[butterflythoughtss]

𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 and from the moment you ran into the maze , I knew . . . ㅤू ۪۪۫۫ᤢ °

✿ྀི hey there! I go by peachy! (She/her) (19) ♥︎̩͙ .·:*¨¨*:·. ♥︎̩͙꒰͜͡ ྀ ❤︎ (main acc: @justpeaxchy )

͜͡꒱ Everything blog, basically 𝅄 𓈒 ཾ⠀ ᣟᤢ⠀

࿐ྀི ׅ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔⠀⠀featuring: the maze runner, demon slayer (KNY), httyd, the hunger games, and more! ⠀⠀ ❤︎ིྀ ˶

✿꒰͜͡ ᭄ ft: my occasional rambling ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣

𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄ㅤू ۪۪۫۫ᤢ ° I would follow you anywhere. And I have. We all have.

[justpeaxchy]

𝖲𝗁𝗈⍵ & Τ౿ᥣᥣ

Hunger Games au

— "I have no story to be told. But I've heard one on you, now I'm gonna make your head burn."

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 7: The preparations for the Quarter Quell have begun. Now that Thomas has let go of his family, he is determined to carry out his plan. But most of the Victors, it seems, have a knack for getting on his nerves.

a/n: Have mercy, I think this is the longest chapter I've written so far. Anyways, RAAAHHHH MINHO. Sorry what. Why does Newt have a thing for sugar cubes bro (i know why). Also, pretend the gif is Thomas and Teresa okay? Okay.

Comforting someone else when they were crying was something Thomas had always been a little lacking in. Chuck was the main exception, though. But now, as his prep team sobbed and whimpered during their routine, he realized just how awkward it was to merely stand there and do nothing while someone cried their heart out.

Apparently, they'd gotten quite attached to him. Him returning to the arena simply broke them. 'Shocker.' He assumed it was because of the many big social events they wouldn't be able to attend anymore, which included his 'wedding', so everything became excruciating for them. Being that they never had to be strong for another person, he put himself in the role of consoling them.

Since he was the one being sent into a slaughter house, he was a little annoyed.

In spite of that, it was interesting, to say the least, to even think that the people in the Capitol thought anything of the Victors at all. They'd ultimately be forgotten once the gong sounded, but still. It was a considerably big thing when those in the Capitol felt something regarding the human lives of the people going into the Games. Watching children die every single year wasn't a hard task for them to do. This Quarter Quell, however, made them uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that they knew these Victors, especially the ones who were celebrated for so long. It was like watching an old friend die.

Maybe this time, they were forced to acknowledge who the Victors were. What they were: human beings.

When Mary finally showed up, he was mentally exhausted from pouring his energy into comforting the prep team, mainly because it brought back to mind the tears that were undoubtedly being shed at home. 'Can't think of that.' He repeatedly told himself. Standing there in his thin robe with his stinging skin, he couldn't handle another single look of regret or pity. So the moment she walked in the door, he spoke, "Please don't cry around me right now. I will go out on the chariots wearing this if you do."

Mary only smiled. "Damp morning, I assume?"

"That's a starter," he replied wryly.

She hooked her arm through his, leading him into lunch. "I won't cry, don't worry. I channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."

"I can't go through that again," Thomas muttered.

"I know, I know. I'll talk to them," she reassured him.

Thankfully, lunch made him feel slightly better – moreso the dessert did. He'd forgotten about his love for sweets with all of the tragic circumstances that'd been lobbing at him as of late, but the chunks of fruit he dipped in a pot of melted chocolate reignited his enjoyment for them. Mary had to order a second pot because he started to eat the chocolate directly with a spoon.

"Hey, so, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?" He asked as he scraped the second pot clean. "It's got something to do with fire again, right?" He already knew the chariot ride would require him and Teresa to be dressed in something coal related.

Mary shrugged. "You could say that."

When it was time to get in costume for the opening ceremonies, she excused the prep team upon their arrival, telling them they did an excellent job but could take it from there. He was in Mary's hands, and he couldn't have been more grateful. She styled his hair first; fluffing it with gel and granting it extra volume. She even added a bit of makeup on him. It focused on his eyes, lining them in a deep black and filling his eyelids with an elegant dark shade that almost appeared like a dusky, midnight blue. "Kind of dramatic, huh?" he said.

"That's the point," she returned.

His eyebrows were touched up and then he was put in his costume, which looked deceptively simple at first. It was a fitted black jumpsuit that covered him from the neck down. Mary placed a half crown similar to the one he received as a Victor on his head, but it was made of a heavy black metal, not gold. She went to adjust the light in the room to mimic twilight and pressed a button she gave him. He looked down and was in awe. His costume was alive. It started off as a soft golden light but gradually transformed to the orange-red of burning coal. He turned into a glowing ember — fire on legs. The colors shrouding his body rose and fell, shifted and mixed, in exactly the way a fireplace would.

"How the hell did you do this?" he asked, utterly fascinated.

"Mark and I spent a lot of hours just watching fires," she answered, as if it were common knowledge. "Now look at yourself."

She turned him toward a mirror so he could take in the entire effect, and he gaped at the being before him. No longer was he the boy who hunted in the woods. Instead, he looked as though he emerged from a volcano itself. The black crown, which now appeared red-hot, casted engrossing shadows over his face. Thomas Everdeen abandoned his flickering flames and fancy suits. He was the embodiment of fire, who would burn anyone in his way.

He let out a breath of admiration. "Y'know....I think this is exactly what I needed to face the others."

"Mhm, I think your days of gullible smiles and cute bow ties are behind you," Mary touched the button in his hand again, extinguishing his light. "Let's be sure we don't waste your power pack. Press it once you're ready. And when you're on the chariots this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, like the entire audience is beneath you."

Thomas grinned. "Finally something more easy for me to do."

She patted his shoulder and, since she had a couple things to attend to, he decided to head down to the ground floor of the Remake Center that housed the huge gathering place for the tributes and their chariots before the opening ceremonies. He expected to find Jorge and Teresa, but they didn't arrive yet. The scenery was very different from last year. The tributes weren't glued to their chariots; they were actually socializing. The Victors, both this year's tributes and their mentors, were standing around in small groups, just talking. They all knew one another and he didn't know anyone. Therefore, he deemed it fit to go wait next to his horse and gently stroke its neck, trying not to be noticed.

Unfortunately, his luck ran out at the worst time possible.

The crunching wrapped around his ear before he even realized the other Victor was beside him, and when he turned his head, Newt's honey brown eyes were only inches from his. Unironically, he popped a sugar cube in his mouth and leaned against his horse.

"Hello, Tommy," he greeted, using the nickname as if they were good friends.

"Hello, Newt," he replied just as casually, although he was a little nervous at their closeness, especially because of the bare skin he had exposed.

Newt lifted his hand, offering a sugar cube. "Want one this time?" he asked, his tone eerily similar to what one would call cheeky.

Thomas blankly stared at him. "No, thanks," he declined, not knowing why it was offered when his answer would never change.

He hummed, glancing at the horse. "That's alright. The horses can always have it anyways. They've got years to enjoy plenty of that stuff. You and I," he returned his attentive gaze to Thomas. "Not so much."

After a moment of silence, Thomas briefly gestured at Newt and changed the topic. "I would love to borrow that outfit sometime, though."

The outfit must've been a deliberate choice on the stylist's end. He was draped in a golden net that was strategically knotted at his groin so he wouldn't be labeled as naked, but it was a pretty fine line drawn.

Newt chuckled, making it evident that he was examining Thomas's costume. "You're bloody terrifying me in that getup. What happened to those adorable bow ties you wore?"

"I got bored of them," he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

"You sound just as intimidating as you look," Newt fired back dryly. Taking the collar of his outfit and running it between his fingers, he shrugged faintly. "It's too bad about this Quell thing, huh? You could've made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Money, jewels, anything you wanted."

Thomas recognized the exaggerated pity in the blond's words, but he ignored it. "I don't like jewels," he reminded him. "And I have more money than I need. You're not one to talk either, though, are you? You don't even let others pay you that way."

When he thought he went too far, that he shouldn't have brought that up, a slow smile spread across Newt's lips. "Oh, you remembered. How sweet," he practically cooed. "Since you remember what my form of payment is," he tipped his head in so his lips were almost in contact with Thomas's. "Do you have any secrets for me now, Mockingjay?"

For some stupid reason, Thomas blushed, heat crawling up his neck and onto his cheeks. Nevertheless, he forced himself to hold his ground. "No. I still don't," he paused, then whispered, "I'm an open book. It isn't that hard to read me."

Newt's smile didn't fade. "I think you're right on that one," his eyes flickered to the side. "Teresa's coming. I'm sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you," he held his gaze for another second before popping another sugar cube in his mouth. "Have a good day." He turned and sauntered off, 'politely' bowing his head to Teresa as she approached them.

She was dressed in an outfit nearly as identical to his, except hers was designed a little like a dress. "What did Newt want this time?"

Thomas shook his arms out, trying to calm his nerves from the unexpected encounter. "To know all my secrets."

Teresa surprisingly laughed. "Well, at least it's never a dull moment with him."

"I'd rather have it dull," he grumbled. "But I'll probably tell you more when my skin stops crawling." The music began and he saw the wide doors opening for the first chariot, heard the roar of the crowd. "Shall we?" He held out his hand to help her into the chariot.

She climbed up and purposefully pulled him up after in an overly rough manner, snorting at his startled reaction. "Sorry," she said.

If they were in any other situation where they weren't being sent into the arena again, he wouldn't have found that as funny, but he was glad to see that she still had the capacity to smile after everything that happened. "No you're not," he flicked her crown in retaliation, making her straighten it. "By the way, have you seen your outfit turned on? We're going to be glowing again."

"Of course. But Mark told me we're to be very above it all. No more Mr. Nice Guy...and Gal," she glanced around the area. "Where are they?"

"I dunno," he noted the procession of chariots. "But we better be ready." He could see people pointing at them, chattering away, and he had a feeling that he and Teresa would be the talk of the opening ceremonies again. They were almost to the door as he craned his head around, but neither Mary nor Mark were in sight. He was confused for their sudden no-show, but his thoughts were interrupted as his hand was grabbed.

Teresa gave him a reassuring nod, the dramatically dark makeup on her face – the smoldering eyes, high arching brows, sharp cheekbones – not able to hide her true candor from him. "We got this, Tom."

Looking at her now, Thomas welcomed the surge of relief that washed through him. He was more than glad he wasn't doing this alone. He had her by his side. Without further discussion, he squeezed her hand once and then their chariot rolled into the light. The voices of the crowd erupted into an ecstatic bellowing upon their entrance, yet the two of them didn't react.

