TOM BLYTH and RACHEL ZEGLER as CORIOLANUS SNOW and LUCY GRAY BAIRD / JOSEPH ZADA and WHITNEY PEAK as HAYMITHC ABERNATHY and LENORE DOVE BAIRD
The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023) — dir. Francis Lawrence
The Hunger Games: Sunrise on The Reaping (2026) — dir. Francis Lawrence
“Bet I know a thing or two about your dove.”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and
sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.” The Hunger Games: Sunrise on The Reaping (2025) — Susanne Collins
summary when the eldest donner volunteers for the fiftieth hunger games in place of her sister, survival is the last thing she expects. trapped in an arena designed to punish rebellion, she is forced to confront loss, violence, and the boy she always hated: haymitch abernathy. as the games twist toward an unprecedented ending, she learns that some special things endure even when the capitol tries to erase them
warnings 22k+ word count, little use of y/n, angst, mentions of death + violence, heavy spoilers for sunrise on the reaping w/ a somewhat altered plot — request
the tributes
i don’t feel the cold until the door slams shut behind me.
the justice building always felt too big from the outside, but from in here—from the backseat of the black car that smells like leather and polished brass—it feels even bigger. like the walls are swallowing the sound of everything i didn’t get to say.
my hands are still trembling. not the dramatic kind of trembling—no shaking shoulders, no sobbing, no broken breaths. just this quiet, constant vibration under my skin, like my body hasn’t realized the reaping is over yet.
like it hasn’t realized that i volunteered as tribute.
the window beside me fogs with my breath. i stare at the blurred shape of the justice building as we pull away, the faint gold lettering smearing into nothingness.
maysilee’s voice still rings in my ears—you shouldn’t have done that—she said it twice. once angry, once muffled by sobs. the first time, she sounded like a sister. the second, she sounded like someone losing one.
merilee said nothing at all. she just held my hands so tightly her knuckles went white, her forehead resting against mine like she was trying to memorize the shape of me. my mother’s sobs felt muffled, like i was underwater watching someone else’s life play out. my father had to pull her away when the peacekeepers stepped in.
i didn’t cry. i think something in me wanted to, but the shock was thicker. like grief was settling into my bones before i even left district twelve.
across from me, wyatt callow sits with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the numbers are running behind his eyes. louella mccoy is beside him, tiny and pale, wringing the hem of her dress in her fists. she looks thirteen in the worst way—too young to understand everything, but just old enough to understand enough.
haymitch abernathy sits in the farthest corner of the carriage, wedged against the window, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. he hasn’t bothered wiping the soot off his face from the mines. it streaks across his cheekbone, sharp like war paint. he glares out the window like he wants to punch it until the glass shatters.
my heart tugs at the thought of him and the undoubtedly horrible thoughts that swim through his head. haymitch wasn't reaped, not really. i watched with a slack jaw as woodbine chance, who had just had his name announced, was shot seven times after his attempted escape. it was all a blur after that; haymitch's friend, lenore, trying to comfort woodbine's mother, the peacekeepers trying to hurt lenore, haymitch trying to protect lenore.
he was then designated the second male tribute; a punishment for his kind but rebellious regards.
i don’t look at him. i can’t. not with how brittle i feel. not with the way his eyes cut through everything.
drusilla sickle and her flaming orange bob sit nearest the front, legs crossed neatly, her makeup cakey, a smile painted on like she’s hosting a garden party and not escorting four children to their televised execution. “such bravery today,” she chirps, as if bravery is what happened in the square. as if volunteering to die is noble.
no one answers her. not even haymitch, who never misses an opportunity to snarl at the capitol.
previous victors, mags flanagan from district four and wiress from district three, are on the bench with the driver, murmuring softly, preparing rooms, food, schedules. they are kind—too kind. the worst kind. the kind that makes you realize how doomed you are.
my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt. the carriage bumps over uneven stone as we cross out of the merchant district. the roads change texture when we hit the seam—rougher, colder, biting at the wheels.
i feel it before i look: haymitch’s eyes shifting away from the window. the weight of his attention lands on me like a stone. i keep staring straight ahead, jaw tight, breath steady, pretending i don’t notice him watching me. pretending i don’t feel his resentment curdling the air like smoke.
he’s hated me for years. "spoiled princess" he had called me that night. i’d thrown it right back at him, calling him a charity case myself, unknowingly two days after his father passsd in a mine explosion. i regret that now, i’ve regretted it for years. but neither of us ever apologized.
the distance between us in the carriage feels like a punishment.
louella sniffles quietly. wyatt rests a hand on her shoulder, awkward but earnest. i should reach out too—i want to—but my body feels like someone else’s. like it’s stuck between wanting to crumble and refusing to be the weak one in front of haymitch abernathy.
the carriage slows as we near the station. steam billows from the massive engine waiting on the tracks. the tribute train gleams silver under the fading light—too clean, too beautiful, too bright for district twelve.
the peacekeeper outside calls, “doors!”
drusilla beams. “off we go, my dears.” her voice is sugar but this situation is acid.
the door swings open. cold air rushes in, sharp and metallic. i shiver.
haymitch doesn’t move at first. he watches me stand, watches me wipe my palms on my skirt, watches my shoulders stiffen as i prepare to step out of the life i knew and into whatever waits for me on the other side of that platform. his jaw clenches—one sharp line. i don’t know what it means.
i take the first step out of the carriage. the station lights flare white-hot, almost blinding. the platform smells like coal and oil and something sweet drifting from the train’s open doors—death dressed in velvet.
i hear maysilee—my sweet younger sister, my best friend—in my head again, voice cracking: “please come back. promise me you’ll try.” i didn’t promise her anything. i couldn’t.
my throat locks. i stare at the train, at the polished steps leading into the car, at the curtain of warm air brushing my face like an invitation i never asked for. i am not ready. i am not the brave volunteer they think i am. but i walk toward the train anyway. because maysilee is safe. merilee is safe. and i will bear the consequences of loving them more than myself.
haymitch passes me on the steps and mutters, low enough only i can hear: “figures you volunteered." the words sting sharper than they should. i don’t answer. i don’t trust what cruel words that i don't truly mean might come out of my mouth.
the seven of us step inside one-by-one, the door sealing shut behind us with a soft click. and just like that—district twelve is gone. the warmth of the car hits me first, wrapping around me the second i let myself deeper into the tribute train. it smells faintly of lavender steam and something sweet simmering in copper pots far ahead.
i blink hard, letting my eyes adjust. everything inside gleams. gold fixtures polished within an inch of their life. soft carpets that swallow my footsteps. walls paneled in dark wood that looks expensive enough to feed my family of five for a year.
louella hesitates at the doorway like she’s afraid to step on anything. wyatt gently nudges her in. haymitch stomps past all of us down the aisle, boots still covered in seam dust, tracking it onto marble tile in a carelessness that makes me wince.
drusilla gestures down the corridor. “dining car first! refreshments, introductions, announcements—oh, it’s all so exciting, isn’t it?” no one answers. again.
the corridor smells too clean, too warm, too alive. it makes my stomach churn. district twelve fades behind us through the narrow train windows, shrinking to a blur of gray and smoke. i swallow hard at the sight.
the dining car opens before me like something out of a dream—velvet seats, crystal bowls full of vibrant fruit, a shining chandelier overhead. the table is already set. wiress sits at the far end, fingers tapping lightly against a silver fork, eyes drifting between details no one else notices. mags is beside her, small and steady, hands folded over one another.
drusilla flutters in behind us. “take a seat, darlings! anywhere you’d like!”
haymitch doesn’t sit. he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. daring someone to tell him what to do.
scoffing, i move toward an empty seat across from mags, trying not to stare at the plates in front of us: pastries glazed with honey, sliced pears, shimmering cubes of pink meat. food meant to tempt tributes into forgetting they’re sacrificial lambs.
louella climbs into the chair beside me, her legs barely reaching the edge. she looks up at me like she’s asking permission. something in my chest twists; she reminds me of my sisters.
“go ahead,” i murmur. “sit. you’re okay.”
her shoulders relax by a fraction.
haymitch scoffs quietly from behind, like the idea of me comforting anyone is laughable. i ignore it.
wyatt sits next to louella, already analyzing the table like he’s tallying odds on which dish is poisoned. when mags gestures for us to eat, he waits a full ten seconds before picking anything up.
i’m not hungry. i don’t think i’ll ever be hungry again.
drusilla, however, is starving. “children!” she claps her hands. “introductions! enthusiasm! let’s get to know one another, shall we?”
haymitch mutters something under his breath. it sounds like, “go choke.” drusilla ignores him.
“we’ll start with our dear, sweet lou-anne—”
“louella." wyatt corrects gently.
the correction makes louella perk up just a little, like the gesture was made of gold.
“louella,” drusilla repeats with strained delight. “isn’t she precious? protected by our own, personal calculator, wyatt callow. now—” her attention snaps to me. “and you, miss donner. our bold volunteer. our heroine.”
my stomach drops. heroine. what a grotesque word.
i feel haymitch’s stare before i see it—sharp, slicing, waiting for me to bask in the praise like some merchant princess who loves attention. i keep my expression empty. “there’s nothing heroic about it,” i say quietly. “i did what i had to.”
louella looks at me. wyatt looks at his hands. wiress looks through me, into something deeper. and haymitch—his expression shifts. not softening, not sympathetic—just something like surprise flickering behind the resentment. like he expected me to smile. or boast. instead, i’m just hollow.
drusilla moves on quickly, eager to regain her performance energy. “and last, but certainly not least: haymitch abernathy!”
haymitch lifts one hand in the laziest parody of a greeting i’ve ever seen. “thrilled—" he deadpans, “to be here.”
drusilla stiffens.
mags speaks up gently, “you all must be exhausted.”
louella nods hard enough to wobble. wyatt’s jaw tightens. haymitch scoffs. i inhale, the smell of honey pastries sickeningly sweet in my throat.
“your rooms are ready,” mags continues. “after you rest, we’ll begin discussing strategy.”
haymitch pushes off the wall. “i don’t need a strategy,” he says. “i won’t last long enough for it to matter.”
louella’s eyes widen, terrified. wyatt shoots haymitch a look like he wants to punch him. i feel something hot rise in me—anger, sharp and sudden. “don’t say things like that in front of her,” i snap before i can stop myself.
haymitch’s head whips toward me. oh no. “don’t tell me what to say, princess.”
the old insult lands between us like a blade. my heartbeat stutters. merchants don’t fight. donners don’t cause scenes. tributes are supposed to save their energy. but i don’t care. not now. not today.
“she’s thirteen, haymitch,” i say quietly. “she doesn’t need to hear about your death wish.”
his nostrils flare. “she needs to hear the truth.”
“she needs hope.”
“hope?” he laughs, bitter and sharp. “you think hope saves anyone in the arena?”
“maybe not,” i whisper, leaning forward. “but cruelty won’t either.”
his jaw tightens. for a moment—for one breath—his eyes flicker. not anger, not hate, but hurt. he looks away first.
drusilla clears her throat quickly, desperate to patch the cracks forming in her perfect tributes. “well!” she says too brightly. “rest up! tomorrow is all too busy with your makeovers, parade, and the beginning of training!"
i stand too quickly, almost dizzy. haymitch steps aside for me, but the space between us is razor-thin—close enough to feel the heat off his skin. close enough that i catch the faint scent of coal smoke and sweat clinging to him.
i don’t sleep much that night. the bed on the train is too soft, the sheets too clean, the pillow too quiet. every time i close my eyes, i see maysilee’s face in the crowd, wet with tears she tried too hard to blink away. merilee’s hands clutching her necklace. my mother’s knees buckling. my father’s jaw set in that way that means he’s about to break but refuses to do it where anyone can see.
when i do drift off, it’s in pieces—thirty seconds here, a minute there. flashes of louella’s wide eyes, of wyatt’s hollow stare, of haymitch’s voice saying i won’t last long enough for it to matter.
i wake to sunlight i don’t recognize. it pours in through the narrow window of my compartment, pale gold and too clean, nothing like the sickly gray that seeps over district twelve in the mornings. the train hums underneath me, smoother now, like the tracks themselves are made of polished glass.
someone knocks once on my door, brisk. “up, up, up!” drusilla’s voice trills from the hallway. “we’re nearly there, little doves!” little doves. like we’re pretty things in a cage, meant to sing until our throats give out.
i sit up slowly. my body feels heavy, like grief settled in overnight and crystallized behind my ribs. i swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet. it feels wrong. all of this does.
there’s a uniform laid out on the chair by the door: simple, soft, too white. capitol-issued. i change into it, my fingers clumsy with sleep deprivation, and tie my hair back out of habit, like i’m getting ready for a normal day—there will never be a normal day again. i know that.
when i step into the corridor, louella is already there, swallowed in fabric that doesn’t quite fit her, hair mussed from sleep and eyes red-rimmed. she gives me a small nod, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to say good morning.
“hey,” i say quietly. “are you okay?” it’s a stupid question. of course she’s not.
she shrugs one shoulder, lip wobbling just a little. “i dreamed about my mom.”
“me too,” wyatt mutters behind her, running a hand through his hair. he looks like he didn’t sleep at all, dark circles bruised under his eyes. he catches my gaze. there’s something like truce there.
haymitch appears from the opposite direction, stepping out of his compartment like he’s already halfway through a fight. his curls are a bit flatter from the pillow, shirt twisted at the collar, eyes bloodshot but hard.
he looks at me once. just once. there’s no snide comment this time. no princess. no sneer. for some reason, that makes my stomach twist worse.
“gather, gather!” drusilla flaps her hands, her wig slightly askew like she slept in it. “we’re pulling into the station. first impressions are everything in the capitol. shoulders back, heads high, don’t throw up.”
mags and wiress are waiting in the small lounge at the end of the car. mags gives us a soft smile that almost undoes me completely. wiress is watching the window, eyes tracking something outside only she can see.
“we are almost there,” mags says gently. “remember to breathe.”
i move to the window. the world outside is nothing i recognize: towering buildings of glass and metal claw at the sky, throwing back the morning sun in shards of color. streets crisscross below like a living map, teeming with people in clothes that look more like plumage than fabric—bright, shimmering, impossible. fountains spray water that glitters pink and blue. even the sky looks different here. too blue. too open. like it’s laughing.
the train begins to slow. my heart picks up.
haymitch comes to stand beside me. so close that our shoulders almost touch, but not quite. his jaw works, like he’s grinding his teeth. “look at them,” he mutters under his breath, so quiet i almost miss it. “like this is a show they paid for.”
my eyes flick to the crowds lining the tracks. they’re already pressing forward, waving, cheering, some holding up holographic signs that read sayings you'd see at a sporting event. my stomach lurches at the sight. we’re entertainment. that’s all we’ll ever be to them.
“remember,” drusilla says, voice suddenly sharp, “smile when the doors open. the capitol adores bravery. and tragedy. and teeth.” she bares hers in demonstration.
wiress finally speaks, still staring at the world outside, “they built all of this on bones,” she says, voice distant. “layer after layer. they forget what’s underneath if it shines enough.” mags touches her arm softly, like she’s heard this before.
the train shudders to a full stop. for a heartbeat, no one moves. then the platform erupts in sound. cheers. shrieks. music blasting from unseen speakers. flashes of cameras. the train doors hiss as they unlock, and drusilla clasps her hands together like it’s wintermas morning.
“time to meet your adoring public.”
the doors slide open and air floods in—warmer than twelve, scented with something floral and sharp, like crushed petals and electricity. the noise slams into me a second later.
i take a breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way down. my legs feel wooden as we move forward in a small cluster: wyatt, louella, haymitch, me. mags and wiress behind. drusilla leading the way, beaming.
the platform is a sea of color. capitol citizens press against barriers, reaching out, straining for a touch. some hold those ridiculous, large signs. others have styled their hair in bright yellow plumes “in honor of the quarter quell.” a few have already painted 12 on their cheeks.
louella’s hand brushes mine. i don’t realize she’s reaching for me until her fingers hook tentatively around two of mine. i squeeze back.
haymitch notices. his eyes flick down at our joined hands, then up to my face, his expression unreadable. for a second, i think he’s going to say something cutting. he doesn’t.
a man with gold tattoos etched into his cheeks and a hovering camera at his shoulder shouts, “look this way! yes, perfect—district twelve, give us a smile!” i don’t but he takes the shot anyway.
“keep moving,” drusilla sings. “we’re off to the remake center! your teams are just dying to get their hands on you.”
we’re fun new dolls for them to dress. for a handful of days, we’ll be the city’s latest obsession. and then we’ll all die, and they’ll find someone else.
the station floors are slick and spotless beneath my flats as we’re shepherded toward a set of glass doors. the sunlight catches my reflection briefly—pale, wide-eyed, jaw tight. i hardly recognize myself.
behind me, haymitch mutters, “don’t let them see you scared.”
i almost laugh. “i’m not scared of them,” i say under my breath.
he cuts me a sideways look, skeptical. “so what are you scared of then, princess?”
i ignore his snarky comment and think about the answer of his in-genuine question. turning into someone i hate.
“nothing that concerns you,” i decide.
“good,” he replies. “keep it that way.”
we step through the glass doors into a gleaming white lobby so bright it makes my eyes water. capitol staff are already lined up—attendants in bizarre outfits, stylists with insane cosmetic surgery done, all smiling too wide.
a woman with teal hair and gemstones glued along her eyelids clasps her hands when she sees us. “oh, they’re perfect,” she sighs. “so tragic. so fixable.”
drusilla claps once, delighted. “welcome to the capitol, my darlings. next stop: the remake center. after that—” she spreads her arms like she’s unveiling a new product. “your grand entrance in the tribute parade.”
my stomach flips. the parade. the training. the private sessions. the interviews. and then the arena. an entire week ahead of me, pretending i’m not already dead.
i glance sideways at haymitch. he’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes burning—not with awe, not with fear. with fury. with something feral and stubborn and alive.
for the first time, it hits me: if anyone is going to claw their way through this, it will be him.
if i want to live even just a little longer than expected, i’m going to have to survive beside someone i’ve spent years despising and he’s going to have to survive beside me. the thought should terrify me. instead, it just makes everything feel sharper. louder.
“keep up, miss donner,” drusilla trills from ahead. “can’t have our volunteer falling behind.” i take another breath of strange, perfumed air and force my feet to move.
the training
the remake center smells like chemicals and rubbing alcohol. it hits me the second the glass doors slide shut behind us—sharp and sweet and sterile all at once, like something that’s been scrubbed so clean it forgot what it was before. the lobby is cavernous and white, floors gleaming, ceilings impossibly high. everything echoes. footsteps. laughter. the soft hum of machines somewhere deeper inside the building.
i feel small. not physically, but emotionally. like if i stood still long enough, this place would sand me down until i fit whatever mold they wanted.
capitol stylists descend on us immediately. they move fast, circling, murmuring to each other, fingers hovering just shy of touching like we’re art pieces in a gallery they’ve been dying to curate. one woman with metallic green lipstick tilts my chin up without asking, studying my face like she’s calculating how much of me she can change before i stop looking like myself.
“bone structure’s excellent,” she says to no one in particular. “strong jaw. eyes will photograph beautifully when angry.”
i don’t know how to feel about angry being my defining trait.
louella is whisked away first. two stylists crouched in front of her, voices syrupy and soft, promising no pain, no mistakes, no cuts. she looks back at me once, eyes wide, and i force myself to nod. to smile. to act like this is fine.
wyatt follows, already resigned, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.
haymitch resists longer. “don’t touch me,” he snaps when someone with a zebra skin reaches for his arm.
there’s a pause—thick, dangerous. capitol people don’t like being told no. drusilla laughs too loudly. “oh, darling, they have to. it’s tradition.”
haymitch’s jaw tightens. for a moment, i think he might actually swing at someone. then mags steps forward, resting a hand on his arm affectionately. “just let them,” she tells him quietly. “we’ll still see you underneath.” something in haymitch flickers. not obedience. not acceptance. just exhaustion. he lets them take him.
when they come for me, i don’t fight. i let them guide me down a bright hallway into a private styling room that looks more like an operating room. mirrors line the walls. too many angles. too many versions of me staring back.
i strip out of my clothes and sit in the chair they point to, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like my mother taught me. i feel humiliated, exposed, sitting completely naked in a room full of three strangers. my heart is beating too fast, but my face stays still. if they want a volunteer who looks composed, i can give them that much.
“we’re going to clean you up first,” the green-lipped woman says cheerfully. “then we’ll talk concept.”
warm water runs over my hair in a basin that cradles my neck. fingers comb through the strands, careful and practiced. i close my eyes. this should feel nice. it doesn’t. it feels like erasure.
i think of my family's sweet shop—flour dust in the air, sugar under my nails, my sisters’ laughter echoing down the stairs. i think of maysilee’s braid, always just a little messy, and merilee’s quiet hum when she concentrates. i hold onto those images like anchors.
“you have such a striking intensity,” someone says behind me. “we’ll keep that. maybe sharpen it.”
my hair is dried and styled, smoother and glossier than i’ve ever seen it. my skin is scrubbed, treated, brushed with something that smells faintly of citrus. they remove the faint scar on my wrist without asking. i watch it disappear in the mirror. a part of me aches.
then comes the clothes. they dress me in something simple but sharp—tailored lines, deep charcoal coated fabric that hugs my shoulders and cinches at my waist. i'm handed a coal-mining hat and a faux pickaxe. for just a sliver of a second, i think of haymitch's dad. more specifically, his fate. i cross the room to meet my own reflection and barely recognize her. she almost looks like someone who might survive, if you ignore the accessories.
“perfect,” the stylist murmurs. “very quarter quell.”
they leave me alone for a moment, and the silence rushes in. my hands shake when i unclench them. i press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself in the feel of fabric, the weight of my body in the chair. i breathe slowly. deliberately. i will not cry here.
when i step back into the main hall, the others are already waiting. louella looks like a porcelain doll—hair brushed and braided until it shines, her cheeks softly flushed. she’s gripping wyatt’s sleeve like it’s the only real thing left in the room. wyatt himself looks sharper, cleaner, his merchant-side polish turned up to something almost regal.
haymitch looks furious. they didn’t soften him at all. if anything, they sharpened him too. his curls are tamed just enough to look intentional, his face scrubbed clean of soot but not his defiance. they dressed him in dark fabrics that emphasize his shoulders, his height, the coiled tension in his frame. we’ve both been carved into something for them.
drusilla claps her hands, delighted. “look at you all! absolutely radiant. the capitol is going to adore you.”
i don’t care what the capitol adores. i care that louella is trembling. i care that wyatt’s jaw is set too tight. i care that haymitch’s hands are clenched like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.
i move without thinking, stepping closer to louella, placing myself just a little in front of her. it’s a small thing. maybe meaningless. but it’s mine. haymitch notices—he almost always does. his eyes flick to where i stand, then back to louella. his expression shifts—not soft, not kind—but less sharp around the edges.
the parade is explained next. chariots, costumes, presentation, crowds. the list makes my stomach twist.
