, and her friends giggling to each other at school. She wouldn't remember them grieving for her before she had even died. She wouldn't remember them sad.

It was worse for her family, she thought. They would see her again on the screen. They would see her die, and that was what they would remember of her.

"—lla? Hello, Della Firewell?" The grating voice of Prossie Plumet was what finally pulled Della out of her thoughts. She looked at the Capitol woman blankly. Prossie tsked. "Finally," she muttered. "Della, darling, it's rude not to pay attention when someone is talking to you, you know. It sends a certain message."

"It's also rude to make a bunch of kids fight each other to the death," Glitch snapped back, and Della realized he was sitting next to her. He angled his body so he was half-shielding Della from Prossie's judgmental gaze. "So maybe you should back off and leave her alone."

Their mentors, Beetee and Wiress — Della wasn't certain who was her mentor and who was Glitch's — exchanged a glance. Under her makeup, Prossie's skin flushed a mottled red.

"Well, I never!" She huffed. She redirected her ire at Glitch, scowling at him as she fixed her hands to her hips. "Young man, you would do well to remember that you're going to be part of the Capitol now, and you're going to need sponsors. Well, the Capitol likes manners and good breeding. They don't take all that well to an angry performance."

"Well, seeing as I'm not planning to perform for them, like some kind of little pet—"

"How about," cut in Beetee, raising his soft voice slightly, "Wiress and I take a few minutes to talk to our tributes?" He pushed his glasses up on his face. "Prossie, thank you. We appreciate everything you do for us and our tributes. Please forgive Glitch — he's scared, and I'm sure you can understand why."

Prossie pursed her lips, but her shoulders slumped and her features softened.

"Dinner," Wiress said encouragingly.

"Yes, exactly," Beetee added. "Why don't you check on the food? Give us some time alone with our tributes?"

Prossie sighed loudly, but affection warmed her features as she looked at Beetee and Wiress. It surprised Della. She didn't think anyone in the Capitol cared one bit for District citizens. "Make sure they've at least splashed some water on their faces before they come for dinner," Prossie ordered as she bustled out of the compartment in a whirlwind of electric blue and hot pink. The sliding door closed loudly behind her, and the sound of her heeled shoes clacking against the floor drifted back towards them. In the distance, another door opened then shut. The silence that followed echoed loudly in Della's ears.

"She means well," Wiress said after a few seconds. "She's . . ."

"A little on edge," Beetee finished. "She's been working with us for over a decade now, and she's never had a tribute live. It's been hard on her."

Glitch snorted. "It's harder on the rest of us, so excuse me if I can't muster up sympathy for the Capitol bitch who's leading us to slaughter."

Beetee flinched at the profanity, but he didn't reprimand Glitch. Instead, he turned his attention to Della.

"You're Fuse's granddaughter," he said gently, and she wondered if he meant to word it as more of a question.

Della lifted one bony shoulder in a half shrug. It hurt to think of her grandfather. "One of them," she murmured. "He has four." There was her and Cyber, of course, but there was also their eldest cousin Fusa Huxley, who was in her twenties and named for their grandfather, and their youngest cousin Bardeenia Firewell, who was only four. In hindsight, it was really only a matter of time until one of his descendants was Reaped. He had three children — Della's father, and her aunt and uncle. Between the three siblings, there were eight Firewell grandchildren.

Della had cried bitterly when her grandfather had died of a stomach disease earlier that year, but now a part of her was relieved. He would not have to watch his own granddaughter go into the same arena that haunted him to his final moments.

His funeral had been just a few months before. She had seen Beetee and Wiress there and recognized them, not just from the Reapings where they sat on stage, watching grimly as a boy and a girl were sacrificed to the Capitol like livestock for slaughter, but from her childhood, from a time before she understood the games the Capitol played and the Games they forced district children into.

She remembered running through Victor's Village to see her grandparents and watching lights flicker from the two occupied mansions down the street. She would catch glimpses of them here and there as they remained half-concealed, watching the Firewell grandchildren like phantoms in the windows but never moving to speak to them or introduce themselves.

One winter, when Della was maybe seven or eight, she'd scampered ahead of her parents towards the neighborhood of mansions. She had been trying to keep up with the twins, whose longer legs allowed them to easily outstrip her, and she didn't want to be stuck by her parents, who were moving slowly while pushing a then-infant Zip in his pram.