Whether the Capitol viewed them as star-crossed lovers or not, he knew where his relationship with her resided. He held her hand as her best friend, as someone he cared for. He held her hand like she was his sister. And he wouldn't let them change that, not even as the people cried and hollered for them, idolizing them as two young people in love; a story the Capitol fabricated for themselves.

He fixed his eyes on a point far in the distance and pretended there was no audience, no uproar. He caught a glimpse of them on the huge screens along the route and had to suppress an elated smirk. The so-called star-crossed lovers were unforgiving. They would not catch the crowd's kisses. They would not wave. They weren't afraid to broadcast their fury.

And he completely loved it.

As they approached the loop of the City Circle, Thomas looked toward the balcony where President Paige stood, overseeing the parade. There she was, utterly composed, her face aloof and haughty while she watched from her Hightower.

'Pedestal of power.'

He remembered what he had thought of her the other day, making the spark of his rage rekindle. She would see him. She would see what she had done to him, what she had taken from him. He was already being paraded to his death, the least he could do was flaunt his indignation.

President Paige intently studied him and Teresa, tilting her head ever so slightly as if they were mere ants to her.

Thomas kept his eyes locked on hers and unhesitantly pressed the button in his other hand with his thumb. Teresa promptly followed suit, not missing a beat.

The audience's cheers merged into one universal scream as they began to glow, mesmerizing all of them with their ever-changing coal costumes. He heard people chanting his name, but he only kept his attention on Paige, ignoring the rest of them. In his peripheral vision, he could make out Teresa staring right at her as well.

'They're shouting a rebel's name. How does that make you feel?' He silently questioned her. President Paige's lips twitched into an uncordial smile in response. He didn't waver. Instead, he lifted his head higher, basking in his sweltering anger. They curved around into the loop and Teresa looked away with an uninterested roll of her eyes at the President. He wouldn't let Paige off that easily, though; he continued to instill his message to her, the message of so many other dead tributes.

Her smile fell once she saw that he didn't back off.

When the chariot was nearing the other far side of the loop, he knew he'd done what he was supposed to and finally returned his gaze straight ahead. That's also how he noticed most of the other tributes were watching them, too, albeit for a few seconds. He tried to act like he didn't know.

Him and Teresa waited until the doors of the Training Center closed behind them to relax. Mary and Mark were there, satisfied with their performance. Jorge showed up as well but he was with the tributes of District 11. He nodded at their direction and those from the other District followed him over to greet them.

Thomas recognized Chaff because of the years he spent watching him and Jorge share bottles of liquor on television. He was dark skinned, his height somewhat intimidating, and had one of his arms ending in a stump due to his lost hand in the Games he won thirty years ago. The woman, Cecelia, was also with them. Her auburn hair, which was tied in a high ponytail, must've stood out in her District – there weren't many who had that color from what he remembered. Her golden brown eyes enhanced her beauty, and her olive skin appeared healthy despite her age.

Before he could properly greet them, Cecelia suddenly moved, throwing her arm around him and giving him a big kiss right on the mouth. He instantly jerked back, his words getting caught in his throat, completely startled. Chaff cackled alongside Jorge; they must've found his reaction hilarious.

That was about all the time they had because the Capitol attendants sternly directed them toward the elevators. Thomas had an inkling that they weren't comfortable with the camaraderie among the Victors, who clearly could care less. 'Is kissing someone on the lips normal here?' As he walked to the elevators, trying to forget what happened, someone else rustled up to his side. The boy roughly unclipped the thick, gold cuff bracelets off his wrists, tossing it behind him without checking to see where it fell.

A frown of disappointment settled on Thomas's face.

Minho Mason. From District 7. Lumber and paper, resulting in the tree theme his costume had going on. He won, at age fifteen, by very convincingly portraying himself as weak and helpless so that he'd be forgotten. Little did everyone expect, he had a wicked ability to kill. He ran a hand through his already smoothly combed black hair, as if it needed fixing, and rolled his dark brown eyes. "Well, you guys look amazing, don't you? My costume sucks ass. My stylist's the biggest idiot in the Capitol. Our tributes have been stupid trees for forty years under her. I'd rather have Mary for myself, honestly."

Thomas could only blink at him, unsure of what to say. Teresa, who was still next to him, didn't offer any comment either. "Uh, yeah, she's great," he began hesitantly. "I'm grateful I have her. All of her designs are...super comfortable for me."

He internally cringed at himself. Was that the best he could come up with?

Minho huffed. "I know they are. I can tell. That suit you wore in District Two? The deep blue one with the diamonds? I was tempted to reach through the screen and rip it right off your back."

'Uh-huh, I'm sure,' Thomas thought. 'Along with some of my skin.'

While they waited for the elevators, Minho tugged his sleeveless gray overcoat off, then his bark-patterned pants, and unzipped his green bodysuit, letting it drop to the floor and kicking it away in disgust. Except for his sleek, brown Oxford shoes, he didn't have one stitch of clothing on him. "That's better."

Thomas, absolutely terrified, stepped into the elevator once the doors opened, but Minho ended up following them in. "So," he said casually. "What do you think? Now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?"

"I don't think that the whole world—" Thomas scoffed, but was interrupted.

"I wasn't talking to you." Minho corrected, any form of civility or respect being tossed away just like the rest of his clothes.

"Oh, okay..." Thomas muttered, looking anywhere but at him. He desperately wanted to cover Teresa's eyes from the awful sight before them, but he didn't, knowing that would probably give Minho a sense of satisfaction he was not going to provide. 'Not the best question to ask when you're naked, either.' He restrained himself from saying that out loud, letting Teresa take the lead in the conversation.

And she did. The two of them chatted about the clothing line she was working on as well as her painting hobby – her two talents she perfected after the 74th Games – all while keeping direct eye contact. The light of her still-glowing costume reflected off his bare, toned chest until he left with a smile. "That was fun. Let's do it again sometime."

Thomas felt like he couldn't move from his spot, even when Minho was gone. He ignored Teresa, but he knew she was grinning. He slowly turned to look incredulously at her when the doors closed behind Cecelia and Chaff, leaving them alone. She doubled-down, laughing uncontrollably.

"What?" He asked, storming off as they stepped out on their floor.

"It's you, Tom! Can't you see?" She said.

"What's me?"

"Why they're all acting like this. Newt with that whole sugar cube thing he has going on and Wright kissing you and...Minho stripping down." She snickered, then attempted to take on a serious tone, which she failed at. "They're playing with you because you're so...you know."

"No, I don't know," he hissed.

She sighed dramatically. "Pure. In the Capitol's terms, you're pure."

"I don't care about the Capitol's terms!" If anything, he hated being described by the Capitol. To hear that was just offensive.

"Hey," Teresa raised her hands. "It's true. I would've done the same thing, honestly. I'm not fully surprised by their actions."

"Oh, please, like you knew all of that was gonna happen," Thomas countered.

He started to rethink the question of who should survive the Games when the other elevator opened. Jorge and Trina joined them, looking pleased about something.

"C'mon, Tom," Teresa said a little more softly. "I was joking."

Jorge narrowed his eyes at her, most likely wondering what went wrong. Thomas shook his head and went down to his old bedroom. He was probably being petty, but at the moment, it felt as though everyone was trying to irritate him when he was about to go fight for his life in an arena.

Teresa joining in on that trend wasn't what he needed from her.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

By the time Trina knocked on his door to summon him to dinner, he was already out of his suit and clean from the makeup on his face. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants, he made his way down the hall to the dining room.

He ate in silence, not sparing Teresa a single glance. The others – Jorge, Mary, and Mark – were there, too, but they didn't pester him for his lack of speech. When they decided to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies, he wedged himself between Mary and Jorge on the couch because he didn't want to be next to Teresa. Still a bit petty. He didn't have the energy to care. He didn't change his mind about saving her in the arena, yet he couldn't forget her laughing at him like the other Victors had.

Watching the procession to the City Circle, he couldn't help acknowledging how cruel the whole thing was. Kids riding chariots in a costume was silly, but aging Victors taking that place was a pitiful sight. A few were on the younger side, like Minho and Newt, who happened to be the same age of nineteen, or whose bodies hadn't fallen into disrepair, like Wright and a tough-looking guy named Barkley. There was also Minho's District partner, a woman who might've been the same age as Chaff. The majority, however, who were under the bondage of drink or morphling or illness, looked grotesque in their costumes, depicting cows and trees and loaves of bread. Last year, he and the others rambled on and on about each contestant, but tonight there was only an occasional comment.

Nobody could deny how deplorable this year's Games were.

As soon as it was over, he stood, thanked Mary and Mark for their spectacular work, then headed off to bed. Trina reminded him to meet early for breakfast to discuss their training strategy, but even her voice sounded empty.

He delayed going down to breakfast in the morning when he awoke. What was there to talk about? Their training strategy would be the same as last year: him and Teresa would continue to act in love. That was it. Every Victor already knew what everybody else could do. Or used to be able to do.

Thomas took a long shower, dressed sluggishly in the outfit Mary left him for training, and ordered food from the menu in his room by speaking into a mouthpiece – far too fancy for his taste. In only a minute, sausage, eggs, potatoes, pancakes, juice, and hot chocolate appeared. He ate his fill, purposefully dragging out the minutes until ten o'clock, when they had to go down to the Training Center. By nine-thirty, Jorge came pounding on his door, ordering him to the dining room that instant.

He still brushed his teeth before going, adding another five minutes to the clock.

Besides Teresa and Jorge being in there, the dining room was empty. His mentor's face was flushed with drink and irritation. On his wrist he wore a solid-gold bangle with a pattern of flames – what Thomas guessed was the concession to Trina's matching-token plan – that he twisted somberly. It was actually a very elegant bangle. "You're late." Jorge snarled.

Thomas shrugged. "Sorry. I was enjoying the little time I have to myself before I go to death's door," he meant to sound hostile, but his voice ended up cracking a bit at the end of his sentence.

Jorge scowled but soon relented. "All right, never mind. Today, in training, you've got two jobs. One, stay in love."

"Duh," he said.

"And two, make some friends."

"No," Thomas scoffed. "Not happening. The other Victors are as weird as it gets. I don't trust any of them, and I'd rather operate with just the two of us."

"That's...what I said at first, but—" Teresa began.

"But it won't be enough," Jorge finished. "You're going to need more allies this time, Thomas."

"Why?" He asked, becoming impatient.

"Because you're at a big disadvantage. Your competitors have known each other for years. So who do you think they're going to target first?" Jorge pressed.

"Us. And nothing we're going to do is going to change any old friendship," he answered through gritted teeth. "So why bother?"

Jorge gestured his hand at him, as if that was all the explanation he needed. "You can fight. You're popular with the crowd. That could still make you desirable allies. But only if you let the others know you're willing to team up with them."