“district twelve’s look will emphasize resilience,” a designer says brightly. “coal tones, flame accents, something symbolic.”
symbolic of what? our inevitable deaths? i don’t ask. instead i listen, i memorize. this is survival now—not just in the arena, but here. learning when to speak, when to stay silent, when to bend without breaking.
drusilla calls us forward again. we’re ushered deeper into the building, toward fittings and rehearsals and cameras. every step feels heavier than the last. somewhere in the distance, i can hear music starting up—rehearsal for the parade, no doubt. bright and triumphant and cruel.
i straighten my shoulders. i volunteered for this. for maysilee. for merilee. for the girl trembling behind me and the boy calculating before me and the other boy snarling beside me and the life i refuse to lose without a fight.
the capitol can dress me up, sure, but it doesn’t get to decide who i become.
the parade staging area feels like standing inside the mouth of a beast. everything vibrates—music pounding from unseen speakers, the clatter of hooves against polished stone, the hiss of fire cannons being tested overhead. the air smells like oil and artificial smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. stylists dart in and out, making last-minute adjustments, brushing invisible dust from shoulders, tugging fabric into place.
wyatt and i stand beside our chariot, dressed in coal-dark fabric threaded with veins of glowing ember. heat coils beneath the material, not enough to burn, just enough to remind us what the capitol thinks district twelve is made of: fire and fuel.
across the wide staging floor, i spot the other chariot in which haymitch and louella will ride. louella looks impossibly small standing beside the horses, swallowed by her costume—coal-black silk with flickers of flame stitched along the hem. her hands are clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles are white. haymitch stands just behind her, one hand hovering near her back, not touching but close enough to catch her if she tips.
my chest tightens at the view. i catch haymitch’s eye for half a second across the chaos. he looks wired, restless, jaw locked tight like he’s bracing for impact. when louella flinches at a sudden crack of sound overhead, his hand finally lands on her shoulder. she leans into him without hesitation. that sight hits me even harder.
“district twelve!” someone shouts. our part of the parade is starting.
wyatt and i climb onto our chariot first. the metal is warm beneath my palms as i steady myself, the horses snorting softly, muscles rippling beneath glossy hides. the crowd noise swells as we’re guided forward.
when we roll out into the avenue, the sound is immediate and overwhelming—cheering, screaming, laughter. thousands upon thousands of capitol citizens line the streets, waving, throwing glittering confetti into the air. camera drones buzz past my face, red lights blinking as they capture every angle, every expression. i school my features into something sharp and steady. not smiling, not scowling, but something in between.
wyatt lifts his chin, regal, composed. he looks like someone who belongs in this spectacle. i feel like prey dressed as a queen.
i bask in the unfortunate fame as people shout absurd praises at me. telling me i'm beautiful, brave. asking me to survive the games purely for them. i scoff at that comment.
that's when i hear it: a sharp, concussive crack—too loud, too close. a firework detonates overhead, showering sparks dangerously low. the horses behind us scream. i twist around just in time to see haymitch’s chariot. the horses rear violently, eyes rolling white, hooves striking sparks against the stone. handlers shout, scrambling. louella’s face goes slack with terror.
“louella!” haymitch shouts.
the chariot lurches. the wheels clip another chariot’s side. metal shrieks. the harness snaps. and then they’re airborne. haymitch’s body collides with louella’s as they’re thrown forward, his arm wrapping around her instinctively, like he can shield her from the ground itself.
they hit the pavement hard. haymitch rolls, slamming shoulder-first, breath knocked clean from his lungs. louella doesn’t move. her head strikes the stone with a sound i will hear for the rest of my life—a wet, hollow crack.
the crowd gasps—then cheers, confused, thinking it’s part of the spectacle. i scream. the sound rips out of me before i can stop it, raw and sharp and entirely unfit for capitol television. wyatt grabs my arm, hard. “don’t,” he hisses. “don’t—”
peacekeepers swarm the scene instantly, blocking the cameras, shouting orders. fireworks explode again overhead—too loud, too bright, deliberately distracting.
haymitch pulls at my heart, crawling to where louella landed. i see his hands, shaking and frantic, as he cradles her head. there’s blood. he looks up, face twisted with something feral and broken, and for one horrible second, his eyes meet mine across the avenue.
the parade continues. our chariot, and the twenty-two others in front of us, are ushered forward faster, the crowd roaring louder, the music swelling to drown out what just happened. wyatt doesn’t let go of my arm until my nails dig into his sleeve, undoubtedly leaving indents in his olive skin.
my vision blurs. the avenue stretches endlessly ahead. i don’t remember the rest of it. not the cheers. not the end. i only remember the sound. that crack.
the training center a half hour later is silent by comparison. too silent. we’re escorted through gleaming halls, ushered into elevators that whisper as they rise. the doors open onto the twelfth floor and everything is glass and light and wrong.
“your quarters,” drusilla announces brightly, like she didn’t just watch a child nearly die. “settle in. dinner in one hour.”
i turn to her, swallowing hard. "where’s louella?” she doesn’t look at me.
“where’s haymitch?” wyatt adds.
we receive no answer. mags’ mouth is pressed into a thin line. wiress is staring at the floor, fingers tapping erratically against her leg.
“go get ready,” drusilla says sharply. “you’ll be late otherwise.”
the rooms are obscene. my bedroom looks like something out of a dream—walls that shift color when i touch them, a bed that hums softly beneath my weight, a bathroom with mirrors that light up at my approach. i stand there, frozen, hands limp at my sides.
louella should be here already. she should be crying on the other side of the wall, asking if dinner is poison, asking if we can hold hands again.
i sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the door. when the knock comes, i nearly jump out of my skin. dinner.
they arrive late. haymitch walks in first and something is visibly wrong. he looks empty. hollowed out. like whatever was holding him upright has been scooped clean from his chest. his eyes don’t focus right away, his hands hang useless at his sides. beside of him is louella. the relief that hits me is so sharp it almost hurts—like my body had been holding its breath since the crash and only now remembered how to inhale.
louella's smile is wide, her posture stiff. her eyes are glassy, unfocused, like she’s looking through us instead of at us. i tell myself it’s shock. i tell myself she’s been drugged for pain. i tell myself a hundred reasonable possibilities for her uncharacteristic behavior. my breath catches painfully in my throat.
haymitch doesn’t take a seat at the table. he remains standing behind louella's chair, fingers digging into the backrest so hard his knuckles blanch.
we eat in silence. i watch louella—i can’t stop. every movement feels slightly wrong, like the accident has stripped her of her heart and soul. the way she holds her fork, the way she doesn’t fidget, the way she doesn’t glance at me once. louella always looks at me.
my hands start to shake. i press them under the table and force my fingers still. force my face still. force my mind to stop reaching for the worst conclusion like it’s a bruise i can’t stop poking.
after dinner, when wyatt and louella are distracted by drusilla, i step closer to haymitch who is still pressed against louella's empty dining chair. "what happened?” i whisper, "after the crash."
he doesn’t answer at first. his jaw flexes like he’s chewing through iron. then, very quietly, like each word costs him something: “they killed her.”
my stomach drops so hard it feels like my insides shift. “what do you mean—” my voice cracks. i clear my throat and try again. “haymitch, she’s right there.”
his eyes flick to the girl across the room. there’s nothing in his expression. not confusion. not doubt. just this dead, furious certainty. “she died,” he says, voice flat. “on the pavement. and they—" his throat works like he’s swallowing glass. “they covered it up. wiped the footage. swapped her out for a girl from district eleven.”
i stare at him. my brain refuses to take the words in all at once, like if i fully understand them i’ll collapse. i look back at louella—really look now—and suddenly all the things i was trying not to notice slam into place. the stiffness. the too-bright smile. the emptiness behind her eyes. my chest caves in. that’s why it felt wrong. because it is. because it isn’t her.
haymitch’s voice goes lower. “they told me to forget.” his fingers tighten on the chair so tight i worry he might snap it in half. “so i didn’t.”
my throat closes around a sound. i can’t tell if it’s a sob or a laugh or something feral. i glance at the girl again—at the way she mirrors louella’s posture like she learned it from a script—and something cold crawls up my spine.
maysilee has a canary. its name is lou lou. the thought comes out of nowhere, bright and stupid and painfully tender. but suddenly i need to say it. i need to make a small thing true in a room full of lies. “we’ll call her lou lou,” i suggest without thinking, my voice shaking. “my sister has a songbird. that was its name.”
haymitch stares at me, like that is the stupidest idea he's ever had, but then something in his expression breaks. just a little. not enough to fix him—just enough to prove he’s still human under all that hurt. “lou lou,” he repeats. a small, almost-smile appearing on his pale face.
i quickly discover that the training center doesn’t sleep.
i do—barely—but it’s the kind of sleep that feels like drowning slowly. every time i close my eyes, i’m back on the avenue. the crack of louella’s skull against stone echoes through my head like a fault line splitting open. i wake with my heart already racing, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
the room hums softly around me. the walls glow faintly blue, reacting to my movement like they’re alive. i sit up, drag my hands over my face, and press my palms to my eyes until the pressure turns the darkness red.
this is real. i am here. tomorrow we train. that thought doesn’t scare me the way it should. what scares me is how quickly my mind slides into preparation; exits, angles, advantages, how many bodies could fill a room this size, how long it would take to cross the floor if someone charged me from the doorway. i hate that it comes so easily.
muffled movement drifts through the hall. footsteps. a voice too low to make out. someone pacing. i swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the door, pressing my ear to the cool surface. i know without checking that it’s him.
haymitch must not be able to sleep either. some part of me wants to open the door. some part of me wants to pretend i don’t hear him falling apart just a wall away. i do neither. i stand there, forehead resting against the door, breathing slowly until the pacing stops.
when i finally crawl back into bed, lou lou’s too-bright smile flashes behind my eyelids and i have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
morning comes too fast. the alarm blares at dawn, loud and merciless. i’m already awake.
breakfast is quick and quiet. lou lou sits between wyatt and mags, smiling when prompted, nodding when spoken to. if i didn’t know better, i’d almost believe she’s okay. i don’t let myself linger on it. i don’t trust my hands not to shake if i do.
the only words that were truly said during the entire meal were wiress'. she had briefly asked us our combative skills, if we had any at all. she then urged us not to go to that station in training, to save that skill for the private showcase to the gamemakers. with the way she said it, this plan seemed like the most important thing she'd ever tell us.
the training center opens up like a cathedral built for violence. weapons gleam under harsh white lights. stations stretch in every direction—knives, spears, swords, axes, archery, snares, climbing, camouflage. tributes flood in from every district, voices overlapping, bodies jostling, alliances already forming in the way people cluster without meaning to.
careers move like they own the place: district one laughs too loudly, district two sizes everyone up like livestock, and district four pretends not to watch while watching everything.
wyatt drifts toward a numbers-based station with tributes from six and nine almost immediately, drawn like a magnet to people who think in patterns. lou lou is gently guided away by a trainer with pastel hair and a smile too wide, ushered toward basic survival drills.
that leaves just me and haymitch. we stand shoulder to shoulder near the edge of the knot tying station, not touching, not speaking. the air between us feels tight, stretched thin as wire.
“don’t follow me,” he mutters without looking.
“wasn’t planning on it,” i reply.
a trainer slams a basket of worn ropes down in front of us anyway. “pair up,” she says briskly.
haymitch exhales through his nose like the universe is personally mocking him.
i step forward first. the frayed rope feel familiar in my hands. my late grandfather taught where to place my fingers, how to fold the material perfectly and quickly, how precision saves effort.
i knot it when prompted, making it tight and enduring. i tie another—a bowline—and then another. both clean and efficient. no flourish. the trainer hums approvingly. “merchant kid,” she notes. “steady hands.”
haymitch watches despite himself. i feel it—his attention pressing against my back like heat. he steps up next, grabbing a slack rope with an unwavering clench. his knot is quick and perfect too, not budging as the trainer tugs on it.
“effective,” she comments carefully, haymitch's creation still in her hands.
we rotate the non-combative stations together, not because we want to, but because the room keeps folding us back into each other; climbing, camouflage, traps. it’s the last station that changes something. they give us wire, weights, and hooks.
“build something,” the trainer instructs. “something that stops someone bigger than you.”
my pulse picks up. i kneel, hands already moving, mind mapping space; tension points, leverage. haymitch hovers behind me, arms crossed, skeptical.
“you’re overthinking,” he says.
“you’re underestimating,” i shoot back.
i finish in silence. when the trainer triggers the snare, it snaps tight around a weighted dummy’s leg and slams it flat. haymitch goes still.
“again,” the trainer says.
i rebuild it faster. something shifts then—not trust. not forgiveness. just respect grinding its way into the space where hatred used to sit comfortably.
by the end of the day, my arms ache and my head pounds, but my mind is sharper than it’s ever been. as we file out, haymitch falls into step beside me. “you’re better than i thought,” he mutters, like it pains him to say it.
i don’t smile. “so are you,” i reply. it isn’t kindness. it isn’t peace. but it’s the first crack in something that’s been locked shut for years.
the next two days of training are the same. haymitch and i are grouped in pairs before we have a chance to protest, we move through the calmest stations together all whilst observing the other tributes. we spend our evenings with wiress and mags, learning our combative skills in private. i'm beyond handy with a knife, thanks to my father, and it turns out haymitch is too. we learn how to use a multitude of weapons in many different fashions. lou lou and wyatt pick up enough information and skill during these evenings that it almost gives me a small hope for their survival. but fact is still fact, and it's evident that if anyone from district twelve survives these games, it will be haymitch.
as the third day of training comes to a close, we are ushered to lunch where one by one each tribute is taken out of the cafeteria and to the showcase room. we each have five minutes to prove that we are worthy of a twelve, that we are worthy of sponsors, that we are worthy of living.
after over three hours, louella is finally called. then wyatt. then me. i leave the cafeteria without sparing haymitch a second glance.
the gamemakers sit high above the floor, beyond bored already. drinks in hand. laughter drifting down like static. i step into the circle and feel something cold settle in my spine. i don’t bow. i don’t smile. i just make a beeline for my knives and fist them in my shaky left hand.
i move fast—faster than in the gym. not flashy, not theatrical. controlled throws. tight arcs. blades embedding where i want them, when i want them. i adjust mid-motion, compensating for distance, for wind i can’t feel but know is there. it's one knife after another. no wasted movement.
when i’m done, the room is quiet. then someone claps. slowly and deliberately. i don’t look up to see who. i set the knives down, take a slow bow, and walk out without waiting for dismissal.
haymitch goes in after me. i instantly hear the snap of his voice, muffled but furious. i think he calls the gamemakers murderers. there's never a whip of a crossbow or the slash of a knife, haymitch only ever showcases his anger. when he comes back out mere minutes later, his eyes are bright with something dangerous and alive.
“they’ll hate that,” i say.
he grins, sharp and humorless. “good.”
by the time the day ends, exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a weight i can’t shrug off. my hands ache. my head throbs.
when haymitch falls into step beside me again, there’s still no insult waiting on his tongue. just that same quiet understanding. we’re not friends, we’re still not allies, but we’re no longer pretending the other is the enemy.
that night, the seven of us sit crowded around the sitting room, watching the hologram of the tribute's training scores play before us. there's not many perfect ten's. in fact, there's not many scores above a six.
haymitch included, whose rebellion in the showcase, earned him a one. wyatt received a six exactly and louella only received a three. i swallow my inhumane pride as the number ten displays itself underneath my name and picture.
it doesn't take long for me to realize that the interviews are worse than the training. training hurts your body but the interviews aim for something softer and more dangerous.
we’re woken before dawn again, ushered through showers and clothes and stylists who chatter like birds pecking at carrion. the preparation room smells like hairspray and heated metal and sugar—everything sweet layered over panic. my dress waits on a mannequin when i step inside, deep coal-gray silk that shifts silver under the lights, cut sharp at the shoulders and clean down my spine.
“strong,” one stylist murmurs. “defiant. very you.” i don’t remember ever telling the capitol who i am but they sit me in the chair anyway. brushes skim my cheeks. powder dulls the dark circles under my eyes. my hair is styled back from my face.
“remember,” drusilla says from behind me, crouching to meet my eyes in the mirror. “they don’t want fear. they want a story. give them something to fall in love with.” i swallow hard.
lou lou is dressed beside me in pale gold, all innocent and light. she smiles at her reflection. it twists something in my chest until i have to look away.
haymitch is across the room, half-turned from the mirror, fingers flexing like he wants to break something. they’ve dressed him in black with faint copper threading at the cuffs. he looks unrepentant.
the stage is blinding. lights crash over me the second i step out, heat pressing against my skin like a second sun. the crowd roars—thousands of voices crashing together into something monstrous and thrilled. my heartbeat stutters, then steadies. i lift my chin and walk like i belong here.
caesar flickerman beams from his chair, all bright suit and eager eyes. he looks younger than i expected. “district twelve’s volunteer!” he announces, voice booming. “give it up for y/n donner!”
applause slams into me. i sit, folding my hands in my lap, my posture impossibly straight.
“now,” caesar says, leaning forward, “you surprised everyone when you volunteered. tell us—why?”
the question lands like a trap—i could lie, i could perform, i could cry. i think of maysilee’s braid slipping loose in the wind; merilee’s hands clutching mine. “because my sister’s name was called,” i say simply.
the crowd quiets around me.
“just like that?” caesar prompts gently.
“just like that,” i repeat. “some things don’t need more explanation.”
there’s a beat—then applause again, louder this time. i don’t smile. i let them clap for the truth.
“you impressed the gamemakers with your outstanding eleven,” caesar continues. “knives, they say?”
i nod. “i grew up learning to be careful with my hands.”
“careful,” he echoes, amused. “yet here you are.”
i meet his gaze. “careful doesn’t mean afraid.” the crowd loves that. i can feel it—feel the shift, the interest sharpening. i tuck the sensation away, uncomfortable with how easily it happens.
“last question,” caesar says. “did you know your fellow tributes before the reaping?”
“up on the stage was the first time i met lou l—louella,” i catch myself, forcing a smile brighter than i feel. "they're both two years younger than me but i know wyatt and haymitch from school."
"were you close?" cesar pushes instantly, before the syllables have truly left my breath.
i raise an eyebrow softly at his question, seeing through his intent. "we were not, no. i knew of them, rather than knowing them!"
"what a shame, you won't be able to get to know them now," he jokes, with a tight, toothy smile. the joke never lands though, it feels bitter and upsets me instantly. i don't let it show.
when i stand to leave, the lights dim slightly—my cue. i walk offstage without looking back.
haymitch goes out two interviews later, after lou lou and wyatt. he's the final interview of the forty-eight. the crowd is already buzzing when he steps into the light, tension crackling like electricity. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t bow, he just sits, one ankle crossed over his knee, daring them to try him.
“haymitch abernathy,” caesar grins, appearing a little nervous now. “you’ve been memorable this week.”
haymitch smirks. “i have that effect.”
laughter ripples through the audience at his comment. he sounds briefly like the haymitch i knew of from the seam—like the haymitch that cat-called me princess in the most venomous ways possible for three long years.
“tell us,” caesar says, leaning in close, “what’s your strategy?”
haymitch tilts his head, eyes glinting. “to survive longer than they expect.”
“and who do you expect to help you do that?” caesar presses.
haymitch’s gaze flicks, just once, toward the wing of the stage—toward me. “i don’t trust easy,” he says slowly. “but i trust people who don’t lie when it matters.”
the crowd erupts. my stomach drops.
caesar’s eyes light up. “ah,” he says delightedly. “sounds like an alliance forming.”
haymitch shrugs. “maybe.”
the cameras eat it up. i can almost hear the capitol spinning it already—fire and steel, merchant and seam, enemies forced together.
by the time the interviews end, my head is pounding. backstage, drusilla is radiant. “did you hear them?” she gushes. “they adored you. all four of you!”
mags squeezes my hand. wiress murmurs something about patterns aligning. haymitch catches my arm as we move toward the exit, his grip brief but grounding.
“you did good,” he says quietly.
i meet his eyes. “yea, you too.”
the capitol never really lets you rest. after the interviews, they herd us back to the twelfth floor like glass figurines that have survived a fall and need to be locked away before we chip. the hallways feel narrower than they did this morning, the lights a little harsher, the quiet louder. adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving something heavy and shaky behind.
lou lou is the first to break. the moment the door slides shut behind us, she sags—just a fraction—and mags is there immediately, guiding her to the couch with a hand at her back. wyatt hovers, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes darting between all of us like he’s waiting for the odds to rearrange themselves into something kinder.
“you did beautifully,” mags tells lou lou, voice low and steady. “you were very brave.” lou lou nods on cue, smile snapping into place a half-second too late. it makes my chest ache.
wiress paces the room, muttering to herself. “images are set. narratives are locked. sponsors respond to contrast, fire and restraint; opposites draw attention.” she glances at me, then at haymitch. “you two are loud without being loud.”
haymitch scoffs lowly. “is that supposed to be a compliment?”
wiress considers. “yes.”
drusilla claps her hands together. “all right! now that the public adores you—” she grins widest at haymitch, who does not look adored “—we need to talk practicalities. arena gear, supplies, what you can reasonably carry without tripping over your own feet.”
we gather around the table as a projection flickers to life above it, displaying rotating images of standard arena packs: water purifiers, rope, dried rations, knives, flint. the basics. the lies they tell you so you’ll believe preparation makes this fair.
“you won’t know the environment until launch,” mags says gently. “so you plan for flexibility. layers. nothing that slows you down.”
“weapons?” wyatt asks.
“whatever you can reach first,” haymitch replies before anyone more experienced else can. his voice is flat, tired. “don’t get attached to anything.”
my gaze flicks to him. there’s something brittle in the way he says it, like he learned that lesson early.
for the next few hours, time blurs. we talk through scenarios—what to grab, what to leave, how to read the opening seconds of the bloodbath. wiress sketches strange little diagrams on a pad, lines and angles and symbols that make my head spin but seem to calm her. mags listens more than she speaks, but when she does, everyone quiets.
lou lou drifts in and out, answering when asked, nodding when prompted. i keep an eye on her without meaning to, tracking the slight delays in her reactions, the way she mirrors wyatt’s posture when she’s unsure what to do with her own body.
mags and wiress have private conversations with each of us, just a minute or two long a piece. they tell us our strengths and how we can and should use that when we're out there.
they expect a lot from me. they think i am braver than i have ever considered myself even dreaming of being. i'm told to brave the cornucopia, to risk grabbing a knife and anything else i can safely manage.
when drusilla finally dismisses us, it’s late. too late. back in district twelve, the shop will have already been closed for hours now. i assume maysilee and merilee still lie awake though.
my room greets me with a soft yellow light and silence that feels almost kind after the noise of the day. i peel off the training uniform and change into the plain sleepwear laid out for me, my movements slow and automated. my reflection looks calmer than i feel. my eyes give me away.
i sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands resting uselessly in my lap. this is the last night before the arena. the thought lands without drama. no spike of fear. just a dull, heavy certainty. tomorrow is movement and noise and blood. tomorrow, something in me will have to harden whether i want it to or not.
i lie down and stare at the ceiling, listening. the training center hums. vents whisper. somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. there's a pad of footsteps. then silence.
i’m almost asleep when the knock comes. it’s quiet and hesitant. like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re allowed to be here. my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
i slip out of bed and cross the room, opening the door just enough to see haymitch standing there in the dim hallway light. he looks wrecked, worn down to something raw. his shoulders are slumped, frizzy curls falling into his eyes, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“sorry,” he murmurs immediately. “i—i shouldn’t have—”
“it’s fine,” i cut in softly, stepping back to let him in. he hesitates, then crosses the threshold quickly. i close the door behind him. the room feels smaller with him in it. warmer, heavier.
we stand there for a moment, neither of us moving.
