— 𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐮𝐬 —

━━━━━━ ☽【❖】☾ ━━━━━━

The games had been ongoing for five weeks, and at this point I was starting to question whether they were ever going to end. It was already the longest game in history and there were still thirteen survivors. In four weeks time, only one child had succumbed to hypothermia. I mentally began to recount the list of casualties as it had become habit over the years.

District Three: Xavier and Electra, both slaughtered by muttations.
District Four: Marlowe, shredded by muttations.
District Five: Edison, stabbed at the cornucopia by Romulus.
District Five: Joule, strangled by Lilac.
District Six: Mercedes, died by frostbite—alone.
District Seven: Kane, killed by Rex.
District Seven: Lilac, head bashed in by Romulus.
District Eleven: Clementine, stabbed at the cornucopia by Rena.
District Twelve: Dirk, killed by Lux at the cornucopia.
District Twelve: Sage, killed by Halo at the cornucopia.

Esmé yawned as she continued to watch the screen from our living quarters. Although there was still a crowd gathered in the Capitol square to watch the games live, we'd chosen a quieter location to make undisturbed observations.

"They've spent four weeks holed up in another cave," Esmé complained with a high-pitched whine. "I thought at least by now our little Royal would have let us see some of that wrath she spoke so highly about."

"Why would she?" I asked, lifting my brow as I glanced over at the escort. "She's got the kid by her side and hope."

"Hope for what?" Esmé asked unenthusiastically. "It's no surprise that all of Panem heard their little speech about escaping the games. If only they knew that the arena security' has improved since the fifty-eighth games, they'd realize that they might as well turn on each other."

"They're kids," I tried to correct her, as I'd done several times over. "They're not soldiers."

"District two is having no problems eliminating the competition," Esmé countered. "That Romulus boy's got the most kills on the board. Why can't—"

"Why can't Juneaux be more like him?" I asked, finishing her question. "Did you ever stop to use that brain of yours—buried somewhere under all that hairspray and bobby-pins—that Juneaux doesn't actually want to win the games?"

"Why wouldn't she?" Esmé genuinely didn't understand. "She'll be given riches beyond whatever she could imagine and reputable fame. You understand, you've done it. It's almost like you're one of us."

I bit my tongue, keeping my thoughts to myself as I'd otherwise say something I might regret. Although Esmé had moments of being tolerable, she was still raised on the Capitol's virtues. Nothing would change her mind, and I'd stopped trying years ago.

"She scored a twelve for crying out loud," Esmé insisted. "A perfect score. Clearly, she has something to prove. And what about that warning? 'Beware my wrath'. I had goosebumps for the next ten minutes."

"It wasn't a war cry. It was a warning to stay away," I clarified her intention. "She'll do what it takes to keep the kid alive, I've got no doubt about that. But she's not going to take a life unless she has to."

"But she does have to," Esmé reemphasized her point. "That's the entire objective of the games."

"And I'd be a fool to think she won't escape the games unscathed, but there's a reason they've been left alone for four weeks," I countered. "If the gamemakers wanted them dead, they would've forced the two groups together."

"I suppose it's been entertaining to watch them overcome the individual struggles," Esmé admitted. "It was smart of you to get that wealthy sponsor to send them some climbing gear."

"I'm a bit upset it's all I've convinced someone to send," I admitted. "I was worried the kid wasn't going to make it after they almost drowned. He caught a nasty case of pneumonia..."

"Right," Esmé agreed with a nod of her head. "Juneaux herself looked quite sick as she refused to eat or sleep, remaining glued to the boy's side. She has to realize that he's holding her back."

I bristled, but allowed my slights to be more subtle. "You know what she said to me before her interview with Flickerman?"

She slowly shook her head, but she was intrigued. "What?"

"Harlan reminded her of her little brother," I replied. "I didn't make the connection until she said his name, but we knew him."

"I knew Juneaux's brother?" Esmé looked unconvinced. "Caius, you realize I spend less time in district nine than you spend sober."

"First, I'm not an alcoholic. I overindulge on occasions to keep my sanity," I corrected. Honestly, I really didn't spend much time with the bottle. I only considered it a friend when spending time in the presence of the Capitol, which coincided with the time I spent with Esmé herself. "His name was Marcus Kirchoff. He was a tribute too."

"Oh really?" Esmé looked delighted. "So it's a family trait then. Which one was he? I assume he wasn't fortunate enough to make it through as I don't recognize his name."