Thomas didn't say anything at first. Then, "You mean to tell me that you want us in the Career pack this year?" That heartily repulsed him. Usually the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 collaborated, possibly taking in a few other passable fighters, and hunted down the weaker competitors. That wasn't his way of thinking. At least, he hoped it wasn't.

"That's been our training strategy, hasn't it? To train like Careers?" Jorge insisted. "And who makes up the Career pack is normally agreed upon before the Games begin. Teresa barely got in with them last year."

Last year. Thomas suddenly remembered the loathing he felt when he discovered that his best friend was with the Careers during the last Games. It was a trick, a plan she played on everyone, including those watching, all to save his life. He thought she had betrayed him. He was beyond relieved to find out it was fake. "So we're to try to get in with Newt and Barkley — is that what you're saying, Jorge?"

"Not necessarily. Everyone's a Victor, hermano. Make your own pack if you'd rather. Choose who you like. I'd suggest Newt, I actually...talked to him many times over the last couple of years. And Cecelia and Chaff," his mentor said. "Find someone to team up with who might be of some use to you. Remember, you're not in a ring full of trembling, scared children anymore. These people are all experienced killers, no matter what shape they're in."

Not only did Jorge drop the information of him speaking to Newt on separate occasions, but Thomas realized, begrudgingly, that he was right. But who could he trust in there? Certainly not someone who stripped right in front of him and his best friend. Even if he chose to trust Newt or Cecelia, that would mean he'd eventually – possibly – have to kill them. Any alliances wouldn't produce good results in the long run. But he recalled his pact with Alby, and knew he had to try. He told Jorge he'd give it a shot, even though he was probably going to be pretty bad at it.

Trina arrived earlier than expected to take them down since last year, even though they were on time, they were the last two tributes to show up. Jorge told her he didn't want her taking them down to the gym. None of the other Victors would be going with a babysitter, so it was important they looked self-reliant. She had to satisfy herself with taking them to the elevator and pushing the buttons for them.

"Stand straight. Be sure to be courteous!" She chirped, seemingly forgetting that everyone in that arena would inevitably kill one another or die some other way.

Her worrying was pointless in the end. Only Barkley and the woman from District 2, Rose, were present. Rose appeared to be about thirty and, from what Thomas could remember, she killed one tribute by ripping open his throat and severely damaging his nose with her teeth. She became so famous for that 'marvelous' act that, after she was a Victor, she had her teeth cosmetically altered to make each one as sharp as a fang. Everyone adored her.

Next to him, Teresa leaned in so she could speak in a lower voice. "Don't forget, Tom, today's about making allies."

He knew, at least for the training, he couldn't hold on to any bitterness toward her. So he didn't act angry as he responded to her. "Yeah, well, so far I'm not overwhelmed by our choices," he whispered.

By ten o'clock, half of the tributes arrived, and he told Teresa it'd be a good idea to split up in order to cover more territory. When she went off to chuck knives with Barkley and Chaff, he headed over to the knot-tying station. He was fond of the trainer, who remembered him from last year and how much time he spent at that station. She was pleased when he showed her he could still set the trap that left an enemy dangling by a leg from a tree. She must've taken note of his snares in the arena last year and saw him as an advanced pupil, but he also had Brenda to thank for that.

He pushed away the twinge of sadness that came with her name being brought to the surface of his thoughts.

He asked the trainer to review every kind of knot he could make, as well as a few he'd probably never use. He would've been content spending the morning alone with her, but after about an hour and a half, someone put their arms around him from behind, their fingers easily finishing the complicated knot he was sweating over.

Thomas flinched and immediately moved out the way, not completely surprised to see Newt lightly chuckling at him. "M' sorry," his laughter regressed to something quieter, his smile becoming more faint. "I'm really sorry." He said.

Not anticipating for the genuine apology, Thomas managed a nod, watching what he did next.

Newt picked up a length of rope, made a noose, and then pretended to hang himself for his amusement. He must've spent his entire childhood doing nothing but wielding tridents and manipulating ropes into fancy knots for nets. Or something.

Ignoring the slightly unsettling joke of a noose, Thomas awkwardly gestured at the blond's toned arms. "Do you always sneak up on people like that?"

"Not all the time. Consider yourself lucky," Newt jested with another smile returning to his lips.

"I don't think so," he replied, rolling his eyes and heading over to another vacant station where tributes could learn to build fires. He heard Newt's subtle laughter, but forced himself to carry on. He was already capable of making excellent fires, but he was still dependent on matches for starting them. The trainer had him work with flint, steel, and some charred cloth. It was much harder then he thought.

Even working as fervently as he did, it took him about an hour just to get a fire going. He huffed triumphantly, grinning, and looked up, then discovered he had company.

The two tributes from District 3 were beside him, struggling to start a decent fire with matches. Thomas was going to leave, but he wanted to try using flint again, and if he had to report back to Jorge that he at least tried to make friends, those two could possibly be a bearable choice. Both were relatively small but had different appearances. The woman, Rachel, was probably around his mother's age, maybe a little younger, and spoke in a quiet, intelligent voice. She had dark skin, dark eyes, and pure black hair that was tightly curled together. He did notice, however, that she had a strange habit of dropping off her words in mid-sentence, as if she'd forgotten anyone was there. Aris, the man, was a bit older than her and somewhat fidgety, always reaching up to mess with his dark brown hair in one way or another. 'Kind of weird...but I don't think they're the type to strip naked.'

He glanced around the Training Center. The morphlings from District 6 were in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls. The male tributes from District 5 were...vomiting wine on the sword-fighting floor. 'Gross.' Newt and the old woman from his District were using the archery station. Minho was practicing with an axe.

He decided to stay put.

Aris and Rachel made some decent company. They were friendly but didn't pry. They talked about their talents, and he was impressed to find out that they both invented things. It made him feel quite stupid compared to them.

At one point, Rachel stopped and gazed up at the stands where the Gamemakers roamed around, eating and drinking, sometimes paying attention to them. "Look," she murmured, her head vaguely nodding in their direction. Thomas did, and he saw Vince Heavensbee in the grand purple robe with the fur-trimmed collar that designated him as Head Gamemaker. He was eating a turkey leg.

He didn't know why that was brought up, but he hummed in acknowledgment. "Yeah, he's been promoted to Head Gamemaker this year."

"No, no. There by the corner of the table. You can just..." She trailed off, distracted by something in her head.

"Just make it out." Aris finished, squinting attentively.

Thomas stared in that direction, perplexed. But then he saw it. A patch of space about six inches square at the corner of the table seemed to vibrate. It was like the air was rippling in tiny, barely visible waves, distorting the sharp edges of the wood and a goblet of wine someone had set there.

"A force field. They've set one up between the Gamemakers and us. I wonder why they did that," Aris wondered aloud.

After a moment's hesitation, Thomas replied, "Me, probably. Last year I shot an arrow at them during my private training session." They looked at him curiously. "I was angry. So, do all force fields have a spot like that?"

"Chink," Rachel answered.

"In the armor, as it were," Aris continued for her. "Ideally it'd be invisible, wouldn't it?" He paused, examining the force field again. "Electromagnetic." He concluded.

"How can you tell?" Thomas asked. That must've been a funny question to them; they started laughing, grinning at each other as if he'd spoken the most hilarious thing ever to be uttered. He felt uncomfortable. "Is it...obvious or something?"

"Is it obvious?" Aris repeated with a chuckle.

"They might as well have a sign," Rachel snickered.

Aris settled down, becoming uncannily serious. "Look around you. All the lights in here, every now and then they flicker. Why?"

Having the need to prove he understood, Thomas thought about his answer before responding. "Because the force field is taking up too much energy."

Smiling faintly at him, Aris nodded in approval. "There's always a flaw in the system," he observed.

Thomas wanted to ask them more, but lunch was announced. He searched the room for Teresa, but she was hanging with a group of about ten other Victors, so he decided to eat with District 3. 'Maybe I could get Wright to join us.'

When they walked into the dining area, he realized some of Teresa's gang had other ideas. They were dragging all the smaller tables to create a large one, granting them the ability to eat together. 'Great.' He took a tray and started making his way around the food-laden carts that encircled the room. Teresa jogged up to him at the stew. "How's everything going?"

"Good. Fine. I like the District Three Victors," he said. "Rachel and Aris."

She furrowed her brows. "Really? They're something of a joke to the others."

"And why does that not surprise me?" Thomas retorted dryly. He remembered how Teresa was always surrounded by a large group of friends in school. He truly considered it a miracle that she even noticed him enough to be his friend as well.

She shrugged. "Minho calls them Nuts and Volts. I'm pretty sure the girl is Nuts and the guy is Volts."

He sighed. "Yeah, let me just take Minho Mason's word for it because I'm so stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because, by all means, let's take the advice of someone who stripped his clothes off and talked to us, naked, in an elevator."

"Actually," she said in a tone that warned him to calm down. "I think the nickname's been around for years. And I didn't mean that as an insult, Tom. I'm just sharing information."

"Well, Rachel and Aris are smart. They invent stuff. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to get some allies, I want them." He tossed the ladle back in a pot of stew, splattering them both with the gravy. His shoulders sagged.

Teresa blinked and wiped the spot of gravy off her cheek. "What are you so angry about, Thomas?" She scrubbed another small blotch from her shirtfront. "Because I teased you on the elevator? I'm sorry, I thought you would just laugh about it."

He wiped gravy off his eyebrow. "Forget it. It's a lot of things."

"...The Games?"

"Yes," he said, emphasizing the word. "Jorge, too — him making us team up with the others."

"But he is right, Tom," she urged gently. "You know that."

Thomas stared down at his bowl of stew. "I do. Don't tell him this, but he usually is right, when the Games are involved."

"Okay, to cheer you up, you can have the final say about our allies, hm? But right now, I'm kind of leaning toward Chaff and Cecelia," Teresa suggested.

"I'm okay with Chaff, not so much with Ponytail," he muttered. "At least, not yet."

The nickname he gave to Cecelia didn't register to her right away, but when it did, she chortled.

"Come on," she dragged on. "Eat with her. I promise I won't let her kiss you again." She grinned, nudging him with her elbow.

Reluctantly, he did. Cecelia didn't seem as bad at lunch. She was sober and civil. She even apologized for startling him with her kiss. He warily accepted her apology. Chaff, on the other hand, was loud and terrible at making jokes, most of which were at his own expense.

Thomas tried to be more sociable, not just with Ponytail and Chaff but with the entire group. After lunch, the Toad and Misty, the sister and brother from District 1, invited him over to make hammocks for a while. They were polite but cool, and he had to stop himself from gawking at their bright red hair multiple times. It was more vibrant compared to Cecelia's, that was for sure. Both his hammock and his attempt to connect with them were mediocre at best. He later decided to join Rose at sword training and exchanged a few words, but it was painfully clear that neither of them wanted to team up.