“are you okay?” i finally ask.
he huffs out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “no.” he's honest, startlingly so. he rubs a hand over his face, dragging it down until his fingers catch at his jaw. “i can’t sleep. every time i close my eyes, i hear it again.”
i don’t ask what, i don’t need to.
“i almost knocked two nights ago,” he adds, eyes fixed on the floor. “i stood outside your door like an idiot for— i don’t know how long.”
my breath catches, remembering the shuffling in the hallway. "why didn’t you?” i ask.
he shrugs, a sharp, defensive motion. “i didn’t think you’d want me here.”
something tightens in my chest. “you could’ve,” i say. “you still can.”
the silence that follows is thick and fragile. slowly, he steps closer, like he’s afraid of breaking something if he moves too fast. he doesn’t touch me at all at first. he just stops in front of me, close enough that i can feel the warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
“i don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly. “whatever this is.”
“me neither,” i quietly admit, my voice cracking on my last syllable.
haymitch leans forward, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder, sliding down my chest just a sliver. the contact is gentle, almost tentative, like he’s checking that i won’t pull away—i don’t.
after an excruciatingly long moment, his arms come around me—not tight, not possessive. just there. i slide mine around his back almost immediately, pressing my cheek against his chest, breathing him in. he smells like soap and metal and something unmistakably human. his body trembles once. it's barely noticeable, like a shiver he didn’t mean to show.
we stay like that in the dark, holding each other silently in a painfully unfamiliar fashion.
eventually, he straightens and steps back before i can say anything, hands dropping to his sides like he’s putting his armor back on. “thanks,” he says, voice rough. “for not asking for more.”
i shake my head. “you don’t owe me anything.”
his mouth twitches, almost a smile. almost. then he turns and leaves without another word. the door clicks shut softly behind him. i stand there long after he’s gone, arms still wrapped around empty air, heart aching in a way that feels strangely steady.
the day of the games arrives without ceremony. no countdown. no dramatic knock. just a soft shift in the lights, a low hum in the walls, and the sudden understanding that there are no more rehearsals left.
i wake an hour before the alarm. my body feels strangely calm, like it has finally accepted what my mind has been circling for days. i shower quickly, mechanically, the water warm and scentless. when i dry off, the clothes are already laid out on the bed: my arena uniform.
i recognize it instantly—rough, practical, deceptively simple. fitted pants the color of pale stone, a black undershirt, a sleeveless vest with too many pockets and not enough padding. there's nothing ornamental about it; nothing kind. this is the kind of outfit that tells you survival is your own responsibility.
i pull it on piece by piece. the fabric is heavier than it looks. when i fasten the vest, it sits snug against my ribs, grounding me. i flex my fingers, steadying myself in the weight of my new clothes.
i stand in front of the mirror and let my hair fall loose down my back. it feels wrong to leave it untouched—too wild, too vulnerable—so i reach up and braid a thin strand on the left side, quick and practiced. maysilee’s braid. my throat tightens, but i finish it anyway, fingers moving with muscle memory. i tuck the end behind my ear and look at myself again.
this is who goes into the arena. not the older sister above the sweet shop. not the witty girl who argued in classrooms. not the volunteer everyone keeps calling brave. it's just me.
i was given the option to bring a keepsake with me into the arena. a necklace, a pin, a bracelet—anything small and important to me. i chose against it, maysilee's braid is enough of a reminder for me.
when i step into the common area, the others are already there. wyatt stands near the window, adjusting the straps on his vest. his face is pale but set, jaw tight in that familiar way—like he’s calculating something that refuses to give him good odds. lou lou sits on the couch beside mags, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looks composed, almost serene, like she’s been told exactly how to be and is determined not to mess it up. something in my chest aches when she smiles at me.
haymitch leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes shadowed. his outfit, though identical to mine, looks like it was made for him. his curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and for a moment i have the irrational thought that he looks younger like this. more like sixteen than the hardened version the capitol wants.
his gaze flicks to my hair, to the braid. he doesn’t say anything but his jaw tightens, and then loosens again, like he swallowed a thought.
it appears that out of the four of us, haymitch is the only one to adorn something special to him: a c-shaped metal charm, with a snake and a bird on either side, that sits on a chain around his neck. i quickly wonder the story behind it.
drusilla claps her hands together, peeling me from my thoughts, the sound too bright for the moment. “all right, my darlings. this is it. final checks.”
wiress circles us slowly, eyes darting, fingers twitching like she’s listening to something only she can hear. “remember patterns,” she murmurs. “the arena lies. trust movement, not beauty.”
we all nod. i notice tears welling at the edges of lou lou's eyes.
wiress lands in front of me, putting her left hand firmly on my shoulder, "do not be afraid of the cornucopia, get your knife and go—that is important. food if you can, but hunger is easier than fear."
my breath catches in my swelling throat at her words. i don't respond, i just nod again.
mags steps forward next. she takes each of our hands in turn, squeezing gently, firmly. when she reaches me, her grip lingers just a second longer. “be clever,” she says softly. “and be kind when you can. even if it costs you.”
then we’re moving again, ushered through corridors i’ve never seen before, down into the heart of the building. the air grows cooler, heavier. doors open and close behind us with final-sounding clicks.
the courtyard waits below. the transport ship squats in the center of it like some mechanical animal, sleek and black and humming with restrained power. one by one, we’re called forward.
lou lou is guided in first. she goes without hesitation, hands folded, posture perfect, like she’s been taught exactly how to walk toward her own fear. wyatt follows, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the floor like he’s memorizing every bolt and seam.
then it’s my turn. i pause at the edge of the ship, the wind tugging at my hair, the smell of fuel sharp in my nose. i look back once—at mags, at wiress, at drusilla’s fixed smile—and then, without letting myself hesitate, i step aboard.
the interior is cold and metallic. a medic waits inside, her face blank, her slender hands gloved. “left arm,” she says emotionless.
i don’t flinch as the tracker is injected just beneath my skin. the needle slides in clean and fast, sharp enough to bite. it burns briefly, then settles into a dull ache, like a reminder etched into my flesh.
haymitch boards last and the doors immediately seal behind him. for a sliver of a second, our eyes meet across the narrow space. he nods once, the outer corner of his eyes crinkle softly. i nod back and tear my eyes away from the sight.
the games
the ship lifts, smooth and silent, the ground dropping away beneath us. no one speaks. there’s nothing left to say.
when the transport finally slows, it’s not the arena that greets us, it’s a grand building. low, angular, made of smooth gray stone that blends too well with the surrounding landscape. it sits just outside the arena’s perimeter like a control node—close enough to feel, far enough to keep us from seeing anything that matters.
the four of us disembark with no goodbyes, no last looks. peacekeepers separate us immediately, guiding each tribute down identical white corridors that branch away from one another like veins. i don’t see haymitch again. i don’t hear wyatt’s voice. lou lou disappears behind a closing door without a sound.
my launch room is smaller than i would have thought, circular and bare with its smooth walls and bright lights. there's a single opening in the floor where the metal launch tube waits, sealed and silent. the platform sits at the center, perfectly still, ringed with faint markings that tell me exactly where to stand.
i step onto it. the floor beneath my boots vibrates faintly as it activates, recognizing my weight, my tracker, my pulse. cool air rises from below, carrying the scent of grass and something sweet that makes my stomach tighten.
a voice crackles overhead, emotionless. “tribute, stand still.” i listen.
the tube seals around me, walls sliding up until the world narrows to polished metal and artificial light. i can’t see anyone else, can’t hear anything but my own breathing.
i shut my eyes so tight they start to hurt.
this is it.
the platform hums louder beneath me.
day one
when i open my eyes again, the ceiling begins to slide away and a bright white light floods in and fades out—revealing a blue sky, a green meadow, flowers that are too bright to trust.
the cornucopia gleams at the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of other pedestals—forty-seven other tributes, forty-seven other lives about to shatter.
i lower my chin and breathe once, deep and steady. my platform locks into place and the countdown begins—ten. nine. eight—i spot haymitch across the circle. he’s already crouched slightly, coiled like a spring, eyes fixed on the metal pile at the center—seven. six. five—my fingers flex—four. three. two—i think of maysilee’s braid. of sugar-dusted mornings. of a boy pacing outside my door who didn’t know how to ask for comfort.
one.
the horn sounds like the world cracking open. for a split second, everything freezes—forty-eight bodies held in the same breath, the meadow so beautiful it almost convinces you this isn’t a slaughter. the flowers gleam like spilled paint. the air smells sweet, clean, wrong.
then the sound finishes echoing and the spell snaps. i run. not a careful run, not a smart one. i launch myself straight off the pedestal, boots tearing into grass slick with dew, lungs burning as the distance between me and the cornucopia collapses in a blur of color and screaming. i don’t look left. i don’t look right. i don’t look for haymitch.
if i stop, i die.
the cornucopia looms larger with every stride—metal teeth flaring upward, its shadow pooling dark and cold beneath it. bodies slam into each other around me. someone trips. someone else goes down. a career laughs, bright and thrilled, like this is exactly what they’ve been waiting for.
i hit the metal pile and don’t slow, wiress' instructions echoing through my brain. my hand closes around a set of knives—light, balanced, wrapped tight in leather. my other arm scoops a small satchel without even glancing inside. my instinct screams go, and i obey.
i barely get two steps in before a boy i recognize from district five stumbles into my path, eyes wide, mouth already opening—maybe to warn me, maybe to beg. i skid to a stop so hard my knees scream.
then a knife punches through his chest from behind. the blade erupts out the front of him, red and wet. his body jerks once—hard, puppet-sharp—before sagging. his weight collapses forward, almost into me.
i scream and shove him away at the same time, hands slipping on blood. i don’t wait to see who took his life, i don’t want to. i turn and sprint.
the first cannon booms. it's sound is enormous, concussive, shaking the air itself. it echoes off the meadow and slams straight into my bones. my stomach flips, bile clawing up my throat.
that's one.
i don’t stop running until the grass gives way to shadow and the forest swallows me whole. my lungs burn like they’re tearing themselves apart, but i keep going until the screams fade into something distant and unreal. only then do i skid to a stop at the tree line, chest heaving, hands shaking so badly i have to brace them against a trunk.
the meadow is still chaos when i turn back. the careers move like predators, cutting down anything slower than them, anything stupid enough to freeze in awe of the arena’s beauty. panache barker is unmistakable even from here, tall and brutal, leading the pack like he was born for this.
cannons keep sounding. two. three. four.
i scan frantically for familiar faces. for curls. for a stance i recognize. but i see no haymitch. panic spikes sharp and fast in my body.
then i see wyatt. he’s near the edge of the cornucopia now, already bleeding, already outmatched. lou lou is just behind him, frozen in place like her feet have grown roots. panache’s blade flashes toward her—wyatt steps in front of her without hesitation. the final strike lands. hard.
wyatt crumples, shielding her even as he falls, his body collapsing between lou lou and the blade meant for her. the cannon fires almost immediately. that's five. the sound tears a hole straight through me.
lou lou screams. a raw, broken sound that doesn’t belong in her throat. a pair of hands drag her away by the arm and she disappears into the chaos, still alive, still screaming. i don’t stay to see more. i know that if i do, i won’t leave.
i turn and run deeper into the forest, branches tearing at my uniform, tears blinding me as i sprint blindly until my legs give out and i slam to my knees behind a fallen log.
the meadow is gone now. the screams are muffled. but the cannons keep coming. six. seven. eight. i curl forward, pressing my forehead into the dirt, knife clutched so tight my fingers ache. i don’t cry—not really. it’s more like something inside me is screaming with no sound.
eighteen cannons ring out before the sun even shifts. eighteen lives erased in minutes.
when night finally falls, it does so all at once. the forest goes still, like it’s holding its breath. the anthem of panem rises. it pours out of the sky and the holograms flicker to life above the trees. faces bloom one by one, ghostly and bright.
wyatt callow, district twelve.
my chest caves in. i press my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound as louella mccoy’s name does not appear. as haymitch abernathy’s does not either. they're both alive. i'm alive. for now.
the anthem ends. the faces fade. the forest exhales. i sit there in the dark, shaking, knives heavy in my lap, the satchel still unopened at my side; tears streaming down my face.
the forest doesn’t feel like shelter. it feels like a mouth that closed around me. i don’t stop crying, until the screams and cannons are nothing but echoes stitched into my ribs. i have wedged myself beneath a fallen tree tangled with vines and moss, the earth damp and cold beneath my palms. only then do i let myself breathe. only then do i open the satchel.
my hands still shake so badly i almost spill everything into the dirt. there's three bottles of water—two full, one empty. i press my forehead briefly against the plastic of one, grounding myself in its coolness. two mre packets, sealed tight. antiseptic, small but intact. there's nothing else. no flint. no rope. no luxuries. it's enough to keep me alive but not enough for me to get comfortable.
i slide the knife set inside the satchel and cinch it closed, tucking the strap across my chest like an anchor. then i crawl deeper beneath the log, curling onto my side, back pressed to bark, knees drawn in tight.
i don’t light a fire. i don’t eat. i don’t drink. i just sit there in the dark, eyes wide, listening. every snap of a branch sounds like footsteps. every rustle feels like breath on my neck. my body stays coiled, knife already in my hand, even as exhaustion drags at my bones.
the thought of wyatt keeps me upright through the night. i don’t sleep. i just survive the dark.
day two
morning arrives quietly. there's no alarms, no peachy announcements from drusilla, just light filtering through leaves, turning dew into glass. the forest looks almost kind in the daylight—green and soft and deceptively peaceful.
i ration immediately. taking a long sip of my water, half a bottle. nothing else. my stomach knots in protest, but i ignore it. hunger is easier than fear, wiress had said.
i move slow today. careful. every step deliberate. i mark my path with small, subtle signs only i would notice—a bent fern, a scuffed stone. i don’t stray far from cover. i don’t touch the berries, even when they look perfect and ripe and sweet. especially not then.
i hear things. footsteps, once—too heavy to be prey. laughter, distant and wrong. something screaming far enough away that i can pretend it isn’t real. i never do see anyone.
by midday, i find a better hiding spot: a shallow hollow formed by intertwined roots, partially hidden by low brush. it’s defensible, sheltered. invisible unless you know where to look. i tuck myself inside and let my muscles loosen for the first time since the horn.
that’s when the shaking starts. it comes out of nowhere—violent, bone-deep. adrenaline leaving my system like it was pulled out by force. i press my teeth into my sleeve to keep from crying out, breathing through it until it passes.
i eat half an mre. it tastes like cardboard and salt.
when night falls again, the anthem comes softer this time. the sky lights up; a boy from district six, a boy and both girls from district ten.
then louella mccoy. district twelve.
the world around me goes quiet. i don’t scream. i don’t cry. i just stare until the light fades, until her pale face and long raven braids dissolve into stars and nothing.
my heart aches for lou lou. for the real louella. for the both of their clueless families.
i stay curled in the roots long after the anthem ends, knife pressed flat to my chest, wondering how many names are left before mine appears.
day three
the morning is calm again.
my body feels heavy when i move, limbs sluggish from hunger and stress. i sip water sparingly and force myself upright. i can’t stay hidden forever. sponsors won’t bet on a ghost.
i follow the forest edge, careful not to break into open meadow, watching the ground as much as the trees. that’s when i see them: holly berries. bright red. perfect. glossy as candy.
i stop instantly. something about them feels wrong—not poisonous-wrong, not obvious-danger, but staged. deliberate. my skin prickles.
the berries move in half a second. they split apart with a wet, clicking sound. ladybugs crawl free from its shell. dozens. then hundreds.
they surge toward me in a living wave. i scream. it rips out of me before i can stop it—raw, panicked, animal. they swarm my legs, my arms, my neck. pain explodes everywhere at once—sharp, burning. i claw at the bugs, sobbing, slapping, my vision blurring as weakness floods my limbs.
“help—” my voice breaks into nothing. i keep slapping at my body, digging my nails into my skin carelessly in rushed attempts to rid of the muttations. i yelp as one crawls into a loose flap on skin. that's when a pair of calloused hands slam over my mouth. hard.
“quiet,” snarls in my ear. haymitch. he’s there suddenly—solid, real—hauling me backward, crushing my face against his chest as he runs. i feel him swatting at the mutts with brutal efficiency, i feel his breath hot and fast against my hair. “do you want them to hear you?” he hisses. “stay quiet.”
i can’t fight him. i can barely stay conscious.
he doesn’t stop running until the forest thickens again, until the air feels safer. he lowers me to the ground, immediately stealing my satchel and dumping the contents out, his hands moving fast, practiced.
“you’re bleeding,” he mutters. i look up at him. there's three red marks scattered on the left side of his pale face. they're shiny, blistering. i try to raise a finger up, to warn him of his small ladybug-berry injuries but my arm is limp.
i feel completely and utterly useless as he pours my water over my skin, scrubbing the bugs away, pressing antiseptic into the bites while i gasp and shake, pain and relief tangling together.
i look up at him through hot tears. this is the first time i’ve seen him since the horn. he's alive. his hands don’t stop shaking even after the last of the insects are gone.
the antiseptic stings like fire, but the pain is sharp and clean now, not the hollow draining ache from before. my skin burns, throbbing in angry patches, but i can feel my fingers again. my legs respond when i flex them, weak but obedient. it's just temporary. i cling to that fact like a lifeline.
haymitch presses a wad of cloth against the worst of it, jaw clenched so tight i can see the muscle jump. he doesn’t look at my face. he doesn’t say anything comforting. he just works—efficient, focused—like if he stops moving, something inside him will crack open.
then there's voices. close. too close. haymitch freezes beside me. his hand comes up instantly, firm against my shoulder, guiding me backward into the shadow of a fallen tree. he pulls me in tight, positioning my body flush against his chest, one arm wrapped across my shoulders, the other braced against the ground like a barrier. i don’t resist. i don’t even breathe.
boots crunch through leaves not even ten feet away. “thought i heard something,” a boy says—lazy, amused. a career. district two, maybe.
“probably mutts,” another replies. “this place is crawling with them.” there's laughter. low. confident.
i feel haymitch’s breath warm against the crown of my head. i feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest as he forces himself calm. his chin dips, almost resting in my hair, like we’re just another tangle of roots and bark and shadow. his grip tightens—not painful, but grounding. stay still, his body tells me. my heart slams so hard i’m terrified they’ll hear it.
“we’ll sweep the meadow later,” someone else adds. panache barker’s voice. i recognize it from the bloodbath—too smooth, too pleased.
footsteps move on. branches snap farther away. only when the forest swallows their voices completely does haymitch loosen his hold—not all at once, but slowly. like he’s making sure they’re really gone.
in one swift motion he completely pulls away. the space between us feels cold immediately. he doesn’t meet my eyes, doesn’t ask if i’m okay, just pushes the satchel back into my hands and nods toward it once.
“you’ll be sore,” he says quietly. “drink, only water from your bottles. eat something. don’t touch anything red again.”
i swallow. my throat burns. “thank you haymitch.” he stiffens before me. for a moment, i think he might say something—anything—but he just shakes his head once, sharp and final.
“stay hidden,” he adds. “they’ll come back.” and then he’s gone. no goodbye. no explanation. just the sound of him melting back into the trees like he was never here at all.
i sit there long after, fingers curled tight around the satchel strap, skin aching, heart still racing. somewhere deep in this forest, a boy i’ve spent years hating just saved my life and disappeared without claiming it.
that night, the anthem plays again. four more faces rise into the sky—ampert latier was unfortunately one of them—leaving twenty-one of us.
i stare at nothing in front of me, letting the involuntary tears fall from my swelling eyes, saying a silent prayer that haymitch comes back to me.
day four
pale light bleeds through the trees, thin and cautious the next morning, like the arena itself is holding its breath. i wake slowly, every muscle stiff, every bite from yesterday still tender but dulled. the antiseptic did its job. haymitch did his job.
i drink some—only from what's left of my water bottle like haymitch instructed. i eat some. i move quick.
i don’t know why i walk in the direction i do. instinct, maybe. or the fact that i haven’t stopped thinking about the way haymitch vanished into the trees without a word. about how close the careers were. about how his hands shook while he saved me.
i keep to the forest’s edge, circling the meadow without stepping into it. the open space feels wrong now—too watched. too exposed. i don’t want to go to the cornucopia again. i don’t want the ghosts still clinging to it.
the forest edge narrows where the trees press closer to the meadow, roots snarling beneath the soil like they’re trying to trip me on purpose. i move slow, eyes up, knife already loose in my grip.
i hear her before i see her. a breath. sharp. panicked. close. i stop instantly, lowering my center of gravity, every sense tightening. the sound comes again—someone clearly trying not to cry.
“please,” a voice whispers. female. young. “i don’t want to—” she stumbles into view from behind a cluster of ferns, nearly colliding with me. district eight. i recognize the fabric scraps woven into her sleeve, the thinness of her frame, the way her eyes dart everywhere but my face. we both freeze. she’s holding a short blade, but her grip is wrong—too tight, knuckles white, elbow locked. fear, not training. “don’t,” she says immediately, voice breaking. “don’t come closer.”
i don’t move. my heart is pounding so loud it feels like a betrayal. “i’m not,” i say quietly. “i won’t.”
she swallows hard, tears tracking down her cheeks. “i can’t do this,” she whispers. “i haven’t eaten since the cornucopia. i thought—i thought if i followed the trees…” her eyes flick to my satchel. then back to my face. shame floods her expression instantly. “i don’t want your things,” she rushes. “i just—i just don’t want to be alone when it happens.”
the words hit harder than any blade could. i take a careful step to the side, angling my body so i’m not blocking her path. “you don’t have to stay here,” i say. “you can keep going.”
she shakes her head, frantic. “they’re everywhere. i hear them laughing at night.” careers. she takes a step toward me without realizing it. too close.
something in her eyes shifts then—not aggression, not courage—just desperation tipping into panic. her blade lifts and my heart sinks.
my body moves before my mind catches up. i step in. fast. close enough to smell her sweat, her fear. my knife finds her ribs because there’s nowhere else to put it, because hesitation is how you die here.
the resistance is awful. she gasps, a sharp, startled sound, more surprise than pain. “i’m sorry,” i breathe, even as my hand keeps moving, even as i know apologizing doesn’t undo anything.
her blade clatters to the grass. her knees buckle. i catch her instinctively, lowering her so she doesn’t hit the earth too hard. her blood soaks into my sleeve, hot and slick.
her green eyes find mine. “thank you,” she whispers, so soft i almost miss it. then those eyes go empty.
i kneel there longer than i should, hands shaking, my knife still buried where i put it. the cannon sounds overhead—loud, final—and i flinch like it hit me instead of the sky.
i pull the blade free and stumble back, bile burning my throat. i wipe my hands on the grass, on my pants, on anything that isn’t her. this is real, i think numbly. this is what it costs.
i don’t take anything from her. not her blade. not her pack. i turn away instead, moving fast, breath coming too shallow, my chest aching like something inside it cracked open. the forest doesn’t care. it closes behind me like nothing happened.
my legs carry me forward on instinct alone. i walk a yard or two numb, not thinking, not strategizing, just moving my body one step at a time. i instinctively hike a leg over a fallen log, suppressing the pain that tugs at the still-blistering skin on my thighs.
that's when i see him. haymitch is crouched near a stand of trees i haven’t explored yet, back half-turned to me, backpack resting against his knee while he studies the ground intently. he looks different out here—leaner, sharper, carved down to survival and stubbornness. not bleeding, not frantic, just set. like someone who’s already lost everything and refuses to lose anything else.
i freeze. for one horrible second, i consider turning around. disappearing again. pretending yesterday never happened. pretending he didn’t save me, didn’t hold me still while death passed us by, didn’t walk away like it meant nothing.
then a branch snaps underneath my boot. his head comes up instantly. blue eyes lock on mine. no surprise, no relief. just recognition. “you’re alive,” he says flatly. it’s not a question. it’s not even warm. it’s just fact.