Mod, who at ten or eleven had been a great deal more talkative than he was at eighteen, had taunted her, saying that the pram used to be hers and she was a baby just like Zip. And then he and Cyber had exchanged a mischievous glance and took off, leaving Della to try and race after them.

She was little but determined, and it made her reckless. She'd felt so alive, with the icy air nipping at her nose and her cheeks, stinging her eyes. Her legs had ached as she pushed them to run after her siblings. Her chest had hurt from breathing, but it was a good kind of hurt, and there was a sharpness to it that a part of her relished even back then. She had barrelled down the street, reaching out for the back of Cyber's coat, when she slipped on a patch of ice and tumbled to the ground, hitting her head hard against the pavement. A burst of pain had exploded behind her eyes, and she'd instantly lost consciousness.

She'd woken up in her grandfather's mansion, covered in plush blankets and surrounded by pillows on the sitting-room sofa. Her head ached miserably, and when she lifted a hand to gingerly press at her forehead, she realized there were bandages wrapped around her skull. Her mother threw her arms around Della as the twins peaked out from either side of their grandfather with wide, scared eyes. Della had looked past her family at the doorway just in time to see Wiress and Beetee duck out of sight. She had heard their footsteps fade as they walked down the hall, straining her ears until the sound of the front door closing told her that they'd left the building entirely.

Cyber had told her later that when she'd fallen, the twins had screamed. Alarmed by their cries, Beetee and Wiress had rushed out their respective doors. Wiress ran straight to their grandfather's house as Beetee crouched over Della, using his own coat to stem the bleeding from her head before swinging her into his arms and following Wiress. They'd seen the children enough, it seemed, to know who they were, though they'd never made any attempt to speak to them before.

At her grandfather's mansion, Beetee had deposited her in the sitting room, where Wiress and Fuse had already been waiting for her arrival. Their grandfather had stitched up her wound himself, Cyber had said in a low voice that was full of a sort of disgusted awe. Beetee and Wiress had stayed just long enough to make sure Della was alright. She never saw them outside of the Reapings again, not until her grandfather's funeral a few months before.

At the time, she thought they were just shy. Now, watching them more closely on the train, she thought she understood better.

It must have been — not easier, because she suspected it was never easy — but less painful, slightly, to not know the children who were killed each year. She thought they likely dreaded seeing children at all, not knowing if one day, they'd be forced to watch helplessly as those children kill each other and die themselves.

"But yes," Della said into the growing silence, her voice hoarse. "I am one of his granddaughters."

Beetee sat back and nodded slowly. He looked as though he had more to say, but he bit it back. Della swallowed down her own voice before she did something stupid, like ask if they remembered tending to her all those years ago.

Both mentors glanced at Glitch, who was scowling at his shoes.

"We really are sorry," said Wiress quietly to both tributes.

"That you're going through this," Beetee clarified. He pushed his glasses up again. "It will be difficult in the arena — and it doesn't stop being difficult when you survive."

"When?" Glitch sneered. He stared belligerently at their mentors, but any idiot could see that underneath his bluster, he was scared. Wiress and Beetee exchanged a glance.

"We try to believe in our tributes," Beetee said, though the flatness to his voice told Della that it got harder every year. "You have potential — both of you," he added, glancing at Della. She was certain that he was just saying it to comfort her, because even a fool could see that between the two of them, Glitch was bigger and stronger and more wily, and there was no way for Della to win if even her own district partner would outlast her.

She didn't think, really, that Glitch would try to kill her — he probably remembered her as a seven year old with gangly limbs and a gap toothed smile, because that was when she started following him and Mod around like a silly little dog. Glitch was not cold-hearted. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to kill her, she thought, but they both must have known that she wouldn't be able to survive as long as him.

"The Hunger Games is a simulation," Wiress said. "It can be . . ."

"Outwitted," Beetee finished softly. His eyes flashed behind his glasses and he considered them both. "I won, didn't I? And so did Wiress. And Fuse." He glanced at Della again, and she wondered if he saw her grandfather's ghost peering out of her face. She wondered if she would see it too whenever she studied herself in the mirror, if her eyes would take on the tight, hunted look that had so plagued him, or if her mouth would hold that same downturned edge that his did. She wondered if there was enough time for such a change to transform her features — her grandfather had looked like that nearly sixty years after returning from the games. She would be dead in a matter of weeks.