Newt appeared again right when he was wiping beads of sweat from his forehead as he arrived to the fishing station. "Tommy, there you are," the blond called, getting his attention.

'As if it was hard to find me,' he thought, but carried on respectfully. "Newt," he greeted.

Newt held his hand out at the old woman next to him. "Let me do the honor of introducing you to Keisha," he said, a hint of pride in his voice, as if she was his prized possession.

Thomas realized, after talking to them for a little while, that between Keisha's District accent and her garbled speech, he couldn't make out more than one in four words – mostly. But, on everything he loved, the lady could make a decent fishhook out of anything – a thorn, a wishbone, an earring. Eventually, he tuned out the trainer and simply tried to copy whatever she did.

Once he made a pretty good hook out of a bent nail, he beckoned for Newt to come over and fastened it in his hair, since it was a bit longer than his. Newt wasn't anticipating for that to happen, based on the brief look of surprise on his face, but he quickly relaxed. Thomas presented it to Keisha, unconsciously seeking her approval as he offered a small smile. She gave him a delighted grin in return and an unintelligible comment he assumed was praise, her dark eyes sparkling.

Something squeezed his heart, and he felt his stomach drop when he knew what it meant. 'I messed up.' This was just wonderful. Now he had to go back and tell Jorge he wanted an eighty-year-old and Nuts and Volts for his allies. That sounded fantastic.

Suddenly dreading what Jorge would say, he excused himself and went to the archery station in hopes to distract his mind. It was a little secluded room, high-tech, and had bow and arrows in excellent quality. Glass doors slid open as he stepped up to plate, skimming through the tablet that sat on a stand, giving him different options to choose from for his training. His eyes locked on a particular one that sparked his interest.

A bit of a challenge was just what he needed.

He selected the required buttons, thankful he understood how it worked, and walked into the open space with a bow and a full sheath of arrows. He loaded one on the string as the lights around him darkened, the glass panels doing the same, preventing him from seeing anything on the outside. He waited. Then they came.

Thin beams of orange light shot down from the corners of the ceiling, scattering throughout the floor before they all pointed to his left – when he was looking in the opposite direction, of course – and formed a holographic figure of a person. A tribute. He quickly saw it was charging at him for its attack, and he promptly released his arrow at it, making it shatter and crumble to the ground. That could've been a representation of Rose, but he'd never really know.

Then another one.

His eyes sharply followed the lines of light that shifted to the upper columns above, swiftly shooting his arrow at a hologram that was obviously supposed to be him; its weapon was a bow, just like his. He eliminated it before it could properly raise its arms.

The lights moved. He moved with them.

Thomas's hands nimbly loaded his bow once more, tracking the stirring orange beams. The new hologram launched a spear at him, to which he quickly pivoted around and fired at it, marking another one down.

Again, the beams changed, and he secured an arrow on the string. He heard it behind him this time. He turned, letting his arrow fly, making it land straight in the hologram's head.

And another.

He felt himself getting lost in the shooting, forgetting that he was still in the gym as he pointed his weapon at the next one above in the columns again. It was running in a different direction, but that didn't waver his aim. The tip of his arrow followed the hologram until he pelted the missile at it – another victory for him.

The lights shifted to stand a few feet off in front of him, but he was already prepared; the rhythm of nocking an arrow on his bow was all too familiar for him. He launched it at the enemy before it could throw its sword.

Another hologram appeared, more far back than the last, but it ran rapidly toward him, training its axe at him and precisely throwing it at his head. He knew who that was supposed to be. He rolled, ducking out of the way, then pointed his arrow right where a heart should've been, briskly getting rid of it as it raised a second axe.

He felt more accomplished than he probably should have.

The process repeated and a hologram charged at him from behind. Thomas whirled around, releasing his arrow at it, but it didn't disappear yet. He only had a second or two to see it, but he could tell this one represented Teresa, with the knives it was about to throw at him. He propelled an extra arrow, making it crumble to the floor into nothing, just like the rest of them.

He directed his aim to where the beams moved next, up above, and immediately knew it was meant to be Newt. It deftly wielded a trident, leaping down to 'pierce' him with the holographic blades. He wouldn't allow it.

Thomas launched his arrow, letting the sharp end fly dead center into it, resulting in the figure of a person to diminish into blocks of orange light, then nothing.

He panted a little, expecting more, but the noise of the holograms faded. The room brightened, the glass panels finally cleared, and he blinked at the crowd standing there. All of the Victors were watching him and he didn't know it. He saw looks that ranged from envy, to admiration, to hatred. Rachel was clapping for him.

Thomas brushed his hand through his hair. He wouldn't let their stares unsettle him. He's had enough of their attitudes for one day.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

"Good news," Jorge announced. "At least half the Victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally."

Thomas stopped chewing the chocolate covered orange he had in his mouth. For one, it actually tasted better than he expected. Two...'what?'

"They saw him shoot," Teresa said jubilantly, pride tangible in her voice.

"You that good?" Jorge asked as he sat across the table from him, not even glancing at the dinner laid out. "So good that Barkley wants you?"

Thomas recoiled slightly. "But I don't want Barkley. I want Keisha and District Three."

"I should've seen that coming," Jorge sighed and ordered a bottle of wine. "I'll tell everybody you're still making up your mind."

After his shooting exhibition, Thomas got teased a little, but it no longer felt like he was being mocked. In fact, it was as if he'd been initiated into the Victors' circle. During the next two days, he spent time with almost everybody going into the arena. Even the morhplings, who, with Teresa's help, painted him into a field of yellow flowers. Newt, too, who gave him an hour of trident lessons in exchange for an hour of archery instruction. He was forced to acknowledge that Newt wasn't so bad – although he was still a bit odd. Maybe it was the District accent.

He found himself trying to point out the flaws of the other tributes, too, but it started to become more and more ineffective. As he came to make connections with most of the Victors, he realized that he was attempting to shield himself from liking them. He failed. Because, on the whole, he didn't truly hate them. And a lot of them were so damaged that his first instinct would be to protect them.

But all of them were destined to die if he was going to save Teresa.

The final day of training ended with their private sessions. They each had fifteen minutes before the Gamemakers to amaze them with their skills, but Thomas didnt know what they could show that would be super impressive. The morphlings had a chance, perhaps. If anything, there was a lot of kidding about it at lunch for what they might do. Sing. Dance, strip, tell jokes. Keisha, who he could understand better than he did last time, declared she was just going to take a nap.

The dining room became quieter and quieter as the tributes left to go perform. While they did so, he couldn't stop thinking of the fact that they all had a matter of days to live.

He was finally given some alone time with Teresa once they were the last ones in the room. She rested her elbows on the table. "Got any ideas for what you're gonna do yet?"

He put his forehead on the table, focusing on his hands in his lap. "I can't really use the Gamemakers as target practices this year because of the force field stuff. Maybe I'll make a couple fishhooks. What about you?"

She pursed her lips. "Not a clue, honestly. I'll probably ask if I can bake a cake or something."

Thomas snorted, lifting his head to meet her eyes. "Good luck with that. I suggest you do more camouflage."

"If the morphlings even left me anything to work with," she said bluntly. "They haven't abandoned that station since the training began."

They sat in silence awhile, but he couldn't contain the raging thought in his mind and blurted out, "How are we going to kill these people, Teresa?"

She wasn't quick to respond, yet when she did, she spoke in a whisper. "I don't know."

"I don't want them as allies. Why did Jorge want us to get to know them?" He persisted. "It's just making it so much harder than last time. Except for Alby, maybe," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But I guess I never really could've killed him."

Teresa's brows creased. "His death was very despicable, wasn't it?"

"None of them were pretty," Thomas said, thinking of the tributes he murdered in the arena.

They called Teresa, so he waited by himself. Fifteen minutes passed. Then half an hour. It was close to forty minutes, with him ready to take a nap like Keisha said she would do, when he was called.

As he went in, the sharp odor of cleaner products bombarded his nose, and he noticed that one of the mats had been dragged to the center of the room. The mood was entirely different from last year's, where the Gamemakers were half drunk and idly picking at tidbits from the banquet table. They whispered among themselves, looking annoyed. 'What did Teresa do?'

He grew worried. That wasn't a good sign. He didn't want Teresa singling herself out as a target for the Gamemakers' anger. That was his job. But how did she upset them? He needed to know, because he'd love to do just that and a lot more, to break their smug veneers and aloof demeanors. They, who used their brains to find entertaining ways to kill people.

'Don't you know how much I hate you?' He silently told them. 'How much we all hate you?'

Thomas tried to catch Vince Heavensbee's eye, but it looked like he was intentionally ignoring him, as he had been the whole training period. He remembered how Vince sought him and Teresa out, asking his best friend for a dance. His friendly mannerisms were nowhere to be found now. Why did it matter, anyway? Thomas Everdeen was only a tribute, bound to die, and Vince was the Head Gamemaker. So powerful, so careless, so safe.

He studied the exquisite purple robe on the Head Gamemaker, and it clicked.

He knew what to do.

Thomas went over to the knot-tying station and grabbed a length of rope. He started to manipulate it, but it was hard since he'd never made that actual knot itself. He only watched Newt's clever fingers, and they moved extremely fast. Who would've thought that joke would come in handy now.

After ten minutes, he made a respectable noose. He dragged one of the target dummies out in the middle of the room and, using a few chinning bars, hung it so it dangled by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would've been the cherry on top, but he figured he was running out of time. He hurried over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes had made a giant mess. But he found a partial container of bloodred berry juice that would serve its purpose for his idea. He carefully finger painted the words on its body, concealing them from view.

At last, he stepped away to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers' faces as they read the name on the dummy.

And since the Capitol loved it so much when he did it, Thomas held one of his hands over his chest, extending his other arm out, and bowed deeply.

Several shrieked upon seeing what he'd written.

Randall Crane.

[butterflythoughtss]

Listening to 'In The Navy' and can't stop thinking about Thomas and everything he's gonna do soon in my fic chat I am so sorry

Chariotparadechariotparademockingjayoutfitmockingjayoutfit

[butterflythoughtss]

muahaha I've scheduled the next chapter to release tomorrow. I'M TELLING YALL, ONCE YOU HIT THE FLOW OF WRITING, IT IS JUST SPECTACULAR

[butterflythoughtss]

I'm crying I just saw somebody say "moggingjay" as they showed a picture of katniss literally about to execute Snow

[butterflythoughtss]

Listening to 'In The Navy' and can't stop thinking about Thomas and everything he's gonna do soon in my fic chat I am so sorry

Chariotparadechariotparademockingjayoutfitmockingjayoutfit

[butterflythoughtss]

When I'm having a good day and then I remember "please, Tommy, please." 🧍‍♀️

[butterflythoughtss]

Flashback to when I was discussing thg themes to my mom and she brought up Finnick and what he'd been through in the Capitol:

"Yeah, that was that guy, FIN, right?"