“so are you,” i answer.
he nods once, like that settles something, then pushes himself to his feet. he doesn’t tell me to leave. he doesn’t invite me closer. he just turns and starts walking, deeper into the forest, like he expects me to follow. after a beat, i do.
we move side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. the silence between us is thick but not hostile anymore. it’s the kind of quiet that comes after screaming, when there’s nothing left to say except the truth.
the walking almost distracts me from the girl from district eight—how she was ready to die but also ready to kill, how blood spilled from her chest, how i vomitted all over her and her belongings.
after a while, i say it, what's been on my mind for two days: “lou lou died.”
the words fall flat between us, a statement shaped like a wound. haymitch doesn’t stop walking when he opens his mouth. “i know.”
i swallow. my throat burns. “they showed her face.”
"yeah," he exhales slowly through his nose. “they do that.”
my steps falter just a little. “you were with her.” it’s not a question. i know the answer from his uncharacteristically witty comment. i just need him to say it.
“since the bloodbath,” he starts, “she found me after. wouldn’t stop following me. wouldn’t stop apologizing for breathing too loud.” my chest tightens. "she kept asking if she was doing it wrong,” he continues, voice rough but steady. “sleeping. walking. surviving. like there was a rulebook she missed.”
i look at the ground so i don’t have to look at his face and those red blisters on his face, his consequence for saving my life.
“she was tired,” he says. “they kept steering her. drugging her. every time she tried to sit down, she’d get confused. scared. said the flowers were singing.” my fingers curl into fists. “by the second night,” he adds, quieter now, “she couldn’t walk anymore.”
we stop near the stump of a tree. he sets his axe down on top of it, staring at it like it might answer for him.
“i stayed,” he says. “i didn’t let them take her right away.” my heart sinks for him. for lou lou. for louella. “i held her hand until she stopped shaking,” he finishes. “then i made it stop.”
the arena feels too big around us suddenly. too open. too cruel. “i’m so sorry,” i whisper.
he snorts, sharp and bitter. “don’t.”
“i mean it.”
“i know you do,” he says. “that’s the problem.”
we walk again. i almost tell him about the life i took but decide not to. i'm not sure i trust him not to do the same to me. that thought makes me want to vomit again.
after a while, the anger creeps in, quieter than before but heavier. “you hated me,” i say suddenly. “before all this.”
he lets out a short laugh. humorless. “yeah.”
“why?"
he doesn’t answer right away. when he does, it’s like pulling splinters from bone. “you had a roof that didn’t leak,” he says. “food that didn’t disappear. sisters that didn’t look at you like you were already dead.”
i flinch. “that’s not—”
“i know,” he cuts in. then softer, “i know. but i didn’t then.”
i swallow. “you called me a spoiled princess.”
“you called me a charity case,” he fires back.
the words hang between us, ugly and old.
“i didn’t know about your dad yet,” i say.
“i know,” he replies. “doesn’t make it hurt less.”
we stop again. this time, we face each other.
“i hated that you saw through me,” he admits. “that you weren’t afraid of me. that you looked at me like i was something.”
my heart stutters. “and i hated that you thought i was pretending,” i say. “that everything i had meant i hadn’t earned anything.”
he looks at me then. “stupid,” he mutters.
“yeah,” i agree. “really stupid.”
something settles after that, an understanding pressing its weight down on both of us.
“you’re not doing this alone anymore,” he says eventually.
"neither are you.”
he nods once. we turn and walk together, side by side, into an unfortunately beautiful part of the arena neither of us has seen yet.
he tells me about how he almost died of poisoned water thirty minutes into the games; about lou lou's flower bed; about his mutt portal mission with ampert, following my ladybug injuries; about ampert's death; about the three lives he's taken already.
i tell him i'm sorry again, despite how much he hates it.
day five
the forest smells different when i wake—sharp, metallic, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. or maybe it's just the arena shifting its weight, reminding us it isn’t done.
haymitch is already awake. he’s crouched a few feet away, back to a tree, axe across his knees while he sharpens the blade with slow, methodical strokes. the sound is steady. controlled. too calm for how close danger feels now.
eight more tributes lost their lives last night. leaving haymitch and i versus thirteen others. thirteen fighters.
i sit up quietly, stretching stiff legs, rolling my shoulders to work out the soreness that never quite leaves. the bites from the mutts still ache if i move too fast, but they’re fading. temporary. everything here is temporary one way or another.
“you hear that?” he asks without looking up. i pause, listening harder. at first there’s nothing—just birdsong and the soft breath of the trees—but beneath it, something else. a distant rumble. low. constant.
“no,” i say. then, after a beat, “wait. yeah.”
he nods once. “mountain.”
my stomach tightens. we haven’t gone near it yet—not really. it’s been looming in the distance since the games began, white-capped and harmless-looking, like it belongs on a postcard instead of in an arena built to kill us.
“it wasn’t making noise yesterday,” i say.
“nope.” he finishes sharpening the axe and stands, testing the weight in his hand. his movements are efficient, practiced. like he’s already adjusted his expectations.
i sling my satchel over my shoulder, checking the strap automatically. “are we moving?”
“yeah,” he says. “but not toward that.” he jerks his chin away from the mountain, deeper into the forest, angling north. toward terrain we haven’t touched yet. something about the way he says it, decisive and final, sets my teeth on edge.
“why?” i ask.
“because whatever’s waking up over there,” he replies, “isn’t something i want at our backs.”
our. the word lands heavier than it should. we start walking, side by side again, boots crunching softly over leaves and brittle twigs. the forest feels tighter today. less forgiving. branches snag at my clothes like hands that don’t want to let go.
after a while, i notice the pattern. haymitch keeps drifting a half-step ahead of me. keeps taking the outside edge when the ground narrows. keeps positioning himself between me and every open sightline.
i let it go once. then twice. the third time, i stop. "hey.”
he takes another step before realizing i’m not with him. he quickly turns back, irritation already flashing across his face. “what?”
“stop doing that.”
“doing what?”
“that.” i gesture between us. “you’re not a shield.”
his jaw tightens. “i didn’t say i was.”
“you don’t have to.”
he scoffs quietly and turns away again. “we don’t have time for this.”
i follow, but my voice sharpens. “you keep moving us away from food. from water. from visibility. you volunteered to scout last night. you took point again this morning.”
“someone has to.”
“not like this.”
he stops abruptly, spinning on me. “like what?”
“like you’ve already decided how this ends,” i snap. my words hang there, raw and dangerous. for a moment, i think he’s going to explode. instead, something in him goes still.
“watch your step,” he says coldly.
“no,” i fire back. “you don’t get to shut me out now. not after—”
“after i saved your life?” he cuts in.
that hits. hard. i swallow, anger flaring bright enough to hurt. “after you chose to stay.”
silence stretches between us, thick and brittle. the forest seems to lean in, listening. haymitch drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. “this isn’t about feelings,” he mutters. “this is math.”
“don’t,” i warn. wyatt callow flashes in my brain at the word math.
“one of us makes it farther if the other draws attention,” he continues, voice roughening. “that’s just how it works.”
my chest tightens painfully. “so you’re planning to be the distraction.” he doesn’t answer and that’s answer enough. i step closer, lowering my voice, each word precise. “don’t turn me into someone who survives by letting you die.”
he finally looks at me then. i see something crack through the anger—fear, sharp and unguarded. “you think i don’t know that?” he snaps. “you think i don’t wake up every morning counting how many ways this ends with your name in the sky?” my breath stutters. “you still have a reason to live,” he adds. “don’t make me pretend i do.”
the words cut deep, because i know where they come from. “you’re wrong,” i say quietly. “and you don’t get to decide that for me. or for yourself.”
he shakes his head, bitter. “you don’t understand.”
“maybe not,” i admit. “but i understand this: if you disappear on me, i won’t forgive you. not in this arena. not ever.”
there's another long silence. the distant rumble rolls again, louder this time, vibrating faintly through the ground beneath our boots. ash drifts from somewhere unseen, dusting the leaves like gray snow.
haymitch exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something he’s been gripping too tight. “we move together,” he says at last. “no heroics.”
he turns and starts walking again, slower this time. matching my pace. the mountain growls loud behind us. its sound rolls through the arena like something ancient stretching its spine, deep and resonant and wrong. the ground beneath our boots shivers again—not enough to knock us off balance, just enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.
haymitch stops mid-step. his head tilts, listening. “that’s not a warning,” he says quietly. ash drifts through the trees now, thin as dust at first, clinging to leaves and catching in my hair. it smells sharp and chemical, not like smoke from a fire, but something manufactured. something designed.
“the forest,” i say.
“already headed there,” he replies.
we don’t run yet. running draws eyes. running makes noise. instead we move fast and deliberate, angling deeper into the woods as the light shifts from green-gold to sickly gray.
we're barely in the denser portions of the wood before the mountain cracks open. the sound is deafening—a violent rupture that tears the sky in half. lava fountains upward in brilliant orange arcs, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach churn. heat washes over us even from this distance, the air growing heavy, oppressive.
“go,” haymitch snaps. we break into a sprint. branches whip at my face, roots snag my boots. the ash thickens, clinging to my skin, coating my tongue with bitterness. i hear screams—distant, panicked, cut short far too quickly. cannons start firing in uneven succession, each one a punch to the chest. one. two. three. “don’t breathe it in,” haymitch shouts over his shoulder. “it burns.”
i pull my dirtied sleeve over my mouth just as the ash changes texture—no longer powdery, but slick, gel-like. it splatters against my arm and i hiss as my skin flares hot, chemical pain blooming instantly.
“rain,” haymitch says, almost to himself. “they’ll send rain.” as if the arena heard him, the sky darkens. clouds roll in unnaturally fast, and then the downpour comes, heavy and sudden. the gel dissolves on contact, melting away like sugar, hissing softly as it breaks down.
we collapse beneath a dense stand of trees, gasping, soaked through. the rain cools my burns almost instantly, leaving behind angry red patches but nothing deeper. temporary. again. cannons echo on—seven by the time it slows. we don’t speak while it happens. we just listen, each boom another life erased somewhere beyond these trees.
when the rain eases, the forest looks pristine again. leaves washed clean. air crisp. the mountain quiet once more, like it never tried to kill anyone at all.
“liars,” i mutter.
haymitch lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh scraped raw. “welcome to panem.”
we move again once the ground steadies, circling wide around the mountain’s reach. it’s then we start noticing the pattern—the way the trees thin unnaturally near the northern edge. the way the ground slopes too cleanly, too evenly.
the hedge maze rises out of nowhere. dense, towering, clipped into sharp angles that don’t belong in nature. it forms a wide v-shape, hedges so thick i can’t see through them at all.
haymitch slows, eyes narrowing. “end of the world,” he mutters. i step closer, peering at the leaves. something glints faintly—a small brass plaque nailed low into the hedge.
we follow the hedge line instead of trying to breach it, boots crunching over dry earth that feels wrong underfoot. we walk until the land just stops. a cliff yawns open ahead of us, sheer and brutal, jagged rocks far below. my stomach drops at the sight. “that’s it,” i whisper. “the edge.”
haymitch crouches, scooping up a stone. he tosses it forward. the rock flies maybe ten feet before it slams into nothing—ricocheting violently back toward us. haymitch jerks me aside just in time as it whizzes past, skidding harmlessly into the dirt behind us. a force field.
we stare at each other. something dangerous lights in his eyes. “they bounce,” he says slowly. “everything bounces.”
i feel it then—the shift. the arena isn’t just killing randomly anymore. it’s showing us its teeth. its rules. daring someone smart enough to use them.
the anthem sounds that night while we’re still tucked near the hedge, hidden in a pocket of shadow. faces bloom across the sky—more than i want to count. none of them are us and that's all that matters.
we sit shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms brush. neither of us pulls away.
“we're still here,” he mutters eventually.
day six
haymitch is on his feet early the next morning. he’s standing at the edge of our cover, staring toward the mountain with his head tilted, listening again. it’s quieter today. no groaning. no warning tremors. just silence stretched thin as wire.
my throat feels raw when i swallow. my skin is tight where the gel touched it, faintly tender but healed enough to move.
“it’s done for now,” he says.
we’re careful packing up. slower than before. there are fewer sounds in the arena now—less movement, less panic. fewer people left to make noise. it makes everything feel closer. heavier.
six. that number sits between us like a third presence. “four others,” i say quietly, like if i don’t say it out loud it might ambush me later. “careers.”
“yeah,” he replies. “and they’re hunting.”
we move anyway. there’s no choice but forward now. no more circling the edges. no more pretending we can wait this out. the arena has started tightening its grip, and we can feel the pull of it everywhere—in the way paths funnel, in the way the forest thins, in the way open space dares us to cross it.
we keep to the hedge line again, moving north, then west, then back south in a slow arc. haymitch keeps glancing at the cliff like it’s a thought he doesn’t want to finish having.
eventually, i stop. “you’re thinking about it.”
he doesn’t ask what i mean. “yeah.”
“about throwing something.”
“about making them throw something,” he corrects.
my stomach flips. “that’s dangerous.”
he finally looks at me. “everything left is.” we walk in silence for a while after that, the kind that hums instead of rests. i keep replaying the ricochet in my head. the way the stone snapped back like the arena itself had teeth. “if it comes to it,” he says eventually, voice low, “you run.”
i stop short. “no.” my stomach sinks, it's like he either forgot our almost-argument yesterday or he simply does not care.
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.” i step into his space, close enough that i have to tilt my head up to look at him. “we already did this yesterday.”
his jaw tightens. “this is different.”
“it’s not,” i say. “it’s just closer.” the thought of haymitch dying protecting me is somehow worse than the thought of one of us having to kill the other if we are the final two.
for a second, i think he’s going to argue again. instead, he exhales hard, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “i hate that you make sense,” he mutters. i almost smile. almost.
the afternoon stretches long and tense. we hear the others before we see them—distant voices, laughter sharp with nerves, boots snapping twigs without care. panache's voice carries easily. he sounds confident. like he thinks the arena already belongs to him.
we drop lower, moving through undergrowth, careful not to leave signs. once, we flatten ourselves into a shallow ditch as footsteps pass close enough that i can smell sweat and metal. haymitch’s hand brushes mine in the dirt—brief, instinctive. when they’re gone, we don’t speak about it. we just breathe, heavy and needed. i lean back against the hedge, exhaustion finally sinking its claws into me. haymitch sits beside me, knees drawn up, axe resting across his thighs.
“if we make it to morning,” i start softly.
“we will,” he replies, too quick.
i glance at him, forgetting the end of my thought. “don’t lie to me.”
he’s quiet for a long moment. then, honest in a way that hurts, “i don’t know how this ends.” that’s the closest thing to fear i’ve heard from him.
“neither do i,” i say. “but i know how i don’t want it to.” he nods, once. agreement without words.
the fire did more damage than we realized at first. entire stretches of forest are gone—charred trunks, brittle ash underfoot, the air still faintly acrid. the nearest waterfall is visible now through the dead trees, white and tempting and completely useless with its poisoned contents.
we don’t go near the cornucopia. not with four others still breathing. not after the volcano stripped the forest raw and left the open meadow feeling like a stage with too many sightlines. the metal pile glints in the distance like it’s mocking us, daring us to be stupid. we aren’t.
haymitch watches the waterfall for a long time. then he looks away. “not worth it,” he says, clutching his stomach.
“no,” i agree. my voice comes out hoarse. “it’d kill us slower than the others would.”
we sit with the thirst instead. let it settle. let it gnaw. my burns itch under my sleeves—angry, healing, still tender. the ladybug bites have faded to bruised constellations along my skin, but they ache when the heat rises. haymitch hasn’t complained once about the blisters on his hands from the axe, or the burns on his forearms. he just keeps flexing his fingers like he’s reminding them they still belong to him.
the arena is quiet in that dangerous way—no screams, no cannons, no obvious threat. just the sense of being watched and weighed.
the sky hums. we both look up at the same time. two silver parachutes bloom overhead, drifting down slow and deliberate, like the capitol wants us to savor it. haymitch is already on his feet, scanning the perimeter, axe loose in his grip. i stay still, eyes tracking the descent.
the boxes land a few yards apart with soft thuds. we wait a full ten seconds. then another. finally, haymitch approaches the closer one, crouching, checking for wires, triggers, anything that might turn generosity into a joke. he flips the lid.
water. two full bottles. clear. real. for a moment, he just stares. there’s a folded slip of paper tucked beside them. he picks it up, hesitates, then opens it. his mouth twitches.
“what?” i ask.
he hands it to me without comment.
drink. think. don’t die doing something stupid —m & w
it’s barely a note. barely handwriting. but my chest tightens anyway. the other box is closer to me. i kneel and open it carefully. antibiotic cream. one thick tube. more than i would have expected. much more than i deserve. another folded note waits underneath.
you were right to survive —m & w
that’s it. no flourish. no advice. i blink hard and close the box before my eyes can do anything embarrassing.
haymitch hands me one of the water bottles without ceremony. our fingers brush briefly—calloused, warm, real. “take small sips,” he says.
the water tastes like nothing and everything. it burns going down. i want to cry with relief. i don’t.
we ration. we put the cream on one another's burns. we wait silently. the sun inches lower. and for the first time since the volcano, my skin stops screaming; for the first time since the ladybugs, my muscles unclench just a little.
the arena settles around us, pretending to sleep. somewhere out there, four tributes sharpen their weapons, thinking they’re the last fighters standing—they’re wrong. we’re still here.
haymitch doesn’t sleep. neither do i. we take turns keeping watch, backs to the hedge, eyes on the shadows. every sound feels intentional now; every pause too long.
day seven
the first cannon sounds sometime after midnight i presume. it cracks through the air sharp, rattling my ribs. i flinch before i can stop myself, fingers digging into the dirt. haymitch exhales slowly. “one,” he murmurs.
the forest settles again, deceptive in its quiet. minutes drag. maybe an hour. i’m starting to wonder if that was it—if the arena’s done thinning the herd for the night—then the second cannon fires.
my heart slams hard enough it hurts. i press my hand to my chest, breathing shallow, listening for movement that doesn’t come.
haymitch closes his eyes briefly. not in relief. not in mourning. just acknowledgment. “that leaves four,” he says. the number lands heavy. four of us are left. me, him, and two others.
i stare up through the branches at the empty sky, trying to picture faces that aren’t there yet. trying not to imagine weapons, trying not to imagine blood.
“careers,” i whisper.
“yeah,” he says. “has to be.”
i swallow. my mouth tastes like ash and adrenaline. “they’ll come at first light.”
“probably,” he agrees.
we don’t say anything else after that. there’s nothing left to plan tonight. no moves to make in the dark without tipping the balance the wrong way.
eventually, exhaustion wins in fragments. i drift in and out of shallow sleep, the ground cold beneath me, the hedge solid at my back. every time i wake, haymitch is still there—silent, coiled, watching the arena breathe.
morning comes thin and gray. the forest looks almost innocent again, washed clean by night dew. birds stir cautiously. light creeps through leaves like it’s unsure it’s welcome.
three names are left to fill the sky. my body shivers at the thought. i sit up slowly, muscles stiff, heart already racing. “we don’t know who they are,” i say.
haymitch shakes his head. “not until they show themselves.” somewhere out there, two tributes are waking up too, sharpening their blades, thinking they’re the last obstacle standing between themselves and victory.
i look at the hedge, at the cliff beyond it, at the invisible wall that bounced a stone back like a warning shot from the arena itself. whatever happens next won’t be subtle.
“stay close,” haymitch says. i nod.
we head south first. the forest thins that way, slopes gentler, less theatrical. i keep my eyes on the ground, my ears open, every sense stretched tight.
there's a disturbance in the air. it starts with heat. not the honest kind, not sun-on-skin warmth, but a sudden pressure change that makes my lungs feel too full. the air thickens. candy pink birds scatter all at once, exploding from the canopy like something spooked them from below.
haymitch stops dead in his tracks. “don’t,” he says, already turning. “don’t look back.” i don’t need to. the smell hits next—burning sap, chemical sharpness, smoke that doesn’t belong to any natural fire. there’s a roar behind us, fast and hungry, and when i risk a glance despite his warning, my stomach drops.
flames. not creeping, not cautious, but a wall of fire tearing through the forest like it’s being pulled by wires. trees ignite too cleanly, their leaves flashing bright before blackening, collapsing inward with sharp cracks.
“they want us north,” i gasp.
haymitch grabs my wrist, hard. “run.”
wind bites at my face, smoke burns my throat, heat licking at my back like teeth. the fire moves wrong—too fast, too purposeful, changing direction when we do. my lungs scream. my legs feel like lead.
don’t become someone you hate, my brain whispers uselessly as panic claws up my spine.
the trees thin abruptly and light floods in: the meadow. we burst out of the forest together, stumbling into open space just as the fire roars to the edge of the tree line and unnaturally stops. flames rear and curl, frustrated, before dying back fast, leaving only scorched trunks and smoking earth.
i drop to my knees, coughing, my chest on fire. haymitch stays standing, axe raised, eyes sweeping the open field. the cornucopia gleams ahead of us, obscene and familiar, metal catching the sun like it’s proud of itself. the grass is trampled now, stained darker in places i don’t let myself look at too closely.
voices carry across the meadow; laughter; slow clapping. “come on, abernathy,” a boy calls, voice smooth and sharp-edged. “don’t tell me you ran all this way just to hide again.”
another voice joins in. “we’re bored.”
haymitch’s jaw tightens. i feel it even without touching him, like tension radiating off his body.
“they’re close,” i murmur.
“yeah,” he says. “they want a show.”
a loud speaker crackles to life overhead, sound reverberating through the open space until it feels like it’s inside my skull.
“attention, tributes.” the voice is calm and practiced. my heart starts pounding hard and sputtered. “due to the exceptional circumstances of this year’s quarter quell, the capitol has authorized a final amendment.” i watch glossy-eyed as haymitch’s grip tightens around his axe, his knuckles turning white. “there may be two victors, provided they are from the same district.”
the words hit like a physical force. for a heartbeat, the arena tilts. i stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears. i don’t look at haymitch. i can’t. the thought is too fragile, too dangerous to touch directly. hope is a blade here—sharp, tempting, ready to cut you open if you hold it wrong.
across the meadow, the laughter stops. “well, i’ll be damned,” the boy calls, delighted now. “hear that? looks like it’s personal, abernathy.”
the other voice—female, low and taunting. “guess we’ll have to break you and your little lover up.”
haymitch exhales slowly through his nose. when he finally looks at me, there’s something different in his eyes now. not anger, not fear, but calculation. “they want us desperate,” he says quietly. “they want us to turn on each other.”
i nod once. “we won’t.”
his mouth twitches—not a smile, not quite—but something steadier. “good.”
the grass ripples as a breeze cuts through the meadow, carrying the faint scent of smoke behind us and blood ahead of us. the arena feels smaller now. like it’s closing its fist.
we don’t get time to plan. they move first.
silka sharp comes out of the tall grass like a nightmare pulled upright—too tall, too solid, axe already swinging in a lazy, confident arc that whistles as it cuts the air in front of me. six feet of muscle and intent. she grins when she sees me, eyes flicking over my knives like she’s already decided i’m manageable.
i dart forward instead of back. the first knife leaves my hand before my brain finishes the thought, spinning low and fast. silka jerks aside just in time; the blade slices fabric and skin along her ribs. she snarls, surprise flashing hot across her face.