"Well, how do we outwit it, then?" Glitch said impatiently. He furrowed his brows. "How did you?"

For a moment, Della wondered how it was possible that he did not know. Then she remembered that there were families who didn't teach their children about the Games from before they were born, who did not wish to pass down that history onto children who would learn of it soon enough by watching the yearly show. Glitch was born years after Wiress won. Maybe he'd never asked anyone how Beetee, Wiress, or even Fuse survived.

"Trap," said Wiress shortly, "planning ahead." She tapped one finger to her temple knowingly.

Beetee nodded. "I used copper wire to create an electrical trap that killed all the Careers." He said it matter-of-factly, but the word still fell ugly between them. Killed. "And Wiress anticipated the twists of the arena and managed to avoid them all."

Glitch did a double-take. "Can you do that?" He asked. "Anticipate what the Gamemakers will do, I mean."

Beetee and Wiress exchanged a look. "Intuition cannot be taught," Beetee said hesitantly, "but the Gamemakers like patterns. Keep looking for patterns in the arena, and you might be able to deduce what will come next. Most tributes are so focused on each other that they don't think too much about the environment they're in." He shook his head. "That's a mistake. The arena can kill you just as easily as a Career."

The arena was a Career, Della thought to herself. And it was the one with the single highest number of kills.

"So we need to stay vigilant," Glitch said urgently to Della. She blinked, and her mouth opened in surprise.

"We?" she croaked. He had said, at the end of the Reaping, that he would get her back home safe, but she had sort of assumed that it was an impulse born out of fear and affection and desperation, not something he'd actually meant.

Glitch tensed, but looked down at her and managed a reassuring smile. "I'll keep you safe, Dell, don't you worry." He nodded, and Della didn't know if the gesture was to convince her or himself. "We're going to stick together."

Oh. Oh. She didn't know whether to throw her arms around him or burst into tears. She wanted to do both. She settled for resting her palm on his forearm and squeezing gently. She looked at Beetee and Wiress, and they stared solemnly back.

They left the truth unspoken, but the knowledge hung over Della like the blade of a guillotine. Sooner or later, Della and Glitch would have to stop working together. Only one of them could survive.

But it was still a comfort to know that she had an ally going into this, that there was someone who wanted her to survive at least for a while, someone who would watch out for her in the arena and protect her from the Careers. And Della was quiet and unassuming, so who knew? Perhaps she would be able to help him somehow in return.

"Well, this does make our work as mentors a good deal easier," Beetee said. "Wiress has been assigned to you, Glitch, and I'm your mentor, Della. But if the two of you want to work together in the Games — and frankly, I would recommend it — it increases your chances and helps me and Wiress come up with a plan."

Wiress nodded. "Joint training," she explained, "and team strategy." Beetee did not need to elaborate on this for her.

Glitch nodded firmly. He looked heroic in the fading light filtering in through the window. The burnt orange sunset glowed and danced against his skin, shadows flickering as trees flew past. His dark hair curled over his forehead and muscles worked in his jaw.

He was beautiful, Della realized with an unfamiliar jolt of awareness. When did he become beautiful?

Beetee shifted, and this forced Della to refocus on her mentors.

"This has been far more productive than I anticipated," he said, his tone pleased. "We can discuss strategy further over dinner. I'm sure Prossie is eagerly awaiting us. We'll show you both to your rooms — they're right next to each other. I suggest you freshen up before we go to the dining car, or Prossie will have a fit."

They filed out of the compartment one at a time, and Beetee led them down the corridor. Neither he nor Wiress seemed to feel the need to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter, and Della was comforted by it. 

The layout of the living quarters was quite simple — Della's room was to the left and Glitch's was to the right, and Beetee and Wiress were housed in the next compartment down, in case the children needed them — and the mentors soon left them alone to go prepare for dinner themselves.

Della's hand was on her doorknob and she was about to twist it open when Glitch grabbed her shoulder and gently turned her around to face him. Della was jumpy, so her breath caught in surprise for a split second, but she calmed down when she saw the gentle expression on Glitch's face.