[butterflythoughtss]

You ever think about the fact that Lucy Gray's first appearance was in a very brightly colored dress, contrary to the depressing setting of the Reaping, and then all of these years later, the Capitol itself (besides Snow) dresses JUST like that (in a more ridiculous way)? In spite of how dark and brutal the Games are? In spite of the Districts that are starving and still being treated like slaves??

Do you think Snow set it up that way?? Or was bro secretly holding in his anger because it brought back memories of Lucy Gray, therefore releasing more of that rage on the innocent tributes who went into the arena??

[haydoveeverlark]

Lucy Gray was the Trendsetter fr

[butterflythoughtss]

fr I mean look at the other district 12 victors 🧍‍♀️

Oh wait we're talking about clothes whoops

[butterflythoughtss]

A reason why I love the hunger games so much is because of the deep, meaningful lessons behind it. One of those being the ability to decide. To choose. The oppression of the Capitol made it seem like everyone in the Districts didn't have a choice in anything — their lives were determined from the get-go; be sent into an arena to kill other YOUNG children and inevitably die in there if you didn't win, or, if you got "lucky" enough, spend the rest of your life as a slave to what the Capitol needs/wants from your particular District.

But there is a quote I came across by watching a video about thg, and it's from a holocaust survivor. "Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

The human will is a very powerful thing. It can determine so much for someone's life. In the face of oppression, would you hold on to your morals and still choose right or would you go downhill? Would you help others in spite of your own lack or would you only look out for yourself? It's a very hard question, and anyone would like to assume they'd give to others, but if it really came down to it, that decision could waver.

Katniss, despite what she thinks of herself, actually chooses compassion many times throughout the trilogy. She hates herself, that much is evident (and that grows in Mockingjay), but because of the cruelty of the Capitol and what she's been through as a result of that, she views herself as manipulative and selfish, when in reality she is just a girl who desperately wants to protect her family, her sister. When even her sister is eventually taken from her, though, what does she do? Yes, she goes into a depressive episode (that, may I add, wasn't entirely included in the movie) and genuinely wants to die or kill herself. Yes, she is hopeless for a while. But when the ultimate decision comes for when she must kill Snow, the man who caused so much devastion in her life and in many other's, she knows what to do instead.

A new threat came: Coin. She was aiming to begin a whole new era of Hunger Games again. With Capitol children. But let's get rid of the whole "Capitol" word and just say it as it is: children. Katniss even thought something along the lines of, " nothing has changed. nothing will ever change" when she heard this. She CHOOSES to eliminate the bigger threat now. She CHOOSES to end Coin's life instead because Coin would've brought even more devastation, more damage, and more brokenness when there was already so much of that. She chose to do good for the better of humanity in the future, even when everything was taken from her.

Yes, she has PTSD. Yes, she has trauma. Yes, she had depression. Yes, she was suicidal many times. But her conscious, her knowledge of what was good and bad in the middle of a war, is what saved Panem from another future of more unnecessary deaths. More unnecessary Hunger Games. That's such a hard thing to do when your enemy is literally right in front of you. You could easily take revenge and take his life yourself, but what about the (literally) looming danger that is also there now? Would you only think of yourself and the sister and friends you've lost and take that out on the one who caused all of that? Or would you remember who the real enemy is?

All of this to say, war and death can bring out what you really think about everyone and everything. But all of us still have an option to choose to do good.

[butterflythoughtss]

Dude the urge to write another chapter when you literally just released one but you get too busy over and over again so you just gotta go write down any ideas in your notes app and save them for later

[butterflythoughtss]

don't dm me to talk about thg unless you're prepared for some heavy analysis bro

[justpeaxchy]

𝖲𝗁𝗈⍵ & Τ౿ᥣᥣ

Hunger Games au

— "Trepidation, speculation, everybody, allegation. In the suite, on the news, everybody, dog food. Black man, black mail, throw the brother in jail. All I wanna say is that they don't really care about us."

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 6: The horror of the Hunger Games has returned to Thomas' doorstep, and he is left with only one last goal in life: To make sure Teresa is the one who survives it.

a/n: ohmygoshohmygosh, IT'S STARTING. I am both scared and excited to go into the process of writing the 75th Games. Help. Also, a bit of a warning, there is a little more mentions of blood in this chapter. If that makes you uncomfortable, please be advised. (And I feel like I could've did a better job with this chapter, but it is what it is ig)

His body reacted before his mind had a chance to catch up.

Thomas, submerged in fear and disbelief, saw the house blur into one discombobulated color as he rushed outside without his shoes. The sharp bite of the wind consumed him, trying to push him back into his home to face the truth of what he just heard. He wouldn't let it.

None of this was real.

It couldn't be.

It had to be some sick joke the President planned, but as he ran to the one place where he knew he'd find a scrap of comfort, he realized Paige wasn't one for jokes.

He abruptly forced his feet to a halt, sliding on the ground and nearly stumbling onto the snow. The fence encompassing the woods was alive with electricity, buzzing a warning to those who dared to go against the laws set for them.

He couldn't go in the forest. The Peacekeepers, Leavitt, finally put the rules to work. He couldn't leave, not even if he tried.

'Focus.'

His breaths were ragged, short, and alarmingly difficult to maintain. Did they do that on purpose? Cut off the one source of refuge and freedom he used to hide from the cruelty of the Capitol? To spite him? Of all times, they've chosen to restrict him in a moment of dread.

He turned and sprinted back, struggling to see straight. The cold air did no good for his lungs, leaving his heart pounding with the extra effort to merely keep him alive under the oppressive realization that he was being forced into the Games. His chest heaved. His ears rang.

'Focus.'

The Victor's Village returned to his blurry vision, and the only thing he was aware of next was his fist colliding with a window to an empty, unoccupied house, pushing himself through the shattered glass and staggering inside.

Then, he blinked and he was in the cellar, hastily gasping for air on his hands and knees. He couldn't escape this. He couldn't escape President Paige, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Thomas attempted to scream, but all that came out was a strangled breath, practically choking him. He fully collapsed on the floor, horrified that he might die right then and there. But wouldn't that be a good thing? Shouldn't he have preffered that over what he was bound to face later on?

For a split second, he welcomed death, welcomed the possibility of not being able to put oxygen back into his lungs, but his instincts, naturally fortified from being in the woods for most of his life, begged him to fight. To survive.

'I can't breathe.'

He clawed at the collar of his shirt, at his throat, unable to stop his constant hyperventilating. Someone called his name. He couldnt tell who. He couldn't fight. He couldn't do anything. The Capitol would place him in another arena. The Capitol would watch. The Capitol would force him to kill again.

That reminder alone made him succumb to the horrid anxiety pressing him down, leaving him drowning in its depths.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

"Alby!"

Thomas released his arrow, allowing it to find its home in the tribute's neck. The boy made a horrific sound, half choking, half a gasp of shock, and he fell to his knees. He roughly pulled out the arrow, one final defiant act, then the rest of him tumbled on the ground. Dead.

The world around Thomas shook, and he turned to gape at his new friend, the one he started to consider the older brother he never had. Despair lurched in his heart. The spear nestled inside Alby's stomach.

Thomas quickly caught him before he could fall, freezing at the sight of the wound spilling out warm blood that tainted his trembling hands. There was too much of it. It scared him. "H-Hey, Alby, it's gonna be okay, we're okay—" He mumbled incoherently.

Alby's eyes already seemed to be losing their spark, his hand weakly clasping Thomas's blood stained one. "Hey," he rasped. "You...you're gonna win this thing, alright?"

"No, no, stop. That doesn't matter right now. I—"

Alby winced, his grip tightening to the best of his withering abilities. "Listen to me," he coughed. "You have to win." His voice held a faint urgency; his last dying request.

Thomas tried to prevent his body from shaking, tried to hearken to his friend's words. But all he saw was blood. All he saw was his friend and the life draining from him too fast for anyone to stop it. Yet, as he looked in his eyes, he recognized it: the quiet pleading of a dying boy, asking for one more bit of comfort.

He nodded, tears rolling off his cheeks. "I will," he whispered. "I swear I will, Alby..."

That satisfied him. Alby stared afar off at something in the distance, his lips twitching in the smallest of smiles — the most sincere one Thomas had ever witnessed from him. "Don't let me down, Thomas." He murmured.

And all he could do was watch as Alby breathed his last, his eyes forever locked on the forest around them, the arena the Capitol put them in.

It took Thomas twenty, thirty minutes – however long – to know what exactly his friend was looking at. He barely heard it through his muffled wails, having been burying his face in his jacket.

A small, tentative chirping.

He turned, directing his gaze to the trees above them. A singular mockingjay, tilting its head this way and that, monitored the scene. It was uncharacteristically quiet when Alby died. Even then, as they stared at each other, it chirped as if it didn't quite understand if it was allowed to in that moment.

Thomas couldn't suppress the enraged sob that left his mouth, and he furiously reached for his arrows, nocking one on the string of his bow and blindly shooting at it. He missed. The bird flew off, repeating his cry in a tune he earnestly wanted to forget.

He made the mistake of taking a glimpse at the boy he murdered, and he covered his mouth – only to flinch at the blood still covering his hands. It got on parts of his face, making him let out a faint shriek.

The boy, one whom Thomas didn't even know the name of, had his life taken from him by one of his arrows. He killed him. And what surrounded the two dead tributes in front of him was a sight he knew, from the bottom of his soul, he would never forget.

A pool of scarlet encompassing both boys.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

The dusty cellar slowly came back into view.

He coughed, the cold atmosphere draping over his skin. How long had he been up there? He weakly straightened himself to sit against the wall, breathing slowly as he recounted the reasons why he passed out.

The television. Mandatory programming.

President Paige.

Reading of the cards.

Tributes will be reaped from...

Thomas pounded his fist against the floor once he remembered, causing him to hiss in pain. He glared at his hands, not noticing their wounds until now. They were bleeding. Why were they bleeding?

'Oh, right...from the window.' He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the crimson coating most of his skin.

'Focus.'

He was being sent into the Games again. Paige said the tributes were to be reaped from the pool of Victors.

'Focus.'

The cuts in his hands, on further inspection, were gradually drying up. He must've been in the cellar for a while.

'Focus.'

He was returning to the arena. Jorge and Teresa as well.

That thought made him pause, sharply looking away from his injuries. Jorge. He was the other male tribute. If his name was called, where would that leave Thomas?

'No.' He swiftly got rid of any ideas that gave him a morsel of hope. He shouldn't be relieved if his name wasn't called. Watching two people he cared about fight to the death in the arena wasn't exactly reassuring. He knew himself enough to also know that even if Jorge's name was called, he wouldn't hesitate to volunteer. Again. Although this time, his brother wasn't involved.