“feisty,” she laughs, adjusting her grip. “i like that.” i don’t answer. i don’t waste my breath. i circle, knees bent, weight light on my feet, knives flashing between my fingers like extensions of thought. the world narrows to distance and timing and the way her shoulders tense before she swings. she’s strong, but she’s slow.
i throw again. then again. one knife embeds in her thigh. another skims her forearm. blood beads bright against her skin, stark and shocking against all that confidence. she stumbles half a step, growl turning sharp and furious.
that’s when silka gets visibly angry. she roars and charges, axe coming down hard enough to split bone. i roll, barely clearing it, dirt exploding where i’d been a second before. the shock rattles my teeth. i come up low, slicing, driving another knife into her calf. she howls this time—real pain, real shock.
i feel something fierce bloom in my chest. i can do this. i can—there's pain. white-hot, blinding, catastrophic pain.
panache moves faster than i thought. his sword hacks backward in a brutal, careless motion, steel biting deep into my hip. the impact is like being struck by lightning and crushed at the same time. i scream—i can’t stop it—as my body folds, legs giving out beneath me.
the pain isn’t sharp anymore. it’s everything. it floods me, swallows me whole, radiating outward in sickening waves. my spine lights up, nerves screaming like they’ve been ripped open and set on fire. my spine goes numb instantly, dead weight dragging uselessly behind me. i taste blood. i can’t tell if i’m biting my tongue or just breaking apart.
i hit the ground hard, breath tearing out of me in a sound that doesn’t even feel human. i can’t move. i can’t feel half of myself. panic claws in next, cold and suffocating. i try to push up—nothing. my hands slip in the grass. my vision blurs, tears spilling hot and helpless.
haymitch roars my name. the sound cuts through the pain like a hook. i see him only in flashes—him slamming into panache, axe coming up hard, the flat of the blade cracking into panache’s waist with a sickening thud. panache goes down, sword slipping from his hand, breath knocked clean out of him.
i wait for the sound of the cannon but it never comes. he's not dead, just knocked unconscious.
i want to scream at haymitch to finish it. to run. to win. to leave me. instead all that comes out is a broken sound, wet and shaking. he turns back to me for half a second—just long enough for our eyes to meet. i see it there. terror. fury. devotion so sharp it hurts to look at.
then silka is on him. she’s bleeding badly now, limping, axe heavy in her hands—but she’s still standing. still dangerous. she swings with everything she has left, driving haymitch back step by step.
he has no choice but to fight defensively now. his axe is buried in panache’s lower torso and he doesn’t dare turn his back to retrieve it. he grabs my satchel instead, yanking it toward him with one hand while blocking silka’s strikes with the other, movements tight and desperate.
i watch through tears, chest heaving, pain pulsing in nauseating waves that make the world tilt. every heartbeat sends another bolt through my spine. i feel like i’m coming undone at the seams.
i don’t want to live like this. i don’t want him to die because of me. please, i think wildly, stupidly. please let it be him.
a cannon booms—panache—the sound punches through the air, final and merciless. silka screams, raw and feral, grief and rage tangled together as she rips her axe free and hurls it with everything she has left. i see it spin end over end, gleaming, beautiful and terrible.
haymitch dodges it swiftly. clean, instinctive—perfect. the axe sails past him and slams into the invisible wall behind. the force field, our discovery, hums as the weapon ricochets.
i see silka’s eyes widen just before the axe buries itself in her chest, right where her heart should be. the impact lifts her off her feet. she collapses without another sound. the cannon fires again. silence crashes down, heavy and unreal.
my vision tunnels. the edges go dark. the pain is unbearable now, overwhelming, like my body is trying to eject me from itself. i sob openly, broken, gasping, half-aware of the anthem swelling overhead, triumphant and cruel.
i don’t want to see my face in the sky. i want him to win.
haymitch is suddenly here—knees in the grass, hands on my face, on my shoulders, everywhere at once. he’s shaking harder than i am, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “hey—hey—stay with me,” he begs, voice breaking. “don’t you dare—don’t you dare—”
i cling to him weakly, fingers fisting in his ruined shirt, pain and relief and terror blurring together until i can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
above us, the voice returns, colder now. edged with something like resentment. "the capitol hereby announces the victors of the fiftieth hunger games, the second quarter quell.” my hearing fades in and out. “from district twelve—”
haymitch’s forehead presses to mine. his breath is warm. he's real. he's alive.
“—haymitch abernathy and y/n donner.” the anthem crescendos and the sky burns bright.
the last thing i feel is haymitch holding me like he’s afraid the world will take me if he lets go.
the victors
i wake up breathing. that’s the first thing i notice. not pain, not panic, but the steady rise and fall of my chest, smooth and uninterrupted, like nothing ever went wrong.
the ceiling above me is white. not the harsh arena-white. not the fluorescent glare of the capitol hospital. this is softer, warmer. familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist; the training center.
my fingers twitch. they respond immediately. there's no delay, no tremor. i sit up too fast, heart slamming, waiting for the agony to hit—for my hip to scream, for my body to remind me what it went through. nothing happens.
i look down at myself. i’m clean. spotless, really. my hands are manicured, nails painted a pale, shimmering color i’ve never chosen for myself. my skin is smooth, unmarked. no burns, no bites, no blood or dirt beneath my nails.
i slide off the bed and nearly trip on fabric pooling at my feet. a dress. long, blue, elegant, capitol-perfect. the kind of thing designed to distract the eye, to erase history with silk and sparkle.
i stagger toward the mirror. the girl staring back at me looks nothing like me, she looks like a victor. my hair falls over my shoulders in soft curls, styled within an inch of its life. my makeup is already done—dark lashes, shimmering lids, lips painted a deep rose.
i lift the hem of the dress with shaking fingers, breath caught painfully in my throat. my hip is flawless with no stitches, no bruising, no scar. there's not even a hint of discoloration where a sword should have ended me.
they cut me open while i slept; fixed me, perfected me, erased the proof that i bled for their entertainment.
the door opens quietly behind me. i spin, heart lurching. an avox dressed in crimson stands there, head bowed. it's a woman, much older than me. her eyes flick up briefly—gentle, sad—before she gestures for me to follow. she doesn’t speak. she can’t. i don’t either.
the hallway feels wrong under my feet. too quiet. too clean. like the building is holding its breath. every step echoes with memory—training, laughter, shouting, fear. a week ago, i was here pretending i wasn’t already dead.
the avox stops at the twelfth floor. the elevator door opens and she quickly steps aside.
haymitch is there.
for half a second, my brain refuses to process it. he’s clean. dressed in a tailored suit the same deep navy as my dress. his curls are clean and coiled. his face is unmarked, healed, whole. alive.
he crosses the room in three long strides and crashes into me, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders, my back, my waist—everywhere at once. i slam into his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his suit like i’m afraid he’ll disappear if i let go.
he’s shaking. so am i. we don’t cry, not really. we press our faces into each other’s shoulders and breathe, chests hitching, holding on like the world might tear us apart again if we loosen our grip even an inch. he smells like soap and something expensive and wrong, but underneath it all, it’s still him.
“you’re here,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re—”
“i know,” i whisper. “i know.”
the door opens again. drusilla sweeps in first, already dabbing at her eyes dramatically. mags follows, slower, steadier, her smile soft. wiress lingers near the door, watching us like she’s memorizing the moment.
haymitch loosens his hold, just slightly, swallowed by the cluster of women suddenly surrounding us. hands on shoulders. murmured reassurances. relief layered over grief.
i hug mags. then wiress. drusilla presses a kiss to my cheek that smells like powder and perfume.
“my darlings,” she says brightly, voice trembling despite herself. “you did it. you did it.” i open my mouth to ask—about the arena, about my family, about what happens now—but drusilla cuts me off with a gentle clap. “no time, love. we mustn’t be late. caesar is waiting.”
waiting. the word makes my stomach twist.
the stage is blinding. brighter than before. louder. everything amplified now that we’ve survived. caesar flickerman beams at us like we’re his favorite miracle. everything around me is a blur of lights and applause and voices that feel too loud in my skull.
“panem,” he announces, voice ringing, “please welcome your victors of the fiftieth hunger games!” the following applause is deafening. it rolls over us in waves. i sit beside haymitch, knees close enough that our legs brush.
“now,” caesar says, leaning forward eagerly, “you gave us something truly unprecedented. two victors.” he smiles wider. “tell me—did you believe it was possible?”
haymitch answers first. “no,” he says plainly. the crowd laughs, startled. “but i believed we weren’t done yet.”
caesar turns to me. “and you, y/n? when did you realize you might both make it out?”
i swallow. my voice comes steady anyway. “when i realized i trusted him more than the arena.” the applause swells again.
“brave,” caesar sighs. “romantic, even.” i don’t correct him.
i keep my eyes forward, focusing on a random woman in the large sea of people. she has neon pink skin. i stare at her so hard i worry holes might burn into her figure. i refuse to look at the screen behind us showing highlights of the games. i don’t need to.
cesar asks about the final fight; about silka and panache; about the force field; about loyalty. "how did it feel,” he asks lightly, “to watch your final opponent fall?”
my chest tightens. “it didn’t feel like winning,” i say. “it felt like surviving.” the room quiets.
next come the crowns. gold circlets, heavy and cold as they’re placed on our heads. haymitch stiffens at the contact. i barely feel it at all.
my mind keeps slipping sideways—back to the girl from eight, to louella’s face in the sky, to wyatt’s body on the grass. to haymitch’s hands shaking as he held me together.
to the life i took. to the lives i couldn’t save.
our hands are forced and raised together. cameras flash, lights explode. we smile because we’re told to, because everyone is watching.
we're pulled aside immediately after the crowning—hands adjusting our fancy clothes, angling our faces, directing us closer.
“closer,” a voice insists. “arm around the waist. yes. smile.” haymitch’s hand settles at my lower back. his fingers flex once, like a warning, like reassurance.
there's a flash. it stings my eyes.
“look at each other!”
i turn my head. our smiles don’t reach our eyes. flash.
when it’s over, when the lights and cameras finally dim, i feel hollowed out. like something essential was taken and replaced with glitter.
the victory tour passes in fragments as well. districts blur together—faces, names, speeches written for us and memorized like prayers. dinners where we sit at the head of tables we don’t belong at, talking about courage and sacrifice while parents stare at us with hollow eyes. i say the names of the dead. i bow my head. i keep my voice steady.
haymitch stands beside me every time. solid. silent. a presence i anchor myself to. we save twelve for last; the capitol comes first.
snow’s mansion glows like something unreal—white and perfect and full of laughter that doesn’t belong to us. the party is overwhelming. music, color, movement. hands grabbing, voices congratulating.
wine is pressed into my hand. i don’t drink it. haymitch, however, downs half of his immediately. people congratulate us left and right like we won a game, not a massacre.
then president snow appears at my side. his smile is thin and polite—deadly. “miss donner,” he says softly. “how extraordinary.”
“thank you, sir,” i reply automatically.
his eyes flick to haymitch. then back to me. “you and abernathy,” he continues, “were not the intended outcome.” my heart stutters. “silka sharp and panache barker. they were meant to be the story. but,” snow adds, leaning closer, “stories can change.” his smile sharpens. “just remember who edits the ending.”
he steps away like he’s said nothing at all.
at some point—i don’t remember how—haymitch and i slip away to a secluded bedroom. enormous and quiet. the door clicks shut behind us and the silence rushes in like water. we don’t speak at first. haymitch leans against the wall. i sit on the edge of the bed. the space between us hums with everything we haven’t said yet.
“i don’t know how to go home,” he says finally.
the words land softly. honestly. “me neither,” i admit, thinking of our new home back in twelve: the victor's village; nothing like the merchants area, nothing like the same.
"i don’t know how to be a victor.”
“you don’t have to be anything,” i reply. “not with me.”
his breath catches. “i was ready to die out there,” he admits. “i wasn’t ready to come back.” he looks at me then, his eyes darker than i’ve ever seen them. “they’re going to expect things from us. smiles. gratitude. mentorship.”
“we don’t owe them that,” i say.
his mouth twitches. “no. but they’ll take it anyway.”
something shifts in me then. a quiet, terrifying clarity. i realize i don’t just care if haymitch survives—i care if he’s alone. i care if he breaks. i care in a way that has nothing to do with the arena or an alliance, but everything to do with who he is when no one’s watching.
“haymitch—” i start.
he crosses the room in two steps. both of his hands come up to my face, warm and sure, thumbs brushing my jaw like he’s grounding himself. like he needs to feel something real. "please tell me to stop, princess,” he murmurs.
i don’t.
when he kisses me, it’s desperate. hungry. years of fear and anger and restraint collapsing into one moment. his mouth is firm against mine, breath uneven, hands cradling my face like i might shatter.
i kiss him back with the same urgency, fingers sliding into his curls, pulling him closer, closer, closer. the world narrows to heat and breath and the way he presses into me like he’s afraid i’ll disappear.
his hands slide down my back, anchoring me. my lips part. he groans softly, like it’s been locked in his chest for weeks.
for a few more minutes, nothing else exists, but then there’s a knock. we break apart, breathless.
“you’ll want to see this,” drusilla calls—softer than i've ever heard her—from the other side of the door.
the door swings open after a beat and a yell of assurance from haymitch; maysilee is there. merilee. my parents. willamae and sid abernathy.
they rush forward all at once, arms wrapping around me, around haymitch, around each other. it’s messy and overwhelming and perfect. i bury my face in my sister’s hair and breathe her in. i feel sid’s arms around haymitch’s waist. i feel my mother’s hands on my back, solid and warm.
haymitch’s hand finds mine in our crowd of loved ones. our fingers lace together without a twitch.
for the first time since the reaping, something like peace settles in my chest. not happiness but gratitude. and love. and the knowledge that even after everything—after fire and blood and loss—some things survived. so did we.
contains: 18+, the hunger games, blood, violence, angst, death, grief, alcohol (it's Haymitch), bugs, weapons, adult themes, tragedy, love, no use of y/n, slowwwww slowburn, suggestive content, like one spicy moment, mentions of cosmetic surgery, SOTR spoilers, no Lenore Dove, may have cried writing this
A/N: sooo this is almost entirely based on the books, not as much the movies. first-person writing bc that's how the books are.
Prequel
word count: 25k (sorry)
Part I: The Reaping
On the morning of the reaping for the 52nd Hunger Games, I woke up with a chill in my bones that I couldn’t shake. In early July, it was uncommon to feel anything other than blistering heat in District 12. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I didn’t already have an awful feeling of dread surrounding this day.
Reaping day always sent a cloud of terror and depression across my district— even more than we already lived with daily. Nobody could stomach the idea of sending their loved ones, brothers, sisters, children, off to be killed in the games. I always counted myself lucky that my parents chose not to bring any more children into this world after me. Not that I wouldn’t love some company, but I could never watch my brother or sister be taken to die for the Capitol’s entertainment.
It was hard enough watching one of my only friends be practically driven mad after he won the games. I reminded myself to keep my eyes shut when he stumbles up on the stage this year. There’s nothing I can do to help him.
I dressed, continuously flattening my dress and trying to ignore the lasting chill in my bones. It was the last year that my name would be placed in the reaping ball. The last year that I would ever have to face the fear of myself being sent to the Hunger Games. I had just turned 18 last month, and couldn’t wait for this horrid day to just be over. My name was only in there 7 times, so the odds were certainly in my favor. A girl I went to school with had hers in at least 39 times.
My family ate a small breakfast of eggs and bread from the bakery. It was hard to eat much on a day like today.
By the time we got to the town square, it was almost completely full. I hugged my parents, agreeing to meet at home when this whole thing was over.
The section of 18 year olds was packed full and I imagined that on the screens in the capital we all appeared like cattle. I squeezed in between two girls who I knew from school and gave them a quiet greeting as we all settled into place.
It was only minutes until the mayor began speaking about the significance of the Dark Days, and how the Games help us remember. He introduced Haymitch, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I could hear clumsy footsteps walk across the stage and mumble out some sort of greeting.
For the rest of the introductory speech, I kept my eyes on the floor.
Haymitch used to be one of my closest friends in the world until he went into the Games just two years ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Burdock and I couldn’t believe he actually had done it— he had won a Quarter Quell where there were double the tributes! The odds were never in his favor, but he did it. Truly, I had never felt such relief and joy in my life.
A horrible accident happened just before he got home. His house caught fire and he lost his family. Myself and his closest friends tried to help him pick up the pieces, to be there in any way we could, but he refused our help. He pushed us away until he had no one left. My heart shattered, and I was still trying to put it back together. Haymitch always meant the world to me.
The next year, he practically face planted on stage and that was when we learned that his new best friend had become a bottle of white liquor. Burdock and Astrid cried with me that day.
Since then, I only see him occasionally in town, but he doesn’t come anywhere near me. Not even close.
My thoughts vanish quickly when I hear a new announcer speaking into our stage microphone. A ridiculous looking woman has taken the place of our old Capitol lady— Drusilla. This woman has very large, very purple hair. Her dress appears to be made of some sort of animal skin, and she has heels that click loudly as she walks.
She doesn’t say her name, but seems excited to get started with the drawing of the names.
“Ladies first,” she announces, crossing the stage with loud clicks in each step until she reaches the large glass reaping ball. She digs her hand around for a few seconds, before removing it and heading back to the microphone. She announces a name so clearly and I swear I black out for a second.
My name has been called.
I hear chatter around me, but I don’t understand a single word. I can’t think straight, I can’t think at all. My name has been called.
Slowly, I exit the cattle heard of the 18-year-olds and head toward the stage. There is nothing else I can do. I glance back to my group and see Burdock and Astrid looking at me desperately.
When I reach the stage, the mayor shakes my hand and the woman with the large purple hair heads to the other reaping ball and calls out a boys name.
“Ash Avett.”
The name doesn’t process, nor does Haymitch throwing up behind me. Nothing processes until we enter the Justice Building and have a few moments to say goodbye to our loved ones.
My parents come in, and it seems much more like a goodbye than a good luck. Tears are shed, hugs are exchanged, but I refuse to believe it will be the last time I will see them. Burdock and Astrid come in next. They tell me to listen to Haymitch, to which I laugh.
“He hasn’t had a coherent thought in two years,” I dismiss the idea as outlandish.
Burdock and Astrid exchange a nervous glance, but beg me to try to have him help me. I agree, but have no expectations.
Nobody else comes to say goodbye. I never had many friends in District 12, but it never seemed to bother me too much until now.
We rode in a small car from the Justice Building to the train station, and the only thing on my mind was that if Haymitch could win, then so could I. I had to. For my parents, for myself, for Burdock and Astrid— for Maysilee. I was not going to let Burdock and Astrid lose another friend to these Games. I was not going to let me lose myself to these Games.
The train was a weird sort of transportation. I had never seen so many bright colored plastic furniture pieces in one place. I wondered if they’d always been that way, or if they’d changed everything to plastic because Haymitch couldn’t stop vomiting on everything.
Ash and I have our own rooms in one car of the train. The rooms are decked out with unique art, bright colors, and weird technology unlike anything I’d ever seen in 12.
I sit on my bed for maybe an hour, maybe two, thinking of everything I know about the Games. In District 12 we don’t always watch. Usually our tributes get killed pretty quickly, and after that nobody wants to watch children killing each other. We all watched Haymitch’s year. If only he were sober enough now to be a reliable source.
There was one other Victor from my District, before I was even alive. People say they died a long time ago. We never learned anything about them. Not even how they won.
The lady with the purple hair— whom I now know to be Effie— interrupts my thoughts again with a knock on my door and an invite to dinner. I may as well join them. Maybe at least Effie knows something.
I enter the dining car and find Effie, Ash, and several Capitol servants in the room. Ash is a small boy, maybe 15, and based on the general malnourished look to him, I assume he’s from the Seam.
The moment I sit down several Capitol servants swarm the table, laying out many large plates with more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. Bowls with lamb soup, trays with brightly colored vegetables in unique arrangements, baskets of some type of bread that I’ve never seen before.
My first instinct is to be angry. I’m angry that the boy in front of me has starved his whole life, and now we’re getting served loads more than we could ever eat in one meal. I’m angry that I’ve never gotten to eat such a luxurious meal in my life, and now I am eating it on the way to this living nightmare. I am angry that Haymitch isn’t eating with us, and that he will likely be no help to me in the arena if he stays this drunk every day.
I force myself to push down these feelings of anger, and load up on food that will hopefully provide me strength in the arena. It doesn’t take long for me to receive some disapproving looks from Effie as I eat.
It is nearly the end of the meal when I hear a loud crash from the door behind me. I don’t have to turn my head to know what’s happened.
“Well, look who’s finally decided to join us!” Effie says in a tone thick with annoyance.
“I was freshening up,” Haymitch argues, and it is clear that some of this ‘freshening up’ included having more to drink.
He sits down clumsily in the spot directly across from me, tucks his napkin into his shirt, and begins eating messily. Effie scoffs and stomps out of the room.
Ash speaks up, quietly, “Can I go to bed?”
Haymitch shrugs, wiping sauce off of his face with his napkin. Ash just sits there, staring at him with evident disappointment.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I speak up, “Effie said she will wake us in the morning when we need to get up.”
He nods, heading quickly out of the dining car and back to the one containing our bedrooms. I sit there for a few minutes, waiting for Haymitch to say, or do anything. He does nothing except continue to eat, only pausing to take sips from his wine glass.
“Haymitch,” I finally say. I am ignored. I sigh, watching him for another moment before repeating it with more insistence this time. “Haymitch!”
He ignores me again, only pausing for a second before taking a long sip of his wine.
“Listen Haymitch, I know you’ve decided you don’t want me in your life anymore, and that’s fine. But at the very least could you give me something to work with here. I want to— I need to make it back home.”
Instead of ignoring me again like I expected, he looks up at me and slowly says, “I can’t help you.”
“You can. You won the Games with twice as many tributes. You have to have some sort of advice for me. Anything.”
Before I can take another breath, Haymitch stands from the table, simultaneously spilling his wine and knocking his plate off the table, and shouts at me, “I can’t help you! Okay? I can’t!”
I take a slow breath, familiar with his bursts of rage from the long months I tried to help him after the accident.
“Haymitch, please.” I say quietly.
He looks around, everywhere in the room but not at me, almost like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there, “I knew it! I knew they’d do it. But why— WHY HER?”
Before I can process anything that just happened he is gone from the dining car and back out the door that he came through. I almost go to follow him, but the door locks behind him.
For the first time, I realized how much he truly had lost it. I am completely and utterly alone.
I don’t get much sleep that night. The next morning, Effie knocks on my door early and calls me for breakfast. When I get dressed and arrive in the dining car, it’s just Effie and Ash again. No sign of Haymitch. There’s another grand meal laid out for us. This time it’s eggs cooked in any way you could imagine. Slabs of breakfast meats, various breads, large bowls of fruit, you name it.
We make small chatter over the meal, and Effie assures us that it’s not our fault that Haymitch isn’t a good mentor.