"The sixty-ninth games," I answered without missing a beat. "He was reaped at twelve. The youngest that year as he barely met the deadline. He died just before the third day ended. Impaled. His partner was a little blonde. Aurelia was her name I think. She turned fifteen on the day of the bloodbath... died then too."

"I don't know how you manage to remember all that," Esmé chuckled.

"I never forget," I muttered under my breath, turning my gaze back to the screen. "Their faces are ingrained in my mind the second I'm told to escort them to their graves."

"You get too attached," Esmé seemed to reprimand. "Move on and just do better the next year."

I stormed out of the room, leaving everything behind before I completely lost what remained of my composure. All I could see was the color red as I blindly turned down each random path that I came across. I could hear the uproar of the past ringing in my ears as the nightmares clawed their way to the edge of my vision.

"By Jove he's done it!" Flickerman's voice echoed around the inside of my head. "The falcon has swooped down and claimed its last victim! I'm pleased to announce that the victor of the fifty-second hunger games is Caius Sokolov!"

My breath grew shallow as I shrunk back into the memory of that scared, scrawny fifteen year old boy. No one thought he'd amount to much. He'd only scored a five. And then he'd surprised everyone with his speed and agility in the trees, rivaling the tributes from district seven and conquering their home turf. He'd manipulated some climbing spikes to act as talons where he'd strike from the skies and kill his victims before they even realized he was there. I no longer felt like that boy, I'd never wanted to feel like that helpless kid ever again.

But the Capitol had a sick twisted way of controlling your life even after you've finished playing their cruel game. They forced you back year after year to relive the moment vicariously through the kids reaped next. There were too many names and faces that haunted my dreams. It was probably easier to drown out the memories with an alcoholic overflow... but my mind was fractured and twisted just enough to demand I never forget. Likely it was some sick means of punishing myself for the lives taken. Scars to make up for the lives I'd destroyed. Because it wasn't just my fellow tributes that had been harmed, but their families and friends back home.

The games had destroyed my life in so many ways, some I was only reminded of as I wandered into the bar and caught her eye. I made an attempt to backtrack and leave, but Artemisia Floros wasn't one to take no for an answer.

"Caius." Her smile was deceptively inviting. "You must join us."

Her words subtly slurred together, implying I wasn't the only one to overindulge when it was on the Capitol's tab. She gestured back to the group behind her where several other mentors observed the games from the bar's television screen. Notably, Haymitch Abernathy—district twelve's only living victor—was face down in a puddle of what was likely once his beverage as the bottle was tilted on its side. Finnick Odair—the youngest victor in the history of the games—was whispering closely with district seven's Johanna Mason. Mason's games had only been two years ago, but she presented herself like a cynical, weathered veteran. However, I did notice Artemisia's usual company was missing.

"Did Brutus and Enobaria finally let you run things on your own this year?" I asked.

"We've arranged to switch off every couple of years," Artemisia agreed with a brief explanation. "And what about your fellow victors?"

"Passed away from old age this past harvest season," I curtly replied. "Though I doubt you're just calling me over for chit chat, so what do you want?"

"A drink with an old friend," she replied, hesitantly reaching out as if to caress the side of my face.

Her eyes were softer than I remembered, and I almost believed her. Then I remember the darkness concealed in those eyes and the pain of mourning someone who'd died before they'd stepped foot in the arena.

"I'm afraid if I took that seat, I'd never leave." I flinched, pulling away before her fingers could make contact.

"Fear is only natural," she replied, but I could tell she was hurt by the rejection. "But if you change your mind, my offer still remains. I'll never stop waiting."

I shook my head. "That was a promise made by an orchid to a finch before she became poison and he was marred into a bird of prey."

She sighed, taking a step back as if honoring my wishes. "That orchid didn't die... she just learned to fight for what she wanted."

"By transforming into the very thing she despised," I agreed, slowly turning to walk away; however, she reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

"You should at least know the gamemakers are planning something big," she whispered her warning. "They aren't very fond of tributes who defy the odds of a trap meant to kill them... especially if another tribute steps in to help."

"You mean Juneaux's growing alliance?" I asked, brow furrowing.. "The flood incident happened over four weeks ago. You think they haven't let it go?"

"They never forget."

My stomach dropped and chills shot down my spine. Of course she was right. It was out of character for the gamemakers to forget a slight against them and their design. Whatever they had planned had been brewing for weeks and now it was all too clear to see that they only prolonged the inevitable to sneak past unnoticed. By time they sprung the trap, it might just be too late to for Juneaux and Harlan. Without another word, I rushed back toward the complex with the delusion that I might just receive enough help to warn my kids in time.