He leaned his head back on the wall, closing his eyes as he maintained a steady rhythm of breathing. None of this was fair, he came to terms with that a long time ago, but the Capitol wouldn't stop at the sake of fairness. He had to go into the arena with Teresa. That was the only way. He'd tear himself apart if he sat by and watched the Games from a screen. Specifically, this one.

The memory of someone calling him returned to mind, causing him to stand and look for the exit of the cellar. He didn't know how much time passed, making him assume that Teresa already went and spoke to Jorge. About what, he guessed he'd never have the full answers to, but he'd still go talk to his mentor. Plead for him not to volunteer in his place.

Ignoring the stings of pain his hands brought, he felt his way up the stairs and into the house. Shards of glass were scattered on the floor from the window in the door. He stepped over them, running out into the night.

Once he reached Jorge's, he didn't bother knocking, as usual. Thomas wasn't surprised to find him sitting at his kitchen table, drunk as ever. Empty and half filled bottles of liquor decorated the space. It was almost comforting, to see something so familiar, but nothing could console him now.

"Ah, there he is," Jorge drawled. "You've done the math, hermano? Well, good for you. And you've come to ask me to...what?" He waved the bottle in his hand, squinting at it. "Die?"

Thomas scoffed, lowering his gaze. "Yup. That's pretty much my plan," he replied dryly. Worried Jorge might actually think he was serious, he shook his head before approaching the table. "I'm here to drink."

"Oh," Jorge cackled, his grin much too wide for the news they just received. "Finally. Something I can help you with." He flinched when Thomas suddenly snatched the bottle out of his grasp, drinking it for himself. "They grow up so fast."

It only took a few gulps for Thomas to come up choking, the liquid feeling like fire inside him. He couldn't tell if he enjoyed that or not. "I know you aren't stupid," he muttered, plopping down on a chair next to him and forgetting any forms of politeness. "Can you guess why I'm here?"

"Hm," Jorge tapped his fingers against the table. "Tell me if I'm right: since last time I tried to keep you alive, you want me to save the girl this time."

"Obviously." He said, wiping his nose and tipping up the bottle again.

Jorge was quiet for a couple of seconds before he spoke. "Y'know, she came in here begging me to volunteer for you if it came down to it. And you're in here asking me for the complete opposite..."

Thomas hadn't even mentioned that he was going to volunteer for him if his name was called, but it looked like he figured that out without any issues. "You can hardly blame me," He pushed away the wave of anxiety that threatened to overtake him at the scenario of Jorge being able to take his place instead. He shifted in his chair, his grip on the bottle becoming painful. "Did she say anything else to you?"

His mentor reached for the bottle. "Can I have that back now, por favor?"

He held it closer to his chest, resisting the urge to glare at him. "No. Tell me what else she said."

"¡Ay, Dios mío, no!" Jorge yelled, rubbing his eyes. "She didn't say anything else. All she wants is for you to get out the damn area alive."

Thomas's gaze fell, staring at his sodden socks. "Well, one of us isn't getting what we want."

"Clearly."

The silence that followed made Thomas understand where Jorge might've been coming from. The only other two Victors in District 12 were asking him for the impossible. One way or another, they were all returning to the arena, whether as a mentor or not on their end. Nobody ever truly leaves once they first go in.

The burden on Jorge's shoulders definitely wasn't very fun.

Despair tried to cling relentlessly onto his logical reasoning, and he finally got the courage to sincerely look at his mentor in the eyes. "Jorge, you have to listen to me. Promise me something. Promise me you won't volunteer for me. Promise you'll take care of Teresa, make sure she lives." He swallowed, forcing his next words out. "Not me."

It would've been better for everyone if he died anyways. President Paige wanted him dead, that was stated before the Quarter Quell was announced. No harm in speeding up that process.

Something like misery flashed across Jorge's face, but it vanished just as quickly. "Look at us, what bonding time we're having," he pulled another bottle out from under the table, giving the top a twist. "Deciding who will go in to die at the arena." He lifted his drink, toasting to the autocracy of the Capitol.

Thomas had to admit, their conversation wasn't exactly a normal one to be having – if you weren't a Victor. He unenthusiastically raised his own bottle. They drank, and he welcomed the burning sensation in his throat, finding the distraction to actually be relieving. He clumsily wiped his mouth, slamming the bottle down. "Promise me, Jorge."

A beat of no response. Then he sighed.

"Okay," he surprisingly agreed, nodding gravely. "Okay."

They basked in another moment of silence. "It'd be pretty bad for you if you went in the arena, wouldn't it? Knowing all the others?" Thomas asked.

"Oh, I think we can count on it being a bit unbearable wherever I am," Jorge huffed. "Or you can see me as the life of the party. Either one works."

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

The walk to his house was cold, like the rest of him. He realized, however, it was beyond a physical coldness, one that benumbed him mercilessly.

As he staggered up the steps, the front door swung open and Brenda instantly wrapped her arms around him. "I was wrong. We should've gone when you said."

"No," Thomas mumbled. He couldn't focus properly, the world around him beginning to sway. Liquor sloshed out of his bottle and down the back of Brenda's jacket, but she didn't seem to care.

"It's not too late," she whispered.

Behind her, he noticed his mother and Chuck holding each other in the doorway. If they ran, they'd die. Everyone always dies in the end, don't they? Everything was pointless. He should just accept his death, get it over with. "Yeah, it is."

His knees buckled and she held him up. The alcohol continued to conquer his mind as the glass bottle shattered on the floor. Such an appropriate way to express his lost grip on reality.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

When Thomas awoke, he rolled off the bed and rushed to the toilet right on time for the white liquor to make its reappearance. It burned, more than he expected. It also tasted twice as bad.

'I'm never drinking again.'

His whole body trembled, beads of sweat dotting his skin once he finished vomiting. Although most of the alcohol left his system, some of it lingered into his bloodstream, gifting him with a pounding headache that was almost too unbearable for him.

He cursed at the world, at President Paige, at himself while turning on the shower, standing under the warm rain and blankly staring at the walls. A whole two minutes passed until he saw that he was still in his boxers. His mother must've taken off his filthy outer clothes and tucked him in bed. He sighed, throwing the boxers into the sink and poured shampoo on his head, causing his hands to sting. He winced, seeing the stitches, small and precise, across one palm and up the side of the other hand.

He forgot that he broke the glass window last night.

Thomas furiously scrubbed himself from head to toe, abruptly throwing up again in the shower after a few seconds. Bile and fresh-smelling bubbles went down the drain. He pictured the Capitol, President Paige, when he looked at it.

Clean at last, he pulled on his robe to go back to bed. He climbed under the blankets, despising the very idea of drinking. Then, the sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted his panic. He couldn't talk to his mother and Chuck. Not yet. He wasn't prepared. He had to pull himself together, be calm and collected. Be strong, like he was when they said their good-byes the day of the reaping. He struggled into a sitting position, bracing himself for the meeting.

They appeared at the doorway, holding tea and toast, their faces doused in concern.

He opened his mouth, aiming to say something sarcastic to enlighten the mood, but involuntarily bursted into tears.

Apparently, he was terrible at being strong for the moment.

His mother sat on the side of the bed and Chuck crawled up right next to him, both of them hugging him, making quiet soothing sounds. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like a little child, being comforted in that way. It hurt all the more.

Eventually, Chuck brought in Bark, setting him on the bed as the Labrador lowered his ears. Thomas was never able to form a direct opinion on the dog; there were moments when he liked him but remembered that he was another mouth to feed. Now, all of that wasn't much of a problem. 'Might as well be nice to him. I'm not gonna see him ever again when I go into the arena.'

His mother coaxed tea and toast into him, dressed him in warm pajamas and layered additional blankets on him. He hadn't even realized he drifted off until he gained consciousness, the light in the room indicating it was late afternoon. A glass of water was put on his bedside and he greedily gulped it down. His stomach and head weren't as bad as they had been earlier, but he'd be happier if the remaining dwindling symptoms would completely disappear.

After getting into a different, fresh pair of clothes, he paused at the top of the stairs. He'd been acting like such a crybaby, it made him incredibly embarrassed. He took off when the news was first released, drank with Jorge, wept. He told himself that, provided the circumstances, it was okay to indulge a little in his human emotions for one day.

Downstairs, his mother and Chuck engulfed him in another hug. They weren't overly emotional about everything, and he knew they were holding it all in for his sake, to ease the load on his shoulders. He looked at his younger brother, pride and guilt blending into something he couldn't quite describe. Chuck wasn't the same boy he left behind on reaping day, that was for certain. He'd grown, too fast for a kid his age. The cruelty of the District, the clusters of sick people and wounded he often treated by himself if his mother's hands were too occupied. It all shaped him into what he was now.

'I wish I could've given you a better life,' Thomas managed a small smile, ruffling Chuck's curls. 'I'm sorry I couldn't do that for you. You deserved so much better than this.'

His mother ladled out a mug of broth for him, and he asked for a second mug to take to Jorge. Then he trudged across the lawn to his house. His mentor was barely waking up but he accepted the mug without muttering a peep. They sat there, the atmosphere filled with what he would've called peace, sipping their broth and watching the sun set though his living room window. He heard someone walking around upstairs and he assumed it was Hazelle, but a couple minutes later Teresa herself came marching down, tossing a cardboard box of empty liquor bottles right on the table.

"There," she declared. "It's done."

"What's done?" Thomas asked once he noticed Jorge was having difficulty focusing on what was in front of him.

"I've poured every ounce of liquor down the drain, is what." She said matter-of-factly.

Immediately, Jorge came to his senses as if a button was switched on inside of him. "You what?" He pawed through the box, denying what had already been taken care of.

"I tossed it," Teresa repeated.

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. "He'll just buy more, you know that, don't you?"

"No, he won't," She said pointedly. "I made sure of it. I told the seller I'd turn her in if she sold to either of you. I paid her off, too, just to show that I'm serious."

"I'll seriously punch you in the face, how about that?" Jorge spat.

"No you won't."

Before Jorge could react, Thomas spoke up. "What business is it of yours what he does?"

"Actually, it is completely my business. However it falls out, two of us are going to be in the arena again with the other as mentor. We can't afford any drunkards this year. Especially not you, Thomas." She retorted firmly.

"What!?" He sputtered. Maybe if he wasn't so hungover, he would've been more convincing. "I never drink, you know that. Last night's the only time I've been drunk."

"Mhm, and look where that got you," Teresa eyed him in what appeared to be disgust. "You've definitely had better days."

"Oh, shut up, no one asked you," he fired back, turning to Jorge. "Don't worry, I'll buy you more liquor."

Teresa wasn't bothered by his futile comebacks. "Well, prepare yourselves to get comfortable in the stocks, then. Let you sober up nice and snuggly in there."

Jorge kicked the chair, anger radiating off of his every muscle. Thomas groaned. "What's the point to this?" Jorge muttered.