“He just is that way.” She says shaking her head with disapproval.
It’s a travel day, so we’re not expected to do much. Ash and I spend the day reviewing footage from the old games. We take notes, and I discover that Ash is extremely perceptive. He picks up on the smallest details about the tributes, and can almost guess their moves before they make them.
We sit on the couch in the dining car staring at the television screen for hours. We discuss strategy, how tributes find food, how they outsmart their competitors, anything that can possibly give us a leg up in the games.
I knew from past games that Districts 1, 2, 3 and even sometimes 4 tend to form alliances and take out the weak tributes first. They call themselves the Careers. What I didn’t know, was how ruthless they are. In nearly every single one of the games— they win. They kill mercilessly, they show little fear, they stay strong until the end. I decide that the Careers are the ones I need to be most afraid of.
By the time the sun starts setting, Ash and I have barely moved for the entire day. We managed to watch the highlights to nearly every Hunger Games in history with the exception of two. We couldn’t find the 10th. There was no highlight reel, and apparently no recorded footage. We also decided not to watch Haymitch’s games because we were both too familiar with that one already.
When dinner rolled around we were both too tired of talking to make any conversation, so we ate quietly with Effie. Haymitch only made a brief appearance to raid the liquor stash before returning to his room.
“You should eat!” Effie calls out in a reprimanding voice but is ignored. She shakes her head and scoffs, “I swear, that boy has no manners.”
We arrive in the Capitol early the next morning. There is a large crowd waiting for us, but we have no time to take in all of the new scenery around us because we are quickly ushered to our next location.
I spend the next few hours getting every pore on my skin closely examined and messed with until perfection by my ‘prep team’ as Effie calls them. The team is a group of young adults who are the most ridiculous looking people I’ve ever seen. They all have the most ridiculous colored hair, eyes, and nails. One of them has teeth so white that I have to squint every time I look at her as to not be blinded. Another has such an abnormal face that it unsettles me. The lips are large, the skin is pulled tight across the face, almost like it’s swollen from an allergic reaction.
I guess eventually they believe that I look satisfactory, because they all nod and smile before leaving the room. Effie comes in shortly after, handing me a robe and bringing me to a different room.
The room is filled with bright colored plastic furniture, similar to the train. Ash is sitting in a similar robe across the room, and Haymitch is passed out on a couch. I can’t help but roll my eyes. When I’m sitting Effie begins to speak.
“Now, usually you would have a stylist, but, due to some issues with the prior stylist you will have to rewear some of the costumes from previous years…” she frowns, looking between us, “I know it’s not much to be working with but we will try our best to make you both look amazing. Right Haymitch?”
No response.
“Haymitch!” Effie raises her voice. He groans from the couch.
“What?”
“The tribute parade. Styling them,” she announces.
He sits up, rubbing his head and frowning, “The tribute parade is today?”
She sighs, shaking her head and going to the other side of the room where a large bag sits. I already know what’s in the bag before she brings it over. District 12 has only ever been dressed in coal miner outfits. I am going to be dressed as a coal miner in front of all of Panem. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ash’s shoulders drop in disappointment.
We dress in the ridiculous overalls and hats before returning to the main room. I feel humiliated. Effie kisses her teeth and Haymitch sits up, looking more sober now, and shakes his head.
“Again?” Haymitch asks.
“We couldn’t do any better,” Effie replies.
Ash’s overalls hang a little bit too loose so Effie takes him into the other room to quickly try to pin it for him. Haymitch lays back down on the couch and I stand still across the room.
“You know you can come sit,” he says, gesturing to the spot next to him.
I huff, suddenly realizing just how angry I am at him. For shutting me out, for becoming a drunk, and most of all— for not even being able to get it together when I need him most.
I shake my head, keeping my voice even as I say, “I don’t want to sit next to you.”
He sighs, “Well at least sit somewhere. I want to talk to you.”
My anger doesn’t go away, but I sit anyways because if he has even one piece of good advice to give me, I’m not going to take it for granted.
He sighs, his hands running down his face and I notice how his fingers shake. I wonder how long that’s been going on. I can tell he’s still a little bit under the influence, but he looks me right in the eyes.
“When you get on the chariot…” he starts, pausing for a moment.
“Yes?” I ask, urging him to continue.
He shakes his head, “Hold on tight. I don’t want to have to meet your doppelgänger tomorrow.”
My immediate reaction is that he’s had too much to drink and is now spewing incoherent garbage, but the way that he looks at me with such a serious look in his eyes leads me to believe that his words do have meaning.
“What do you mean?” I ask, hoping he can explain.
He shakes his head, looking away now, “Just hold on tight, okay?”
I nod, still unsure what his words meant but agreeing to his request.
The evening goes by quickly. We go upstairs to a larger room where there is a line of horse drawn chariots waiting for us. The rest of the tributes are mostly mounted on theirs already, paying no attention to us. The tributes from District 1 only briefly size us up when Haymitch enters the room.
The parade is over before we know it. Haymitch was right, we did need to hold on tight. The crowd hardly reacted when they saw us, which lessened any nonexistent confidence that we already had.
After the parade, Effie escorted us to the building that they call the Tribute Center. It is a gigantic building with 12 floors, each floor for each district. We’re on the 12th floor, of course.
Our room is large and spacious. It’s larger than even the biggest house in District 12, and filled with fancy furniture and television screens. We all have our own rooms, with showers, huge beds, and voice controlled remotes that make food appear any time we’d like. It’s absurd.
Ash and I spend some time in the living room and he recounts all of his observations about the other tributes from tonight. Districts 1 and 2 are overly cocky, but not as strong as they think. District 3’s male tribute has a limp. District 6’s female tribute is skittish and jumps every time someone speaks to her. District 8’s tributes are strong. District 10’s male tribute has a large scar on his right arm, and District 11’s tributes are both small with little muscle.
It is a great advantage to be so close to someone who notices these things, but all I can think of is how dreadful it will be if one of us has to do the unthinkable in the arena.
Ash goes to bed shortly after we finish talking, but I stay in the living room. I need time to reflect on the past few days.
I don’t get that time however, because as soon as I start to think about how my parents, Burdock, and Astrid might be feeling, Haymitch hobbles into the living room.
“Well, well, look who’s still up!” He says louder than he should.
I say, “Drink some water, Haymitch.”
Surprisingly, he goes to the kitchen, fills up a glass of water— and a glass of some clear liquor of course— and comes to sit next to me on the living room couch. I just start to get up to leave when he lightly grabs my wrist to stop me.
“Hey, just wait a second,” he says, taking a sip of water then placing both glasses on the coffee table.
I sit back down, staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He takes a breath, opening his mouth to say something, but says nothing.
I consider leaving and going back to my room, but then I glance at his glasses on the table. It is hard to tell which is which, but the liquor has a slight yellow tint to it that is almost imperceptible unless you look closely.
I’d never tried alcohol before. There was really no need to drink for most people in District 12. I’d seen some of the coal miners grabbing some after work, or even the occasional peacekeeper, but the average person doesn’t drink. Feeling the after affects of liquor isn’t something most of us can afford, nor is the recklessness that the alcohol brings.
When Burdock and I first discovered the extent of Haymitch’s indulgence, we couldn’t figure out why. After some time, Burdock started saying it was to ‘numb the pain he’s been through’. I always disagreed, saying if he really wanted to numb the pain that he would let us help him.
Now, I wonder if Burdock was right. The glass stares back at me, and I’m tempted to see if it really will help me with all of the horrible feelings that I’ve had since my name was called at the Reaping.
In the heavy cloud of silence that sits over us, I decide to reach out and try it. What harm could come now? I might as well try it once in my life. Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance.
I reach out, taking the glass in my hand and bringing it to my lips. Before it reaches, it’s hastily grabbed out of my grip and taken away.
“What are you doing?!” Haymitch asks harshly, a distraught look covering his features.
I shrug, shaking my head, “It helps, doesn’t it? To numb the pain?”
His mouth falls open a bit before closing again. He stares at me for a moment, scanning my face. He closes his eyes in resignation and sets the glass back on the table.
“Don’t do that.” He says, shaking his head, “Don’t.”
I frown, “Why not? You do it all the time.”
He frowns back at me, “That’s different.”
I roll my eyes at him, getting ready to return to my room for the night. This might be the longest conversation I’ve had with him since he changed. I was beginning to realize that I will never again have my friend back. My Haymitch was really and truly gone.
“Wait,” he says, although from the look on his face he isn’t even sure why he said it.
“Why, Haymitch?” I ask, feeling all of my emotions starting to rise to the surface, “So you can continue pushing me away? So I can suffer a little more before I’m sent to die?”
Neither of us say anything so I stand up to leave and say, “No thanks, I’m going to bed.”
“Wait,” he says more surely this time, his eyes pleading in a way that doesn’t completely carry in his voice.
“You don’t get it,” he says, shaking his head and looking away from me.
“Then explain it to me,” I say, tears brimming my eyes now.
He looks around, frowning, before grabbing his glass of liquor and standing up with me.
“Come with me,” he says.
“What? No I’m—“
“Just come,” he says and grabs my wrist, pulling me behind him as he walks toward the elevator.
I follow him, but have no idea where he’s taking me. We get in the elevator and he pushes a button labeled “R”. When the elevator doors close, he lets go of my wrist and runs a hand across his face. I instantly shiver when he lets go, not realizing how comforting it was to have him close to me again.
Seconds later, the elevator doors open to what appears to be the roof. He walks out and around to the edge of the rooftop, and I stumble as a gust of wind hits me. Was this his plan? To let me get blown off of the roof before I even make it to the arena?
We stand at the very edge and I can’t hear anything other than the strong wind in our ears. He looks around, a few times, before he finally turns to me.
Words come out of his mouth, but I don’t hear them.
“What?” I ask.
He steps closer, speaking louder, “You’re not going to make it out of the arena.”
The words startle me. Immediately, my chest clenches and I feel defensive. Does he doubt me so much that he truly thinks I have no chance to survive this?
“What the f—“ I begin.
“They won’t let you,” he cuts me off, shaking his head.
My anger is replaced by confusion. Who is they? The Gamemakers? The other tributes?
“What are you talking about?” I ask, crossing my arms protectively over my chest.
He shakes his head, looking over the edge and down into the city. Even at this hour, there are cars and people scattered throughout the streets. Lights are on everywhere. It’s an odd sight to see. Back home, everyone would be in bed hours ago.
“You don’t know?” He asks, and I look up into his sad eyes, even more confused than before.
“Know what?” I ask, “Do you really think I have no chance at winning?”
He looks down again, shaking his head. “It’s not about winning.”
I sigh, feeling exasperated, “Then what is it about, Haymitch?”
He looks at me again, his frown cutting deep lines into his face in the dark of the night, “They won’t let anyone that I love survive.”
I step back, trying to understand what he’s just said. Who is he talking about? He steps toward me again, speaking before I get a chance to think any more.
“The fire. Remember? You think that was an accident?”
“Haymitch,” I whisper, knowing he won’t even be able to hear me over the wind.
He points somewhere in the distance of the city and his voice gets louder, “They did that. They want me to suffer. It was over for you the moment your name got picked.”
I shake my head, tears starting to run down my face but immediately drying with the wind blowing in my face, “Haymitch, I don’t understand.”
“If I help you, you’ll die. They’ll make sure of it,” he says, his voice cracking, “The best chance you have at surviving in there is staying away from me.”
I step back again, trying to put the pieces together in my head. By they does he mean the Capitol? Could they have been responsible for the death of his family? My heart sinks as I process.
“Is that why…” I trail off, sniffling before continuing, “Is that why you pushed us all away? Me? Burdock? Astrid?”
He turns away and takes a long gulp, and I know the answer. But how? How could the Capitol do all of that? All of us in District 12 know that the house fire was an accident. Wasn’t it? And how would the Capitol know who he loves at home? They’re so far away…
Then it hits me. He’s telling me all of this on the roof where I can barely hear him. He’s avoided us for two years. He’s barely even spoken to me since I was reaped.
They must be watching him.
The only way that he thinks I will be protected is staying away from me.
He finishes the contents in his glass, throwing it across the roof and it shatters.
“Haymitch,” I say, taking a step toward him. He shakes his head, taking a step away.
“Please,” he says desperately, and in the moonlight I can see that his eyes are red.
“Please, just stay away from me. That’s the only way.”
I shake my head, my throat hurting from the lump in it, “Haymitch.”
He takes on step closer, quickly saying, “When you get in the arena, find water. They won’t poison it like in my Games. It’s too soon. You can run fast, can’t you?”
I nod, taking in the information to the best of my ability with tears still running down my face.
“You can outrun them. I know you can. At least find somewhere to hide until most of the other tributes are dead. Got it?”
I nod again.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He says desperately, hands twitching like he wants to reach out to be but won’t.
My chest aches with the nickname he’s used. He used to call me that when we were young. Back in early grade school it started, then continued through the time he left for the Games. He hadn’t used that name once since then.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m sorry, Haymitch. You deserve so much better.”
I don’t sleep that night.
The next morning was the first day of training. When I woke up, a black shirt and pants were hanging on my door with the number 12 on them. I quickly got dressed, assuming these were the training clothes provided.
When I arrived at breakfast, I was surprised to see both Effie and Haymitch already sitting there, discussing the plans for the next week. Haymitch looked rough, and I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep last night either.
“Where’s Ash?” I ask as I sit down.
Effie responds, “He’s still sleeping. I wasn’t going to wake either of you for another thirty minutes.”
I nod, filling my plate and beginning my meal.
“Since you’re here, Haymitch and I were talking about strategy,” Effie says, “Do you have any special skills, dear?”
“I can run,” I say, and my mind flashes to the conversation of last night.
Effie nods, lips pursed, “Anything else?”
I put my fork down, thinking for a minute. Do I have any special skills? I mean I’ve always helped my parents with their business, but they just fix people’s clothes, and that doesn’t feel like a skill that could help me in the arena. I’ve picked up some herbal medicine practices from watching Astrid overtime, but not enough that I’d call it a skill. I could climb pretty well. Since I was little I’ve always liked to climb the trees in District 12 so I could see the whole town square in action. Does that count for anything? It’s certainly not deadly.
“I can climb…” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as pathetic as it feels.
Effie sighs, glancing quickly at Haymitch before returning to me, “Well, we’ve got a few days to work on that.”
Before she can say more, Ash exits his room, dressed in an identical outfit to mine, and takes his seat at the table.
The rest of breakfast is filled with small chatter about basic instructions for training, and how we should avoid showing off any skills that might make us a target. Haymitch explained how it would be useful to make some allies, but to avoid the Careers.
An hour later, we are all heading to the training center together. The elevator moves too quickly, bringing us to a floor labeled “T”, that is deep below ground. When we step off the elevator, there is a short hallway that we walk through before Haymitch and Effie depart.
The training center is like a large gymnasium. There are racks of weights, ropes, and weapons of all shapes and sizes. Along the walls are small stations set up. Each one has one person working who is there to show us how to perform different useful skills that we will use in the arena. There’s a knot tying station, a wild plants station, a woodworking station, and many more lining the edges of the room.
Ash and I decide to stick together, making our way through the different stations. We thought about trying our hand at physical training today, but the Careers had already taken over most of the training stations and I could tell that Ash was pretty freaked out by that.
I learn just about every knot I could ever need, how to make a sharp weapon out of a tree branch, and what plants I should absolutely avoid in the arena. When lunch comes around we are taken to another room that looks similar to a school cafeteria. Ash and I sit together, and the tributes from District 6 and 8 join us. At first I think they might want to be allies, but I quickly learn that they’re more interested in learning about Haymitch. Since he defied the odds by becoming a District 12 Victor, it seems that he’s still pretty popular among the other Districts.
For the rest of the day, Ash and I practice our knife throwing skills. His throwing needs a lot of work, but I catch on quite quickly. I hit the target about eighty percent of the time— usually missing the correct points— but I manage to hit an arm here, a leg there, and one time I even hit it right in the neck.
We are eventually let go from training and told to return to our rooms. On the way to the elevator, I get shoved by the boy from District 3. He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps walking. Instead of fighting back, I take a deep breath and remember to store this knowledge about the District 3 boy’s carelessness in my mind for later. His cockiness is likely a weakness.
When we return to our floor, Haymitch is passed out on the couch with vomit staining his shirt. My heart aches. Effie is nowhere to be found. Probably got tired of dealing with him.
“How did this guy ever win the Games?” Ash said with underlying disgust in his tone.
I sigh, shaking my head. “He didn’t used to be this way.”
We both frown at the sight before us for a full minute before I sigh—remembering that I have to stay away from him— but I can’t just leave him there. He’ll be no help to Ash in his current condition. I felt a twist in my gut as I got a wave of Deja vu.
After he moved to the Victor’s Village, Burdock and I tried countless times to help him. We did everything we could. Eventually we realized he didn’t care what we did, he didn’t even want to have us around.
It was a year later the next time I was back there. I’d heard from my neighbor that Haymitch was wandering around town looking even more ridiculously drunk than normal. My parents came home that day with a sad look in their eyes, and I decided that even if he didn’t want me around, I wasn’t going to leave him to keep doing this to himself.
I headed into the square, finding him slumped next to the Bakery, covered in his own vomit. With a lot of coaxing, I finally got him to stand and walk back to his house in the Victor’s Village with me. No words were exchanged on the walk. No words were exchanged when I spent the next half hour washing his face and shirt. Not even when I made him go to bed and drink a large glass of water. I swore at one point I watched a tear roll down his cheek, but I pushed the memory away for my own sake.
Now, a year later, staring at him, I wonder if he will ever be the way he used to. My Haymitch. Unfortunately, there’s no time to think that way.
I sigh, and against my better judgment I say to Ash, “I’ll go clean him up. See you at dinner?”
Ash looked perplexed for a moment, but still nodded and headed to his room.
It wasn’t difficult to wake Haymitch, but it was difficult to get him to agree to go take a shower. With my help, he eventually stumbled to his room. I sat on his bed and laid out some clean clothes for him as he cleaned himself up. I should have left and gone back to my room, but I realized that if this truly is my last few days— as he says—I wanted to spend as much time as I possibly could with the boy who once meant the world to me. Even he isn’t that boy anymore. I couldn’t die in the arena knowing that I didn’t try to help, even just one last time.
I turn to face the door when he finally exits the bathroom and dresses. Eventually, he takes a seat a few feet away from me and takes a deep breath. I turn to face him.
“You sober yet?” I ask, scanning his face. His eyes are red, and I can tell just by his pupils that he still has some alcohol in his system.
He shakes his head.
“Haymitch,” I say, unsure of what else to say.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.
I nod, “I know. But I couldn’t leave you there like that.”
The look in his eyes destroys me.
I take a deep breath, standing from my place on his bed, “I can’t die in a few days without being there for you. I just can’t.”
I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I make my way back to my room, shutting the door and letting myself cry for the last time. If I want to even have a chance at winning, I need to be strong. And I need to stay away from Haymitch from now on.
It doesn’t take long to regain my composure, and shortly after I wipe the last tear I am called to dinner. Haymitch never shows.
The next two days are tedious. Ash and I have gone through every single station in training. I have gotten better at knife throwing— hitting lethal points at least sixty percent of the time. I hit the target somewhere on the body almost every time. I’ve also learned that I can be quick enough to escape from most of the official Capitol trainers who I’ve been sparring with.
Ash has had decent luck too. He’s gotten quite good with a sword, and can anticipate the moves of his opponent easily. He is extremely perceptive.
After three full days of eating well, training, and learning new skills, I’m feeling significantly more confident that I can win this. The Careers are still a major threat, but if I can get away fast enough, I can just wait for them to take each other out.
We haven’t made any allies. Nobody has been interested in partnering with us unless they get a shot at getting advice from Haymitch, who of course hasn’t been around much at all. He’s been slightly more coherent the past few days— seemingly not drinking to the point of being incapacitated. And yet, every time I walk into a room he finds his way out of it.
Tomorrow we have a full day of preparing for our interviews, then the next day is the Games. The interviews are done on a stage outside of the Tribute Center by a man named Caesar Flickerman. Caesar is a ridiculous looking man with hair that changes colors for each Games. This year I think it’s a pale yellow. Ugly. But from what I’ve heard, he is very charismatic and helps the tributes out. Which I will need.
At dinner, Haymitch and Effie discuss with us the possible angles we can go with. Every tribute apparently has an angle to make them likeable. Some choose strength, some smarts, some beauty, some even choose humor.
Ash decides he wants to show his smarts, with a bit of humor. Effie and Haymitch nod, agreeing that they can work with that.
“And you?” Effie asks me while I’m halfway through munching on a chicken leg.
I shrug, setting the leg down on my plate, “I don’t really know.”
Effie says, “I’m sure we can put something together. You’re such a lovely girl.”
I almost blush, grateful to receive a compliment from someone who is so hesitant to give them out, until she adds: “For a girl from the Districts.”
Haymitch looks at me for a moment, as if doing a difficult calculation in his head. Eventually a small smile tugs on his face and he says, “Why don’t you just be the sweetheart from District 12? Show them how nice you are, they’ll love you.”
Effie rolls her eyes, and I’m sure he’s joking.
“Yeah, right,” I say, “I don’t think that’ll sway the people of the Capitol.”
“Well, have you got anything else?” Haymitch asks but doesn’t wait for me to respond, “We’ll work on it tomorrow.”
No more discussion happens that night. The next morning Effie wakes us up early to spend the first half of the day working on manners. Apparently my manners aren’t even half as good as I thought they were. Effie teaches me how to sit properly, how to laugh like a lady, and worst of all she teaches me how to walk in heels.
Ash nails it all right away, but he doesn’t have to walk in heels. He laughs at me as I stumble for the fifteenth time.
The early afternoon is spent with Haymitch as we figure out what angle we want to take. For two complete hours, Haymitch is entirely focused on Ash. He doesn’t even glance at me once. I know why he’s keeping his distance. Still, that doesn’t stop the annoyance from raising within me when I think about just how unprepared I am for tonight.
After Ash nails his intelligent-yet-witty routine, the attention is on me. Haymitch practices asking me questions like “How has training gone for you?” and “Anyone special waiting back at home?”
My responses must not impress him because he sighs and takes a drink out of a flask he has been keeping in his coat pocket. By the end of the session I am so exhausted from having to put on a show, and so on edge because in less than 24 hours I will be in the arena.
When our prep teams arrive, Haymitch takes a long drink and leaves the room. I am fussed over for nearly two hours before they deem my hair and makeup to be satisfactory for tonight. My makeup is simple, yet they have perfectly managed to accentuate every feature that should be accentuated.
“Thank you,” I tell them.
Effie steps into our room shortly after, with two large bags in hand. She hands me one, and hands one to Ash.
“Clothes for tonight,” she says, “I thought since neither of you have a stylist you would need something to make you stand out.”
“Thank you, Effie,” Ash says and goes to his room to change.
I open my bag, revealing a stunning orange dress unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is a soft, shiny material that reflected light in every direction. The waist is cinched in a way that I imagine to be incredibly flattering, and the long skirt is draped in such a unique way that it almost looks like water falling. I quickly went to my room to change as well.
When I return to the living room, Ash is standing with Effie and Haymitch in a suit with the same beautiful orange color that I am wearing. They all look up and Effie is the first to speak.
“It’s stunning! I knew I had a good eye,” she says.
“You look great,” Ash says, smiling at me.
“You too,” I say.