"Are you doing okay?" He asked her quietly. Della managed to shrug.

"I don't know if it's better or worse, knowing you," she confessed quietly. Pain etched itself into Glitch's furrowed brow, but he nodded.

"I know what you mean," he said, just as quietly. His hand was still on her shoulder and he squeezed it. "Listen, Dell . . . I'm not sure if you know this, but Mod visited me just before we left Three."

She hadn't known it, but it is unsurprising. Mod and Glitch were nearly inseparable. Her heart ached for her brother. Many people lost someone to the Games in their lifetime. Mod might have lost two in one go.

"I'm sorry," she said, but she didn't know what she was apologizing for. Glitch seemed to understand, though, and his brow unfurrowed a bit. He swallowed.

"Don't be." His voice was a little gravelly and he cleared his throat. "Look, he wanted me to give you something from him. I think he wanted to give it to you himself, but he said you were in shock and he didn't know if you'd even realize what was going on."

Della watched in surprise as Glitch started pulling a delicate chain out of his pocket. Out came a large, intricately carved, greyish-black pendant that Della immediately recognized as her grandmother's wedding locket. It was tarnished and dull — Ether Firewell hadn't worn it in years, ever since her mind started deteriorating and she gave it to Cyber — but it was unmistakable. Della reached out a hand in awe, and when Glitch dropped it into her palm she cradled it gently. The top of the locket was detailed, with vines curving around the face and leaves carved carefully into the center. When Della turned the latch and opened it, she saw the familiar image of her grandparents at their wedding to the left and the picture of her father and his siblings as children to the right. But she was shocked when those pictures faded away and were replaced with others, of her and her siblings and their cousins and their whole family all together. The pictures rotated again, and she realized there must have been many of them stored digitally in the small pendant.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she stared down at Zip's toothless, smiling face to the left and her, Cyber, and Mod on the right. Glitch deftly pulled the locket out of her hands before her tears fell and the moisture ruined the images.

"How — how —" Della said, but she could hardly speak around the hard lump in her throat. Glitch knew what she was saying, though, and answered anyway.

"He didn't . . . he didn't tell me all of it, but he said Cyber started adding to the locket a couple years ago. I think she gave it to him just before the games, in case . . ." Glitch swallowed. Della understood. In case Mod was Reaped instead.

Poor Cyber. She'd probably thought Della's three entries were of no note. After all, she herself had survived the Reaping when she was fourteen. She likely hadn't thought to prepare herself for the possibility of Della being selected.

It was one thing, of course, to know that someone as young as twelve could be Reaped with just one entry. But it was another thing entirely to think that could happen to your own kin when you had survived the very same thing years earlier.

So Mod and Cyber had watched Della get Reaped and decided they wanted her to have the locket as her memento from home. A wave of homesickness rose in Della's chest, threatening to choke her. She loved them. She loved them so much, and she wished she could see them one last time, if only to tell them properly that she was proud to be their blood.

Glitch motioned for her to turn around. She didn't trust herself to speak, so she complied wordlessly. Glitch slid the locket around her neck and clasped it tight. She could feel his fingers brushing against the back of her neck through the thin fabric of her Reaping dress. She turned back around and looked down, embarrassed to be caught crying.

Both of Glitch's hands landed on her shoulders bracingly. She risked a glance up and saw that his lips were trembling, too. And his eyes were filling with tears of his own.

Without hardly thinking about it, Della wrapped her arms tightly around him and buried her face in his shoulder, letting her tears fall. She felt his arms come around her back and squeeze tightly.

They stayed like that for just a few seconds, but it was enough for Della to feel closer to home and she suspects it was enough for Glitch, too. He pulled away first, and he gave her a trembling but bracing smile.

"We're going to be okay," he lied, and Della knew he was lying but she tried to feel comforted by it anyway.

"We're going to do this together," she told him, her voice wobbling and eyes stinging.

"We're going to do this together," Glitch agreed.

They locked eyes, just for a moment. And this time, it was Della who broke contact, because it would hurt more if she didn't, and she turned the doorknob and walked into her room on the train, cheeks wet and eyes still streaming.

Her grandmother's locket dangled in the center of her chest. Della tried to take comfort from knowing that she was holding her family as close as she could.