"The point is, in case you forgot, that two of us are coming home from the Capitol. One mentor and one Victor," she took turns meeting each of their eyes. "Trina's sending me recordings of all the living Victors. We're going to watch their Games and learn everything we can about how they fight. We're going to get stronger. We're going to start acting like Careers."

Her voice contained such a heavy conviction, as if she wasn't going to accept a no from them – which was certainly the case – and she stomped toward the front door, her black hair bouncing with every explosive step. "And only one of us is going to be Victor again whether you two like it or not!"

Then she slammed the door.

Thomas thought the idea of pretending to be Careers was far-fetched. A child's imagination. They weren't built to be Careers. At least he wasn't. Not mentally.

"Isn't she a ray of sunshine," Jorge said through gritted teeth, sucking the dregs out of the empty bottles. "Que mocosa."

Despite their reluctance to it, they agreed to act like Careers after a few days. It was the best way to get Teresa prepared as well. Every night they watched the old recaps of the Games that the remaining Victors won. It was an odd thing that he and Teresa hadn't met any of them on the Victory Tour, besides that pompous Newt guy.

Thomas's gaze drifted away from the television he'd been watching. He wondered, for the briefest moment, how Newt reacted to the announcement of the Quell. What was he doing? Had his facade broken yet?

'How are all the other Victors taking it?'

Shaking his head clear of those questions, he glanced over his shoulder at Jorge, who was looking at the screen from behind the couch, choosing to stand since it helped him not to be so antsy, especially with the loss of alcohol in his system. "Hey," he began. "Why haven't we ever seen the rest of the Victors lately? In person?"

Jorge snorted, treating his inquiry like it was total ludicrous. "With President Paige hovering over everything you two are doing, specifically you," he pointed at Thomas. "She wouldn't dare let you guys make a connection with the others. It could bring a bigger threat of potential rebellions. Your statuses as a Victor can get...political."

'So, Newt technically wasn't allowed to see us...but he still came.' He wondered what the blond's intentions were. The timing of it all was very coincidental. Nobody could have predicted the Quarter Quell would turn out like this, and Newt never gave any hints that he knew about it. Either way, he couldn't focus on that, not when he had a plan to initiate.

The more they watched, the more Thomas realized some of their opponents were a little older than him, or just plain-old elderly. It was both grevious and reassuring. Jorge offered information about the Victors' personalities, and they gradually started to know their competition.

Every morning they did strenuous exercises to strengthen their bodies. They ran. They lifted. They stretched. Every afternoon they refined their combat skills, threw knives (Teresa's personal expertise), fought hand to hand; he also taught them to climb trees. If Districts 1, 2, and 4 were able to skillfully wield spears and swords when they showed up in the arena, what they were doing was nothing by comparison – even if it was considered to be against the rules.

Due to all the years of abuse, Jorge's body stubbornly resisted improvement. He was still exceptionally strong, but the shortest run left him breathless and panting. For someone who always slept with a knife, he couldn't throw knives very well for the life of him. His hands shook uncontrollably, to the point of him requiring weeks just to achieve hitting the targets correctly.

Thomas and Teresa excelled, though. He felt more in charge of himself, making his body fit. It gave him something else to do other than wallow in defeat. His mother put them on a special diet to gain weight. Chuck treated their sore muscles. Jeff snuck them his father's Capitol newspapers. Even Brenda came into the picture on Sundays, teaching them all she knew about snares. Teresa had latched onto everything she was taught, impressing them by how fast she learned the basics.

One night, when she went off to talk to Jorge, he walked Brenda into town, and she seemed fairly quiet. It'd been that way since the news. "Teresa looks like she's ready." Brenda murmured.

He didn't exactly know what that comment meant. "We're teaming up in the arena again, I hope you know that," he said.

"Of course I do," she flicked a piece of her hair away from her eye. "I'm just saying...you've got someone to rely on out there, Thomas."

What hurt him the most as he looked at her wasn't the fact that she must've understood that only one person was leaving the arena as Victor, but that she had no clue about his plan to keep Teresa alive and not himself. He couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone, but he told himself that she wasn't alone. She had her family. She had Jeff. She had Teresa.

He couldn't allow another emotional moment between them, anyway. It might lead her to do something drastic. Nobody in District 12 was ready for any kind of rebellion now because of the Quarter Quell announcement.

The sooner Brenda let him go, the better. He wasn't coming back home a second time. He'd at least plan to say a few things to her after the reaping, when they were granted an hour for good-byes. To let her know how important she was to him. How happy she made him on days when he felt discouraged. How much he loved her, even if it only was in the limited way he could manage.

But like most good things in his life, that was taken from him.

The day of the reaping was hot and sultry. The population of District 12 waited, sweating and silent, in the square with machine guns trained on them and their every move. Teresa, Thomas, and Jorge walked across the middle isle, keeping their focus on Trina, who stood on the stage with a frown that was barely concealed under her forced grin.

His mother and Chuck were at the front of the crowd, allowing Thomas a glimpse of him as he passed. He saw his brown, slightly unkempt curls, and he remembered the day he volunteered for his little brother. His hair looked the same.

They made it up to the stage, and Trina, shining in a wig of metallic gold, cleared her throat. "Welcome, welcome, as we celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary and third Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. As always," she glanced at the large glass bowl on her left side, lacking her usual verve. "Ladies first."

The click of her heels echoed throughout the square as she slowly crossed to the bowl, glancing sorrowfully at Teresa before reaching in and grabbing a single slip of paper. She unraveled the seal, just as slowly making her way back to the center, and nearly whispered the name of his best friend into the mic for all of Panem to hear, for President Paige to revel in the satisfaction of sending her to her demise for simply being with Thomas.

"The female tribute from District 12: Teresa Agnes."

Even though he knew it was coming, even though he assumed he'd be prepared for this very moment, Thomas still felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It took everything in him to remained composed, or as composed as one could get in this predicament, when he saw a tear roll off Teresa's cheek.

Trina's mournful frown could no longer be hidden as Teresa stood beside her. Their escort must've realized they were still on camera, however, and visibly forced a smile on her lips. "Wonderful," she cleared her throat again. "And now for the men."

He wasn't a fool. He noticed the subtle glance Teresa shot at Jorge. He couldn't quite make out what the look meant, but he had a pretty good guess.

Trina reiterated the process of grabbing a paper from the glass bowl on her right side, then returned to the middle of the stage. "The male tribute from District 12," she blinked helplessly at the paper once she read who it was. "Jorge Abernathy."

The world around Thomas seemed to fade into white as he stared at Chuck, his body going numb, being brought back to the day terror paralyzed him at the sight of his little brother tucking in his shirt while he stepped out of the crowd, his fingers quivering even from where Thomas stood.

It was happening all over again. Someone he cared about was being put on the line, and he couldn't sit by to watch them die.

Thomas turned to face Trina and repeated the same words he screamed at the last reaping: "I volunteer as tribute."

Immediately, his arm was harshly tugged from behind him. It was Jorge. "I can't let you do that." He hissed.

"You can't stop me," Thomas muttered, aiming to free his arm.

"Thomas—"

"Let go." He warned, glaring at his mentor in a silent demand to do as he said. 'Remember what we talked about.' He silently urged. 'You can't fight this.'

The only reason Jorge released him was probably because of the cameras, but he did so with a disappointed scowl. Thomas wordlessly took his place next to his escort's right side, trying not to let his hands shake.

Trina looked devastated. Teresa's eyes were filled with dread before turning her head away from him, not caring to wipe her tears while very much in the public view. She would've hated crying in front of an audience, but the reaping of the Quarter Quell was the first exception.

After Trina found her voice, she continued speaking with a faltering beam. "Very well," she said. "The tributes from District 12. Thomas Everdeen and...Teresa Agnes." Her hands rested on their shoulders for a moment before she removed them, not knowing how else to go on or what to do with herself.

'I'm going to die,' he thought to himself. 'I'm going to die and nobody can save me this time.'

Something in the crowd caught his attention.

Thomas froze. It was his mother. She raised her left hand, holding up her three middle fingers and extending them out to him. Chuck followed, shooting his arm straight up in the air to salute him and Teresa.

So did Brenda.

Then another. And another. And the whole square held the three fingers toward them, saying their last good-byes with honor.

He almost felt as vulnerable as he was the first time he volunteered. But their bold gesture provided him the extra push he needed. He couldn't have been more grateful for his District. If he was going to die, he wouldn't do so weeping.

Thomas slowly lifted his hand, raising up the three fingers with them.

Teresa copied their actions, her posture straightening with fiery determination.

Footsteps came from behind them, and his arm was pulled back. It was Leavitt. More Peacekeepers arrived, marching through the doors of the Justice Building to grab Teresa as well.

"But, but—" Trina attempted to intervene with only her words. It didn't work.

"Thomas!"

The sound of his name from his brother's lips snapped him out of his daze. He started to thrash against Leavitt's grip, trying to push past him. "Wait! I get to say goodbye!"

"New plan," the Head Peacekeeper grunted. "You're headed straight for the train station."

"Thomas!" Chuck cried again, another Peacekeeper blocking his way to get to him.

"No! I get to say goodbye!" Thomas yelled, tears blinding his vision as he continued to fight. 'At least let me talk to him one last time! Don't take him away from me like this!'

He managed to see a camera somewhere in the square, and he silently – desperately – pleaded for President Paige to just let him have this one thing, to let him hug Chuck.

Thomas's answer came in the form of him being hauled into the Justice Building, watching his mother caress his brother's hair.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

"Dad, why do we have to be so scared of the Capitol?"

Thomas's question seemed to momentarily shock his father, but he recovered quickly. "Oh, son," he knelt in front of him, gently clasping his calloused hands on top of his smooth ones. A soft breeze rustled in the trees around them as he responded. "You don't have to be. Nobody is forcing you to be scared of them."

"But mom always says we can't disobey them. She didn't even let you sing that one song to me," he smiled a little as he mentioned the incident with his mom, but he wasn't at all joking.

"Oh," his dad laughed. "The Hanging Tree, eh?" He patted Thomas's shoulder. "I remember. She gave me a good beating for that, that's for sure..."

The beating he spoke of was, to put it in fewer words, a scolding stemmed from worry.

"Mom is scared of them," Thomas murmured, lowering his head.

His dad hummed, studying the birds gliding above the canopy of branches. "As are a lot of other people in the Districts," he met his gaze intently, a warmth burning through in his eyes like no other, a warmth that Thomas had yet to discover in another person. "But they're not any less human. It shows they are."

Thomas tilited his head, confused. "They're what?"

"Human," he replied. "Fear can either build you or break you, son. It's up to you to choose." He stood, the sunlight peeking through the leaves to illuminate half of his face. "Many of us feel as though we don't have that choice, but we do. It's the one thing the Capitol can't take away from us."