Haymitch is silent and doesn’t look at me for longer than a few seconds. I let myself wonder if he thinks I look pretty.
We all head downstairs to where the stage is supposed to be set up. When we arrive, Effie departs for her seat but Haymitch escorts us until we are backstage. All of the other tributes are there looking absolutely amazing.
Haymitch nods at us, “Remember what we went over.”
We both nod before he departs and goes to find his seat as well. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves before we have to walk out on stage. I hear Caesar Flickerman’s voice introducing the 52nd Annual Hunger Games and the anthem starts to play.
Ash reaches out and squeezes my hand gently before we walk out on stage together. All of the tributes sit at different parts of the stage, and take turns being interviewed by Caesar. Each interview is about three minutes long, so I know by the time they get to me that the audience will be bored out of their minds.
Ash pays close attention as each tribute is interviewed. I find myself staring through the crowds of the audience. So many strange colors, some of the people don’t even look quite human. I know they are of course, it’s just so different. I don’t know why anyone would ever want to change their appearance so much. Things work so differently in the Capitol.
I get called up while I am staring straight at a woman who has leopard print skin, and I make my way across the stage to the seat across from Caesar.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
I shrug, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Caesar smiles at the audience and exclaims, “Ahhh! I love that! Love the confidence in this one. And how has your mentor been?” He asks, looking at the audience knowingly.
Of course, Haymitch is known well by the Capitol now. They’re all well aware of his tendencies.
I smile nervously, “He’s been fine.”
Caesar pauses, waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, he says, “Just fine? Do tell.”
I sigh, feeling the need to defend him. If what he says is true, the Capitol has been horrible to him. I’m angry at them for him.
“He’s doing the best he can,” I say, forcing a smile.
Caesar laughs, “Ahhh, I’m sure he is. Did you two know each other before you were chosen for the Games this year? Back in District 12?”
I pause. If I answer honestly, they will have even more of a reason to kill me. If Haymitch were here, he would tell me to lie. So that is what I do. “No,” I say, “We didn’t know each other.”
Caesar nods, leaning toward me and getting more serious, “You didn’t know each other?” He pauses, leaning closer like he was going to tell me a secret, “And yet he threw up on stage when your name was called?”
I completely blanked for a moment. I had forgotten that that even happened. I shook my head, thinking of the right words to say.
“He’s always throwing up,” I say, forcing another smile as if it’s some sort of joke.
Caesar laughs toward the audience, “Classic Haymitch. Well it is a shame to see you go, but may the odds be in your favor.”
Before I know it, I’m sent back to my seat. I don’t even pay attention during Ash’s interview because I’m so caught up in his wording. A shame to see me go? Does he know something? If what Haymitch said was true, does that mean that the Capitol is already planning to kill me in the arena? Or does he just have such little faith in my ability to win?
When we return to our room for the night, Haymitch and Effie congratulate us on our successful interviews.
“I thought you two did know each other before,” Effie says to myself and Haymitch.
“Not really,” I say, not explaining myself further. Haymitch is still refusing to look at me.
Effie nods, and the look on her face seems that she doesn’t believe me. She must ignore it, because she looks between Ash and I, smiling gently, “I guess this is goodbye. I will be rooting for you both.”
We take turns giving her hugs and saying goodbye. When she reaches the elevator she says, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
“Thank you, Effie,” Ash says, and she’s gone.
We both turn to Haymitch, “Will we see you in the morning?” I ask.
He shakes his head, “Your prep team will collect you in the morning and take you to whatever transportation they have arranged. Then you’ll be off to the arena.”
We both nodded, knowing this is it. My heart tugs, and I have so much that I want to say. This might be the last time I will ever see Haymitch, and I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know if I should say anything at all.
Ash shakes Haymitch’s hand and thanks him for his help, and soon he is off to his room. I stand still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Before I can figure it out, he pulls me into his arms. His hands wrap tightly around me, one around my waist and one on the back of my head. I instantly reciprocate, wrapping my arms tightly around his back. We stand like that for nearly a minute— his face tucked into my neck, holding so tightly that I almost push him away for a breath. But I don’t.
He loosens his grip but doesn’t pull away. He gets close to my ear and says so quietly I can hardly hear, “Stay alive.”
I nod, still holding him tightly. I take a shaky breath in and out, willing myself not to cry.
“See you on the other side?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t respond. He pulls me tightly against him one last time and when he pulls away he is already headed for his room. I can feel the tears running down my face, but quickly wipe them and head to my room as well. I can’t get upset now. I have to stay alive.
Part II: The Games
After a sleepless night, my prep team wakes me up before the sun. They make last minute touch ups to my eyebrows and hair, before giving me clothes to change into. It’s a light, airy material that is completely black except for a small number 12 in silver on the sleeve. The pants are the same material, only slightly thicker.
Surprisingly, my prep team takes me up to the rooftop after I’m done. My mind flashes back to the last time I was up here. Soon, a jet comes near the roof and lets a ladder down. I am told to grab onto the ladder, but as soon as I do I am paralyzed. I can’t move a muscle until I’m completely inside of the jet. Once I’m inside, they place a tracker in my arm.
The ride is short, and when we arrive I am brought to a small room with a tube in it. I assume that the tube is what will take me into the Games.
I stand there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, before I realize that I am shaking. Every muscle in my body feels like it is contracting and un contracting over and over again. I can’t enter the games like this, but it won’t stop no matter how many deep breaths I take.
I think of home. I think of my parents who will be watching me, I think of Burdock and Astrid… I think of Haymitch. The shaking stops. I can do this, and I will. I have to win. For them. For Maysilee. For Haymitch.
A peacekeeper enters my room, making me jump. I am told to enter the tube, and I listen. Within a minute, the tube closes, and I am rising up like I’m in an elevator that takes me above ground.
Suddenly, I’m in the arena.
I look around me, trying to gain awareness of my surroundings as fast as I can. Below me is a raised metal plate, and I see that all of the tributes are on one. Ash is just a few plates away from me.
The ground in front of me is some sort of small rocks… gravel? There are small puddles and ponds in the gravel, but that water does not look drinkable. Directly in front of me is the large, golden horn that they call the Cornucopia. It holds the most dangerous weapons, and the best supplies. Haymitch told us to avoid going straight there.
To my left, there’s a field of dirt with large piles rising and falling as far as I can see. To my right, there’s is a corn field that seems to be endless as well. Behind me is a small patch of woods, but I can’t tell if they’re thick— or deep enough— to hide in. That might still be my best bet.
Before I’m ready, a clock begins counting down in front of me. 30, 29, 28…
I look around, deciding where will be the safest for me to go. I spot a small green backpack just 10 feet in front of me. Would it be too dangerous to grab? Have my opponents already spotted it?
15,14,13…
I take in my surroundings one last time before deciding. The best bet for my survival is to grab the green backpack and take off in the woods as quickly as I can. With my speed, I can surely outrun any attacks. Plus, most of the violence will be near the cornucopia.
5,4,3,2,1.
I take off as fast as I can, straight to the backpack. I don’t look to see if anyone is already fighting. I turn and I run to the woods as quickly as I can. I run and run until I can hardly breathe, and even then I don’t stop.
Only once I’ve finally gotten far enough away that I can’t hear, nor see any other tribute, I stop to assess my situation. The trees aren’t nearly as dense as I need them to be. Someone could see me from 200 yards away if they stood in the right spot. They’re also dry and thin with hardly any branches until the very top. Not trees to be climbed.
I find a big one and sit down against it, at least then my back will be covered while I examine the backpack I’ve taken. It’s a very small bag. Inside, I find a water bottle, luckily filled with water, a pack of crackers, a flashlight, a thin rope, and a knife. The knife isn’t as sharp as the ones we trained with, but it should at least provide me some defense.
I try to recall what Haymitch told us about basic survival. Find water, don’t let yourself starve, find shelter, and stay alive. He’d told me specifically to try to find somewhere to hide. Got the water, the crackers should at least last me today, but I’ll have to find some sort of shelter. I decide to continue walking through the woods to see if I stumble upon anything.
I lost count of how many cannons I’d heard over the next few hours, preoccupied with finding shelter. There had been at least five since I began searching, but any that went off right at the beginning were lost in the adrenaline rush.
As I got deeper into the woods, I’d found some large rocks that I considered hiding behind at least to keep my back covered. Ultimately, I continued walking in hopes of a real shelter.
Just when it started to get dark, I came across a water fall. I’d only taken sips from my water bottle all day, but I figured this would be a good place to stop and drink. Maybe there would be some fish in the pool at the bottom.
The waterfall was maybe 12 feet high, and the stream was strong. Water was rushing over the edge, crashing down below. There were large rocks around it, like the ones I’d seen earlier. They were dark with thick moss growing on them.
I finished the rest of my water bottle, trying to stay relatively hydrated before filling up again. I crossed some smaller rocks that were covered in moss. I walked carefully, knowing how slippery moss can be when it’s wet.
I reached out to press my hand on the rock behind the waterfall so I could support myself when I refilled my bottle, but found no purchase. Instead, I found myself falling directly into the waterfall and onto damp ground.
Mud was streaked across my face and I reached up to wipe it off when I realized how dark it was. I looked around and realized what had happened. Above me and all around me was solid rock. I hadn’t just fallen onto the ground, but I’d fallen through the waterfall into a small cave of sorts.
I’d done it! I’d found shelter.
I smiled to myself. The cave provided perfect shelter against the sun, and I had a continuous source of water. The water also was strong enough that it was difficult to see through. Maybe I would eventually have to relocate, but for now, I was safe.
I stayed in the cave, eating small bits of a couple crackers and sipping on water until I heard the anthem playing. I couldn’t see through the waterfall, so I’d have to peak my head out if I wanted to see how many tributes were left.
The faces of the dead tributes started flashing in the sky, one by one. Both from District 2, the girl from 3, both from 5, the boy from 7, both from 8 and 9, the boy from 10 and the girl from 11. The cocky boy from 3 was still alive. I let out a breath of relief that I didn’t know I was holding when I realized that Ash was still alive.
12 down, 11 to go.
I allowed myself to think optimistically and hope that they would all take themselves out without me having to kill anyone. I knew it was unlikely, but I needed some hope.
That night when I drifted off, I found myself mourning for the lost tributes. I didn’t even know most of them. I’d only spoken to some of them a few times, but they were all just kids. I wondered if they had families at home. Siblings who were crying themselves to sleep tonight. Friends who would never be the same after today.
I didn’t sleep for long. The cave floor was uncomfortable to sleep on, and at one point I heard footsteps just outside. I wasn’t sure if it was another tribute, or some sort of animal, but I wasn’t going to let myself sleep when any threat was around.
The next morning, I allowed myself to eat some more crackers. Hiding in the cave might protect me against the other tributes, but it would not protect me from starvation.
I decided to see if I could find any fish in the bottom of the waterfall. After waiting and listening for nearly thirty minutes to determine that I didn’t hear a single footstep, I headed out of the cave and walked around the edges of the pool. I saw some creatures, but I didn’t recognize them, and there were no fish.
It had just occurred to me that there might be some edible plants around when I saw a small lizard crawling near my feet. It was green with a blue head, and a striped tail. I knew from school that these were edible, and on occasion we would even find them wandering around in District 12. In order to eat it however, I would need to kill it first and then cook it.
I jumped through the waterfall quickly, grabbing my knife from my backpack before it could get away. I had just gotten back outside when I saw the lizard scampering away. I chased after it for a few steps before lunging at it.
Before my knife could impale the creature, it turned around quickly and spat some sort of yellow liquid at me. It missed most of me, but it did get on my right hand.
My first thought was that maybe I was chasing the wrong type of lizard, because that kind doesn’t spit. Then the yellow liquid began to burn. That was when I realized that the lizard was a mutt.
We call them mutts, but they’re actually Capitol engineered animals with genetic mutations that make them deadly.
My entire arm began to feel like it was on fire. I raced back to the waterfall and washed it away as quickly as I could, but the burning didn’t stop. I rushed back into the cave, out of site of any other predators.
The burning steadily spread up my arm and into my shoulder. It wasn’t a regular burning, but felt more like my skin was being lit on fire over and over again. The skin on my hand began to blister and turn purple.
Before I could think of what to do next, I fainted.
I wasn’t sure how long it had been, maybe a few hours, maybe a few days, but when I woke up it was nearly dark outside. My arm burned, but it felt more feverish than on fire. I looked at my hand and saw that there was a large blister surrounded by purple veins. I’d never seen anything like it, nor did I know how to treat it.
Until the sun set, I did nothing but sit in my cave and try to get my strength up a little bit. I snacked on some crackers and drank some water, washing off my blister again. As soon as water impacted it, it throbbed and felt like it was on fire again.
When the anthem eventually played, I stuck my head out— careful to keep my hand inside— to see how many more tributes died today. The boy from 6, the girl from 7, and the boy from 11.
8 left.
I wondered what was happening out there. Both tributes from District 1 were alive. Were they hunting people down? Was everyone still near the Cornucopia? Was anyone else attacked by a mutt?
Before I could stick my head back in my cave, a small silver box attached to a parachute floated straight down in front of me. Haymitch.
I grabbed it and snuck back into the cave as quickly as I could. Inside the box was a small bottle. It was some sort of liquid that I’d never seen before.
For the burn- H
Without thinking any more, I opened the bottle and drank it. It only occurred to me after that the liquid might have been to clean my throbbing blister, but it was too late now.
I laid down, and felt the pain slowly start to subside. The blister was still as large, and the purple veins weren’t seeming to go away.
As I got as comfortable as I could on some rocks with a giant blister on my hand, I began to wonder what Haymitch’s strategy was. He told me he wanted us to stay away from each other, then he gets me a sponsor gift as soon as I need it. What kind of message could that be sending to the Capitol?
The next day is uneventful. I don’t hear the cannon once. I spent the entire day in my cave, trying to figure out what my next move should be. The pain has mostly gone away from my hand, but there’s still a large area of raw skin, and the purple veins have now extended to my fingers. I finished off my crackers, and my stomach was starting to cry out for food. There were no fish, and I wasn’t taking my chances with an animal again. If I wanted food, I would have to make my way back to the Cornucopia or try to find some sort of edible plants.
When the anthem plays that night, no faces are shown in the sky. I guess the chaos has gone down from the first two days.
The next morning, I wake before the sun is up to the gnawing in my stomach. I have to find food, and I have to find it soon. If I can make my way back to the Cornucopia, even if anyone sees me, I should be fast enough to grab food and run away before they can catch me.
With that general plan in mind, I begin my trek back toward the center of the arena and away from my safety in my cave.
It has been at least two hours before I take a break. My legs are beginning to shake, my stomach gnawing more intensely as the day progresses. I haven’t had to deal with the sun since I’ve been in my cave, but now with the sun beating on me and such little food in my system, I’m starting to feel dizzy.
I try to continue in my general direction for a few minutes before I have to take a break. I sit down with my back against a tree, taking small sips of water. My vision starts to blur, and I can feel my limbs getting weak.
A cannon goes off and it startles me enough that I decide to continue walking, at least until I find some sort of plant to eat. Unfortunately, most of the ground in the woods is dry and bare. It’s another thirty minutes before I find a small green bush with red berries. I remember seeing these berries at the plants station during training, and I’m almost completely positive that they’re edible.
I collect as many as I can, eating a handful and putting the rest in my backpack for later. They’ll probably get crushed, but it’s better than having no food at all. The berries hardly satisfy my hunger. As soon as they hit my stomach, I can tell that I’ll need a lot more than that to keep going.
Another cannon has sounded by the time I finally reach the Cornucopia. I stay about fifty feet back, hiding behind a thicker tree and try to visually scout out the area before I make my move. I wait about an hour, continuously monitoring for any noise, but I don’t hear anything other than the leaves rustling in the trees. It’s certain that I’d hear at least some footsteps if anyone were around. Being from District 12, I’ve learned that gravel is never silent. There isn’t a tribute in sight.
Finally, I take off toward the Cornucopia at full speed. I’m a little bit dizzy and breathless when I reach the opening, but to my luck, there are still weapons and supplies waiting for me. I can’t believe that my fellow tributes would leave all of this here.
I take another backpack, not allowing myself the time to sort through it yet. I throw it over my shoulder and grab the last knife before taking off in the way I came. I make it about halfway through the gravel stretch when I feel a forceful pain in my calf. I look down, and a small knife has made its way through my pants and at least half an inch into my left calf. My sock inside my boot begins to feel wet.
It’s impossible to sprint now, but I hobble forward to the best of my ability and quickly look around for the cause of my injury. 20 feet away is the boy from District 3. The one who has always been too cocky for his own good. He stands casually, arms crossed over his chest, chin up like this is a normal day for him. I wonder how many deaths have been caused by him.
“What? Can’t run now?” He says with a smirk that makes my blood boil.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my calf that is making me feel like I’m going to faint.
I shrug, trying my best to act casual, like I’m not afraid of him. Truly, I’m terrified. He’s much bigger than I am, and if he chose to advance now I wouldn’t be able to outrun him. The knife in my hand feels heavy,
“Just taking in the view,” I say, looking around us at the arena.
He takes a step forward, smirking still, “Good, because it’s the last look you’re going to get.”
He takes another step toward me, and without thinking any more I throw my knife straight at him. With the dizziness and the blood dripping down my ankle, my aim is a little off, but the knife makes impact just below his hip.
The boy bends forward in pain, pulling the knife out. I don’t wait any longer before I limp out of the gravel clearing as quickly as I can. Blood is soaking through my shoe now. Just as I reach the sparse woods again, the knife skims past my head, hitting the tree directly to my right. My ear is bleeding. I yank the knife from the tree and don’t look back. I don’t hear footsteps behind me, so I assume the boy decided not to follow.
I only make it about a hundred yards when I collapse. My vision is going black, and I desperately need to clean my wound. I collapse against a tree and tear open my new backpack in hopes of something— anything— that will stop me from bleeding out right now.
Inside the backpack is a sheet of dried beef, a strange fruit that I’ve never seen before, some crackers, a bottle of water, and— to my luck— a small first aid kit! I use the bloodied knife that was just in the District 3 boy to cut the fabric around my calf. Then, slowly but carefully, I remove the knife. The feeling alone is nearly enough for me to black out, but I fight it. I won’t die in here. And if I do, it won’t be at the hands of the District 3 boy.
The first aid kit contains two small rolls of gauze, a pain reliever tablet (which I take immediately), a few spare bandages, and a few sheets of an antiseptic wipe wrapped in plastic. I do my best to clean the wound, losing my vision twice. I bite down on the edge of my shirt. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
After the wound is clean, I wrap it in a large bandage and lots of gauze until I think it’s satisfactory. I’ve never known much about caring for wounds, but I’ve watched Astrid do it a few times, and I think I got the basics down.
I don’t attempt to move for hours. I eat a few of my berries from earlier, some crackers, and part of the beef strip. It does help my energy some, but the blood loss really wore me down. I tuck my head between my knees and only look up every so often to make sure the District 3 boy didn’t come to finish me off. I know he’s still out there, the cannon never went off.
It occurs to me that the safest I could be now is if I return to my cave. It’s at least two hours of walking, but it’s better than being out in the open and waiting for another person to attack me.
I stand, but when I put weight on my calf I nearly black out again. It takes lots of deep breaths before I regain my balance. Once I do, I lean against my tree and look around for any low hanging branch to help me walk. There are none.
There’s nothing I can do but try to make it away from here, so I walk— very slowly. I don’t know if you could even call it a walk, it’s more of an awkward hop with lots of stopping.
I make it about a mile, and it starts to get dark. I begin to lose any hope that I had of returning to my cave for the night. I continue to move forwards anyway.
The events from earlier start to replay in my head. I threw that knife at the boy with the intention to kill. I always frowned on those who were so readily able to take the lives of others, but now that I’m the one in the arena I didn’t even think twice. I suppose it’s different when you’re defending your own life, but that doesn’t change the fact that the boy would’ve been dead if I aimed a bit better.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I had become mildly unaware of my surroundings and hit my head on a tree branch. Great, a head injury is exactly what I need right now. I shake my head, trying to comb dry branches out of my hair— wait. A tree branch!
It’s thick enough that I need to use my knife to cut all the way through it, but it’s the perfect size for a walking stick. I could start moving significantly faster with a walking stick.
With much more exertion than my body could handle, I get the branch down. It’s not a comfortable walking stick, but it helps take a lot of the pressure off of my wounded calf.
The bleeding stopped about an hour ago, but it still hurt terribly and had bled enough that my body was still weak.
After another hour of trekking through the woods, the anthem begins to play in the sky. One dead today. The girl from District 6. I wonder how she went. I wonder if she tried to defend herself. I wonder if the boy from District 3 killed her.
I’m still about an hour from my cave, but I decide to keep moving. There’s no point in stopping now. Even though my body is screaming for rest, I am in no shape to defend myself if an attacker decides to pursue me. I still have my knife that I got back from the District 3 boy, and the knife that I pulled from my calf, but the odds of me being able to react and aim well enough are low.
I lean on my stick, taking a small break before returning to my limping, and a small silver parachute falls from the sky in front of me. Haymitch is still looking out for me. With the vulnerability of everything that’s been happening in the arena, I am able to admit to myself that I miss him terribly. All that I want in the world at this moment is to be next to him again. Even the messed up version of himself that he’s become would suffice. Maybe if I make it out of here we could…
I shake myself out of my thoughts and grab the parachute. I open the small metal box. This time, there’s a small sheet of paper on top with writing on it.
Aim better next time- H
I allow myself to let out a small laugh, knowing that he will be watching me on the live feed being shown in the Capitol. Underneath the paper is a bottle of pills. They’re unmarked, but I assume that they’re either pain killers or some sort of antibiotic to prevent my wound from getting infected. Infection can kill just as much as a knife can.
Before I begin walking again, I swallow one of the pills with a gulp of water. I don’t feel any immediate difference, but about thirty minutes later the pain in my calf has become a dull ache and I’m able to cover ground much quicker.
I don’t know what time it is when I finally reach my cave, but I’m relieved to have my shelter again. My bandages got wet when I entered, so I take time to clean and rewrap my wound before I fall asleep.
Sleep takes over me as soon as I lay down, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up.
Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, it’s probably about mid day when I wake. I check my wound, which bled a little bit overnight, and snack on some of my dried beef when I figure out my plan for the day. The pain has returned during the night, so I take another pill from the bottle that Haymitch sent me.
I begin debating the pros and cons of leaving the cave today. I need to find a consistent source of food, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn a little bit more about my surroundings. Before I can make a decision, I notice a large footprint in the mud next to the cave entrance. One that I would’ve never made myself, the foot was much too large.
Someone has been here.
It was too dark to see when I arrived last night, but now with the sun shining through the water, it’s clear as day. I start considering if I should leave when I hear footsteps outside.
Okay, so whoever was here must be returning to the cave. If I stay here, I can defend myself with my knives to the best of my ability. If they get close enough, I won’t miss. I grab both quickly, squeezing them in my hands. I just have to hope that whoever it is doesn’t have a weapon that can kill me faster than I can throw.
It’s obviously a male, from the size of the footprint. Theres no way the boy from District 3 has been here. I would’ve known if he followed me. The boy from 1 wouldn’t be here without the girl from 1, and there are no smaller footprints other than my own. That leaves… Ash.
Could it be? I stay silent, not wanting to reveal myself either way. If these footsteps do belong to Ash, I still have no idea what he’s been through. For all I know, the games might’ve turned him into a brutal killer. I keep my grip on my knives as the footsteps get closer.