Thomas followed his dad as he grabbed his bow from the inside of a hollow log. "Don't forget that, Thomas."

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

He stared at the woods blurring the last glimpse of his home, idly rubbing his thumb over his now calloused palm, wishing he had his father's jacket. His father's strength. He could only pretend to be fine for so long, but he knew he couldn't be carried all the time by other people. He had to tread his own path, no matter how many obstacles it contained.

"We'll write them letters, Tom," Teresa's quiet voice broke through his clouded mind, and he took notice of her downcast appearance. Even she wasn't completely 'alright.' He hadn't considered it until that minute, but she didn't get to say goodbye to her family either. He felt despicable.

"Teresa, I'm sorry you didn't get to—"

"Stop," she whispered, her voice becoming strained. "Don't...don't say anything. It's fine."

'No, it's absolutely not.' He restrained himself from saying it. Instead, he nodded, understanding that what she needed was for him to just listen. "Okay."

She took a deep breath in, and he ignored the tear she hastily wiped away. "It's better that way, writing to them. It gives them a piece of us to hold on to. Jorge will deliver them for us if...if they need to be delivered."

Thomas nodded and, not having the energy to talk to anyone anymore, went to his room. He sat on the bed, knowing he'd never write those letters. It was pointless for him, since he had no clue where to start. How do you write to someone knowing you were on your way to death? How would they take it? No, he wouldn't try reaching out to them again. That would only hurt him more, and he didn't need that. Not when he was being sent into the arena. Plus, sending a bland paper with a wooden box holding his cold, stiff body wasn't ideal to him.

Too miserable to cry, all he wanted to do was curl up on the bed and wait there until he could die. But he couldn't. Not with his mission. 'I have to keep Teresa alive.' Despite how unlikely it seemed in the face of the Capitol's wrath, he needed to be at the top his game to carry it out. Mourning the people he loved would prevent him from doing that.

'Let them go.'

He held his hands over his head, urging himself to forget Chuck's grin, his voice as he left the reaping, his hugs.

'Say good-bye and forget them.'

He grabbed the cages which stored the precious memories of his family and released them, letting them soar off like birds taking flight for the first time. Each and every single one; his mother caressing his cheek, his brother laughing at his jokes, Brenda hunting with him in the woods, George lighting up upon Thomas's arrival, bonding with Jeff.

Thomas freed all of them until he sure was there wasn't anything left. He shut the doors, locking it with a key he tossed so he wouldn't go searching for it again.

By the time Trina knocked on his door to call him to dinner, he was empty. But the lightness wasn't entirely unwelcomed.

The meal was subdued, which was to be expected. Gentle clinks of their utensils somewhat filled the permeating silence, as well as the removal of old dishes and the presentations of new ones. A cold soup of pureed vegetables. Fish cakes with creamy lime paste. Wild rice. Chocolate custard dotted with cherries.

"I've had a thought," Trina eventually said, her hesitancy being shoved aside.

"Oh, really? Shocker." Jorge grumbled.

Trina gracefully ignored him. "Thomas has his gold mockingjay pin. I've got my gold hair," she smiled, a genuine one, as she gestured between Jorge and Teresa. "I'm going to get you two something gold."

Seeing that Teresa wasn't responding, Jorge rubbed his eyes, probably fighting off an irritated remark. "Why is that?" He wasn't drinking but anyone could tell he wanted to. Trina had the Avoxes take her own wine away once she saw the effort he was making. If the roles were switched and he was a tribute, he'd drink to his heart's content since he'd owe Teresa nothing. It would require everything he had to keep her alive in an arena filled with his old friends, and he'd probably fail.

"A token!" Trina said. "Show them we are a team. And they can't just..." she started to choke up, struggling to finish her sentence.

Evidently, she didn't know that Thomas's mockingjay pin was a symbol used by the rebels. In the Capitol, though, the mockingjay was still a fun reminder of an especially exciting Hunger Games. He knew she was trying, and that's what made him hold her hand from his seat next to her. "Thank you," he returned her smile as best as he could.

Teresa finally pitched in after him. "I think that's a good idea."

Jorge grunted his approval.

Trina breathed a sigh of relief, nodding at them both. "Shall we watch the recap of the reapings?"

Nobody wanted to, but they did nonetheless. They gathered in a compartment with the television to see who their competition would be in the arena. They were all settled down when the anthem began to play and the annual recap of the reaping ceremonies in the twelve Districts commenced.

In the history of the Games, there had been seventy-five Victors. Fifty-nine were still alive. He recognized many of them, either from seeing them as tributes or mentors at previous Games or from their recent viewing of the Victors' tapes. The reapings themselves go by fairly quickly. Teresa studiously examined each one, in her own world. Jorge watched, his face devoid of emotion, as friends of his stepped up to take the stage.

Only a few stuck in Thomas's head. The peculiar brother and sister from District 1, whose names were even stranger. Something along the lines of the Toad and Misty. He assumed the 'Toad' was a nickname of sorts. Newt, of course, in his excellent blond hair, followed by an eighty-year-old woman who needed assistance from the 69th Victor to walk to the stage. Then there was Minho Mason, who won at the age of fifteen a few years back by pretending to be a weakling. The woman from 8 who Trina called Wright, had to detach herself from the three kids who ran up to cling to her, wailing loud enough for the cameras. Chaff, a man from 11 who was a good friend of Jorge's.

District 12 was last. Teresa was called. Then Jorge. And Thomas volunteered. They were mute when the recap ended. Jorge left the compartment without a word, and Trina, after making some unconnected comments about the tributes, excused herself.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Thomas?" Teresa said, rubbing her eyes.

"I don't think I can," he muttered.

She gave him a look. "Well, go try."

He reluctantly stood once her stern expression didn't waver, not in the mood to argue with her. "What're you gonna do? You can't tell me to sleep and just let you stay awake the whole night."

Teresa's eyes trailed back to the television. "I'll go to bed soon. Don't worry," He wasn't a fan of her answer, and she must've known it. "I swear." She drawled.

Thomas didn't want to let her off so easy, but he knew she could be stubborn like him. Sighing, he stepped toward her and held his pinky finger out; his attempt at enlightening the atmosphere.

She blinked at him. "Really?"

"C'mon. Just do it. You swore."

Her lips twitched in a smile she clearly stifled. Her pinky interlocked with his. "Alright, geez."

He nodded, a few seconds going by until he let go. "Goodnight."

"Night."

The moment he returned to his room, he almost stumbled from the sheer impact of what he had done in there a mere hour or two ago. He put his family behind him, moving forward without them in mind. 'Don't think about them.' He dragged his feet to the bed, burying his face in his hands. 'Focus.' He forced himself to acknowledge that there was no hope in returning home. He couldn't keep doing this, either. He couldn't keep taking one step forward and then backward because he missed the people he loved.

This would be the last time he faltered.

He reminded himself that the other Victors had family, too. Or, if not that, then friends. The woman from 8 had children cleaving to her from the get-go. He wasn't the only one being ripped away from his District again.

Thomas stared at his hands, which had gotten rough from the years spent hunting in the forest. Hands that, maybe, if the Capitol hadn't been so greedy, might've gotten saved from the countless scars he received trying to perfect his bow in order to get his family something to eat.

"Fear can either build you or break you, son. It's up to you to choose. Many of us feel as though we don't have that choice, but we do. It's the one thing the Capitol can't take away from us."

The words of his father circled his mind and he clung to them like the kids did for Wright. The Capitol would continue to take and take. Nothing would change that. But, no matter how much power they had, they couldn't steal his ability to decide, to choose not to be scared of them. It was a difficult thing to do, with so many threats hanging over his head. Remembering there was nothing left to lose, however, hardened his resolve.

He knew the truth of the Capitol, who they were. Who President Paige was. They could dress it up all they wanted, but he knew who they were underneath the bright colors they displayed for Panem. Paige was raised high on her pedestal of power, but he'd make her see the anger he was harboring. The rage hundreds of tributes before him felt. He'll die like the rest of them have, but he'd ensure she wouldn't be able to forget him.

He'd make sure the name Thomas Everdeen would haunt her for the rest of her pathetic life for taking him away from his family.

[butterflythoughtss]

The mindset of a period:

"Hey! I've got an idea! I just barely showed up today but let's give her some REALLY bad cramps later on!! She'll NEVER expect it!!"

[butterflythoughtss]

update: I survived. Eat fruits y'all and take Midol obviously. FRUITS. FRUITS. FRUITS.

[butterflythoughtss]

The mindset of a period:

"Hey! I've got an idea! I just barely showed up today but let's give her some REALLY bad cramps later on!! She'll NEVER expect it!!"

[butterflythoughtss]

The death that will always hit me the hardest in thg is Prim's. Yes, I am devastated over Finnick. Yes, I get so mad for Cinna and the death given to him. Yes, Rue deserved so much better. All of these characters that died will always make me sorrowful. But when I think about Prim and when I specifically see it in the movie version, I get so shocked like it's my first time seeing it all over again. I know everybody knows this by now, but Katniss literally did EVERYTHING up until that point for Prim. Yes, her motives could've gotten more specific, but the roots all stem from the very day of the reaping and trying desperately to save her life because she is the only person she has truly, genuinely ever loved and cares so much for. All of that just to be taken from her in a moment so fast you have to do a double-take as a viewer/reader. At least, I know I did.

Keep in mind, Prim also thought Katniss was dead, and she was able to see her alive for a split second before her own death would come seconds later. It is not fair. She was taken so quickly, it makes me flabbergasted. And the fact that Katniss was there, walking toward her, but still wasn't able to save her on time. Could you imagine that guilt??

Prim is kind of in the background for most of the trilogy itself but at the same time, she is VERY important to the story (and obviously to her sister) because, again, Katniss wouldn't have did ANY of the things she did if it weren't for Prim's name being called. It is deeply tragic, what happened. I struggle to wrap my brain around it.

Anyways I had to rant about that. I saw an edit come up about this scene and it made me so hallow and empty inside for a min.

[butterflythoughtss]

Dude y'all ever know that the scene(s) you're writing next is supposed to be filled with utter despair and sadness and you're worried you aren't capturing the FEEL of the whole thing?? THAT'S ME. LIKE, UGHH I just got done saying a little while ago how good it feels to reach a flow state when writing but THIS STATE?? Nah you can leave me outta this one. I DON'T WANT IT TO BE LIKE "Oh, this is so tragic, you guys should feel completely sad" because THAT SUCKS, imo.

Now I'm in the state of "dang it i really want to finish this chapter but I'm not really liking the vibes." Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.

[butterflythoughtss]

Nah I listened to "how bad can I be" from the Lorax movie on Spotify, and it got me thinking of myself when I'm writing my tmr hunger games au. I am so sorry. Don't judge me either