I raise my arm, ready to throw if I need to when the person breaks through the water and enters my cave. It is Ash. He startles at the sight of me, lifting an axe in his hand, ready to attack.
He looks rough. He was already a smaller boy, but now I can see the highlights of his cheek bones. There is dried blood in his hair, and on his shirt. Every time he moves he flinches like he’s in pain.
He falters for a moment, finally focusing on my face.
“Ash…” I say, still holding my knife tightly.
He fully lowers his axe, “I never thought I’d see you again,” he says.
Great, another person who thought I’d be dead by now.
He quickly follows with, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I lower my knife, “Good, because I don’t want to hurt you either.”
It’s a little bit awkward at first. It’s almost as if the several days in the arena have stunted our ability to interact with other humans in a normal way. Eventually, he sits beside me and we recount everything we’ve been through.
When the Games started, Ash took off in the direction of the dirt piles. Apparently there aren’t just piles, but also underground tunnels. He was hiding out there for a while, but eventually needed to come out to get food and water. The Careers were chasing him and he just barely got away when the boy from 7 popped out of one of the holes and killed the girl from 2. The girl and boy from District 1 stayed to attack the boy from 7. I remembered seeing his face in the sky on the first night.
After that, the boy from 2 kept chasing Ash until they got to the Cornucopia, where he was barely able to fight him off with an axe. He didn’t go into detail, but the boy from 2 died and Ash got away with a giant gash in his side. He was lucky that he got some supplies to help control the bleeding. After that, he’s been roaming the woods, hoping to avoid running into the pair from District 1 again. Apparently they’ve been hunting people down and are responsible for most of the deaths so far. He came across the cave yesterday and decided to hide out for a while, but went to find food and couldn’t find his way back to the cave in the dark.
I recounted my experience with the mutt, and showed him the healing skin on the back of my hand. I hadn’t realized, but the purple veins were beginning to make their way up my arm. I also described what happened with the District 3 boy. He frowned deeply when I showed him my leg.
We sat in silence for a bit after that, sharing a few crackers and some chocolate that Ash had gotten in his backpack.
Eventually, Ash says, “So what now?”
I pause for a moment, not even having to think hard before I say, “Want to be allies?”
A grin covers his face. Probably the first time he’s smiled since we got in the arena. “I’m glad you asked.”
“But,” I stop him, “On one condition.”
He looks at me skeptically, waiting for me to continue.
“If it gets down to just a few of us left,” I say, “We go our separate ways. I won’t hurt you.”
He nods, extending his hand to shake on it.
We both know the pain that would come with killing someone from your own district. Even if you don’t know them very well, you know their family or friends. District 12 isn’t all that big. Going home after that would be worse than killing them in the first place. You’ll never be accepted again.
We stay in the cave most of the day. Ash leaves a few times to collect roots and explore the area. I’m grateful for him, especially now, because with his perceptiveness he’s able to practically memorize every strength and weakness of our surrounding territory. Plus, it’s nice that I don’t have to walk on my leg today.
I change the bandages again in the early afternoon. It hasn’t bled any more, but it feels hot and the outside is red. I decide to clean it one more time, trying to prevent infection to the best of my ability. I’m still hopeful that the pills that Haymitch sent might have some sort of antibiotic property.
In the late afternoon, we hear another cannon go off. For the rest of the evening, I make sure that Ash stays in the cave with me.
By the time the sun sets, Ash lays out a mixture of roots and plants for us to snack on. It’s not enough for dinner, but I pull out the remaining beef and berries that I have and we share them.
He sticks his head out when the anthem begins to play. The girl from 10 is gone. That leaves the boy from 3, us, and both from District 1. I know that means that we will have to go our separate ways soon, but I’m not quite ready to be alone again.
We lay on the rock floor of the cave, and I use my backpack to prop up my leg. It’s starting to swell now.
“We’re really defying the odds, aren’t we?” Ash says.
I nod, realizing I’ve been thinking this myself. “Yeah,” I say, “Who would’ve thought the two from District 12 would be the last ones left with the Careers?”
“Not Haymitch,” Ash shorts, shaking his head, “He had no hope for us.”
I laugh, but say, “I don’t know, I think he had a little bit of hope.”
Ash stares at me for a second, then says, “So… what was going on between the two of you?”
My heart jumps for a second, but I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t want the Capitol hearing about my relationship with Haymitch, or if the implication of anything going on between us was affecting me.
“Nothing was going on between us,” I say carefully, dismissing his question.
Ash snorts again. Of course he knows. How couldn’t he? He picks up on the smallest details about people. I was so busy thinking about how it could be used as an advantage that it never crossed my mind that he might be watching me as well.
“Please,” he says, “That night when you cleaned him up after he threw up on himself?”
“Ash,” I warn.
“Or all of those times I caught you staring at each other?”
That’s it. I’m dead. If what Haymitch said was right, President Snow will most certainly hear this and be on his way to plan my painful death immediately.
If I’m going to die anyway, what’s the point of lying now? Hell, maybe if I’m lucky I’ll earn sympathy from the viewers in the Capitol and they’ll send me something to make me death less miserable.
I sigh, formally giving up. “Yeah…” I nod.
“Yeah?” Ash repeats, obviously waiting for me to say more.
I purse my lips, wondering if I should say more. If I’m going to die, do I want Haymitch to know how much I’ve always cared about him? Or will that just make things worse for him? It’s not like they can kill me again if I’m already going to die in here.
I decided to tell the truth, “Yeah,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “He used to be one of my best friends… before… you know.”
Ash nods.
“We just kind of… grew apart,” I say carefully, unsure of what they know in the Capitol. Surely they wouldn’t have broadcasted the details about the fire and his family. The people of the Capitol are far too shallow to care about anything relating to the Victors beyond their annual entertainment.
Ash nods again, but I can see a slight flicker in his eye like he knows I’m lying. Ash picks up on everything, I wonder just how much he knows.
“He just always meant the world to me,” I say, feeling myself getting upset, “He always will.”
Ash frowns, reaching out a hand to place over mine in solidarity.
“So why did you lie?” He asks.
“What?” I ask, getting nervous. If he knows something, if says something—
“In our interviews,” he says, “You said you didn’t know each other before. Why?”
Shit. What now? Words tumble from my mouth before I can fully think it through.
“I…” I start, unsure where the sentence will end, “I just didn’t want everyone to know.” I fake my best vulnerable look, knowing the Capitol will be watching, “I didn’t want to explain it all to them because I didn’t fully understand it myself.”
I know that’s not a good enough response, but Ash nods anyway.
“So…” Ash says after a minute, “Were you, like, in love with him?”
I think for a minute. Was I in love with him? I certainly have always loved him. Even just being near him made me feel better, even when he was intoxicated. Even if I were in love with him, would I want to say it for all of Panem to hear? For him to hear?
If I die in here— which I know I probably will now that President Snow is aware of our affection for each other— do I want Haymitch to know I was in love with him? Would that make things worse for him?
I don’t know, so I say, “I’m not sure if I know what being in love feels like.”
Ash seems to understand how much conflict in this conversation is bringing me because he doesn’t ask more questions. He falls asleep shortly after, but I don’t fall asleep for a couple of hours. My mind is swimming with thoughts of Haymitch, my parents, Burdock, and the fact that the Gamemakers might be orchestrating a horrible death for me right now.
The next morning, Ash is up before I am. He goes to find some plants for us to eat, and I take another pain pill. The dark veins have made their way up my my upper arm now, and the cut on my leg still feels hot in a way that I know could become dangerous.
We eat in silence, only exchanging words when we decide to go our separate ways by the end of the day. If we stay together any longer than that, we risk the possibility of having it get down to just us. This is reaffirmed when a cannon goes off just as we’re finishing our food. I secretly hope that it’s the boy from 3. If he’s gone, at least I know there’s no one else out there with a personal vendetta against me.
There are 4 of us left.
Ash and I stay in the cave for the morning, not saying much at all. There’s not much to say when you know you both might be dead my tomorrow. Much less when only one of us might still be alive.
There are no more cannons for the rest of the day. In the late afternoon, Ash and I share the rest of my crackers and his chocolate. We both decided to leave the cave for good. If either one of us wants to make it home, we need more food and to kill the two from District 1. Assuming that they’re the two that are both still alive.
When it starts to get dark, we step out of the cave to go our separate ways. We embrace each other tightly.
“Thank you,” he says to me.
For what? I’m not sure, but his words carry a lot of weight.
“You too,” I say, “I’m sorry things had to be this way.”
“I’m sorry too,” he says, “If I don’t make it out if here… I hope you win.”
I nod, feeling emotions rise in my chest as I say farewell to my only ally. “Same here. Good luck, Ash.”
“You too,” and just like that he’s gone.
I have to stand there for a while, trying to keep it together, knowing that was the last time I’ll ever see Ash. We had a strange bond, but I’ve grown very fond of him since the Reaping. He doesn’t deserve this. None of these kids do.
I decide not to head straight to the Cornucopia. Ash had shown me a few edible plants, so as I walked I began collecting them. They should hold me over for now. I’d filled up my water bottles before leaving the waterfall, but once that’s gone I’m not sure what I’ll do.
I have to find another walking stick for now. My leg is much less painful since I’ve been taking the pills that Haymitch sent, but it’s still swollen and difficult to walk on for long periods of time.
I’m not even sure where I’m headed, I just keep walking. When the sun begins to go down, I reach the edge of the woods. They slowly begin thinning, and border the corn field. It’s intimidating. I don’t know who or what could be hiding in there, waiting for a victim.
I don’t seem to have any other choice though. I didn’t see anywhere that I could effectively hide in the woods since we left the cave, and now with nightfall coming quickly I can’t risk being exposed in the trees. The corn could provide at least some protection if it’s able to hide me overnight.
I eat some of the remaining roots that I picked up on the way here, and take a breath, bracing myself to enter this unknown territory. I step into the edge of the corn, making sure to walk in a straight line so I don’t get lost.
The second I step into the maze, I hear a cannon go off. In my heart, I’m praying it wasn’t for Ash. There are only four of us left. Could I make it out of here alive? Probably not, if the Gamemakers are planning my death, but I’m close enough that I allow myself some hope. Maybe I will see my parents again. Maybe I will get to see Haymitch again…
I’m maybe fifty yards deep into the corn when I realize that this might not have been the best idea. In all directions, all I can see is corn. It would be incredibly easy to get lost and die of starvation or dehydration in here. I wonder how many tributes fell into that trap.
I continue advancing straight for at least fifty more yards until I decide to settle for the night. I find a small patch of dirt that I can at least sit down on to rest until the morning. I take a sip of water, swallowing another pain pill, when I drop my bottle cap. It only goes about two feet to my right. I go to pick it up, and realize that the corn is a lot less dense just a few feet over.
My plan is to move over just a few feet and camp out there for the night, but when I move I find myself standing in some sort of pathway of dirt extending in both directions.
It was a corn maze. I’d read about these in a storybook when I was young, but we didn’t have anything like this in District 12. I wondered where the path would take me, but decided against exploring that tonight.
It occurred to me that if there’s a pathway, maybe there are other tributes in here. It might be best for me to return to the denser corn, at least until the morning.
I reach in front of me, getting ready to push some of the corn aside, but quickly retract my hand at the sharp pain I feel. My hand is bleeding. The corn is sharp as razor blades. It certainly was not that sharp just a few moments ago.
The Gamemakers have trapped me in here.
The only way out has to be from following the path, and I have no idea which way to go or how far I am from the rest of the arena. I also don’t have any food remaining, and it doesn’t seem that I’ll be snacking on razor sharp corn any time soon.
I could die in here.
Was this their plan all along? To let me get to the end just to starve me out in the maze? To let Haymitch watch me slowly die?
I refuse to let them get the best of me so easily. I follow my gut instinct, and begin walking to my left down the dirt path. I’ll walk until my calf starts screaming at me, then I’ll rest until I can walk again. I will not let them starve me for their entertainment.
It’s only about an hour before I have to stop. My calf feels like it’s on fire, and my arm is beginning to feel numb. I take my arm out of my sleeve to see that the deep purple veins have begun turning black, but they’ve stopped spreading when they reached my shoulder. That can’t be good.
Although I’ve walked for an hour, I feel as though I’ve made no progress at all. Corn is in every direction. Nothing but corn. I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t been walking in circles. My stomach is beginning to growl and I sit on the dirt ground, resigning for the night.
Just as I sit, the anthem begins to play. I brace myself, waiting to see Ash’s face in the sky. Instead, I see the boy from District 1. I audibly gasp. The girl from District 1 will be working alone now. It’s much less of a threat when it’s just one of them.
All that’s left is Ash, the girl from 1, and the boy from 3…
I’d forgotten about him. If the odds are in my favor, someone else will take him out. If I’m the one to fight him, I know he will try his best to make sure I die a painful death after I wounded him.
Before the end of the anthem, a silver parachute falls in front of me. I open it quickly, anxious to receive any help I can.
Within the box is a small compass to wear around my neck, a thermos container of meat and rice, and a thin net…? I’m not sure what to make of these, but I quickly dig into my meal, desperate to stop the gnawing in my stomach.
“Thank you, Haymitch,” I whisper, pressing my hand over my heart.
I don’t allow myself to eat all of it. It’ll be useful to have tomorrow, especially if I can’t find my way out of here. After packing the thermos into my backpack, I examine the compass and the net. The compass should be able to help me get out of here, or at least give me some sort of direction. The net however… I’m really not sure. I’ve never seen such a thin, delicate net like this before. I shrug, knowing that Haymitch wouldn’t have sent it for no reason. I put it into my backpack as well.
I decide to try to bury the parachute and box, hoping that if any other tributes came along that they wouldn’t know I’ve been here. The effort is in vain, because it’s ridiculously large and isn’t discrete no matter how much I try to cover it with dirt.
It occurs to me that I should try to get some rest tonight if I can. I need my energy if I’m going to be walking through this maze all day tomorrow, and I’ll certainly need it if I want to escape this maze. I have no clue what will be waiting for me when I exit.
I get as comfortable as I can on the dirt, when I notice a small slip of paper next to me. It must have fallen out when I hastily opened my package.
I believe in you- H
I read over it a few times, feeling warmth in my chest but also mild confusion. He believes in me? Does that mean he thinks I have a chance to make it out of here? Could I have somehow won over the Gamemakers and convinced them that I could be the Victor?
I tuck the note into my backpack, and feel a newfound hope rising in me. Haymitch will have been watching everything that’s happened in the games so far. If he believes I can win, then I have to really have a chance to win.
I eventually doze off, a soft smile on my face, and dream about what life would be like if I do make it home.
I wake when the sun is beginning to rise. I allow myself a few bites of chicken and rice, but not too much. I take one more pain pill and decide to get moving.
The compass immediately proves to be helpful. I choose my paths, deciding to continue moving North as much as I can. It’s just an assumption that North is the correct direction to be going, but either way it’s not like this maze could go on forever.
By midday, the sun is beating down on me and I’ve drank the entirety of my first water bottle. Even if I ration the second, I’m sweating far too much.
I still haven’t seen anything besides lots of corn. Everywhere. Only corn. I start to feel like I might be losing my mind. The only reason that I know I’m not walking in circles is my compass.
I break for lunch, sitting down on the dirt and eating a few spoonfuls out of my thermos. There is maybe a cup left, but after I eat that it’ll be gone. There have been no cannons today.
I’ve just finished packing up my meal back into my backpack when I hear a strange buzzing sound near my right ear. Instinctively, I swat away whatever is there. I assume that it’s just a small bee like the ones we have in 12, but when I pull my hand away, a large yellow beetle has latched itself to my hand. It’s about two inches wide, and three tall. I try pulling it off, and it comes off easily, but a large sore has now taken its place. It looks like a pimple. It’s raised, red, and has a white spot in the middle, but it’s raised at least half an inch off of my skin.
I quickly stand, preparing to get as far away from this monster bug as I can when I hear another one. But it’s not just one. An entire swarm of bright yellow beetles is coming at me from the right. I scramble to stand, and begin running as quickly as I can with my wounded leg.
I manage a good head start, but they’re fast. Soon, they’re less than a foot behind me and I start to panic. I don’t stop running when I feel another one attach to my cheek. For the next minute, I’m running as fast as I can with at least ten beetles attached to me. I’m constantly swatting them away, but as soon as they detach, another one takes it place. They’re everywhere, my neck, my face, my hands— just about every piece of exposed skin that I have.
Three more have just attached themselves to me when I remember the net. The net! This must be what Haymitch sent that for. If I can just get my net out of my bag, I can protect myself from any more latching onto me.
While still running, I swing my bag off of my shoulder, ripping it open and pulling out the net as quickly as I can without spilling anything else. I pull it over my head, tucking it into the waistband of my pants after I remove as many bugs from my skin as I can. It works. No more bugs are attaching themselves to me, except for one on my ankle.
I don’t stop running, but it’s only a moment before all of the bugs disappear back into the corn. I take a breath and look down, net still over me, examining my bites. I can’t see my face or neck, but I can feel them everywhere. I have five raised bumps on each of my hands, more on my wrists, and they’re all beginning to itch.
Before I know what’s going on, the bumps on my hands begin to pop. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. Each bump pops, revealing an orange goo that seeps out of them. My hands are covered in it. Is this coming from my body? Or did they inject me with some weird chemical when they bit me?
I sit down, refusing to remove the net from over my head when I try my best to clean myself up. There was another antiseptic sheet in my first aid kit, so I cleaned my hands, face and neck with it. Orange goo now stained my shirt and pants. Even after cleaning, my skin kept an orange tint. I look like one of the crazy people from the Capitol that dye their skin.
The bumps disappear, only leaving minuscule bite marks on the skin. It wouldn’t be that easy. If the bites weren’t deadly, then I was sure that the orange goo will have some sort of horrible affect setting in soon. Capitol mutts aren’t just made for a laugh. They always provide some sort of danger.
Minutes later, I realize exactly what that danger is. My vision begins to blur, and every sound seems to echo. My limbs are moving slowly. I try to stand, to continue walking, but it takes me ten minutes to get five feet. Has it been ten minutes? I can hardly see and every step I take sounds like five.
I collapse on the dirt ground, unable to move, and black out.
I wake up shivering. My vision is still a little blurry, but mostly back to normal. The echoing has stopped, and I think my movements have returned to normal speed, but my body feels feverish. My skin is hot and it feels like someone put all of my organs in the oven before sending me out into the cold.
All I can do is hope that I’m not feverish from an infection in my leg wound, but I know it’s not unlikely. I stand, my joints aching, and try to continue moving. I won’t let myself die in here.
It’s hard, but I successfully continue moving for about an hour before I hear a scream. It sounds like a girl’s scream, so it must be the girl from 1. If I can hear her scream, I must be close to the exit to the maze. Unless she’s in here with me…
No cannon goes off.
After ten more minutes of walking, I can see the opening. The Cornucopia is straight ahead of me. All I have to do is keep going and I’ll make it out of here. I do my best to run until I reach the opening, and when I do, it feels like I can finally take a deep breath. My fever instantly feels like it’s broken. I wondered what else the maze was doing to me that I wasn’t aware of.
My moment of relief didn’t last long, because a moment later I hear, “Hey, 12!”
I look to my left to see the boy from 3 limping toward me. His leg looks terrible. It seems to be dragging behind him with every step he takes, but even with that slowing him down, he’s not slow. He advances quickly toward me and I reach around to grab my knives out of my bag.
I’m too late. He runs toward me, not even tripping over his limp leg. I start to run away, but trip over a large rock that I swear was not there a moment ago.
In seconds, he’s over me, pressing a knife straight against my chest. He’s going to kill me.
“You see my leg?” He asks, snarling like a dog.
I nod, “Sorry about that.”
I grip my knives, but his entire weight is over me and I can hardly move my arms.
“You thought you could make it out of here?” He says, the horrible cocky smirk returning to his face. “You thought you could be like your friend Haymitch? An underdog winning from District 12?”
I don’t respond, quickly trying to think of how I can get out of this. If he moved his weight slightly to the right, I could get my hand out enough to stab him in the side.
“Not on my watch, 12.” He says harshly, and he slowly presses his knife harder against my chest. I can feel my skin break, and I’ve just begun to accept that this might be how I die, when the boy above me jolts. His face is stuck in shock, and he tries to move off of me. He rolls onto the ground, an axe in his back.
An axe. Ash’s axe.
Ash stands fifteen feet away, his face contorted in fear. The District 3 boy rips the axe from his back, but stumbles.
“No,” he whimpers, bending over on all fours, breathing heavily, “No… it was supposed to be me.”
Ash walks toward me and I remove the knife from my chest, clutching it tightly in my left hand.
The boy cries once before he collapses. The cannon goes off. Ash grabs his axe from the ground, nodding at me once.
“Thank you,” I say, tears brimming my eyes as I realize that Ash has just saved my life.
He takes a step back, seemingly ready to go our separate ways again when he falls to his knees. His jaw drops in shock, and I see that a large arrow has sunk itself right into his chest. He collapses, pulling the arrow out slowly.
“Ash,” I whisper, shaking my head and crawling over to him, “No, no!”
An arrow whizzes my by head, and I quickly turn to see the girl from District 1 standing ten yards away with a bow in her grip. She reaches behind her for another arrow, about to shoot. In that moment, all I felt was true anger. A knife releases from my hand and sinks directly in her throat. She collapses. A cannon sounds a minute later.
I turn back on my knees, clutching Ash in my arms as close as I can. “Ash!” I shout, he is unconscious.
A cannon sounds. I won.
“Ash!” I say again desperately, shaking him and patting his face. He doesn’t wake up.
I begin to cry. This isn’t fair. Ash saved my life, and now that was a debt I can never repay. He was such a sweet, smart boy and he didn’t deserve this fate. He was my friend.
I don’t let go of him, even when I hear the announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of the 52nd Hunger Games.”
“No!” I shout, “Ash…” I don’t stop crying.
A hovercraft is approaching in the distance. I can’t leave him like this.
In District 12, funerals are small. We never have enough money to do anything special, but there’s a song we sing to send our loved ones to the grave. The last time I remembered singing it was at the funeral of Haymitch’s family.
“You’re headed for heaven,” I sang quietly, tears choking me, “The sweet old hereafter.”
“And I’ve got one foot in the door
But before I can fly up
I have loose ends to tie up right here,
In the old therebefore.”
I do my best to get all of the words out, but I can’t stop choking on my tears. Several announcements come, instructing me to mount the ladder that has been sent down from the hovercraft, but I ignore them until I finish the song.
I press a soft kiss onto Ash’s forehead, staining him with tears, and finally step onto the ladder.
I’m glad that I’m stuck in position as soon as I’m on it, because I feel so weak that I don’t think I’d be able to hold on by myself. The ladder pulls me all the way up into the hovercraft, and as soon as I’m in it I am sedated.
Part III: The Victor
When I wake, I can’t tell what day it is, or what time. I’m in a room that looks identical to my room in the Tribute Center, but with no windows. I’m in a clean set of white linen clothes. My limbs feel stiff, the orange tint to my skin is gone, and so are the purple veins that had made their way up my arm. My right arm still does feel tingly, but not numb like it did in the arena. My hair feels clean, and my mouth tastes minty like someone brushed my teeth for me.
Then it hits me— I won. I won the 52nd Hunger Games. I get to go home. I get to see my family again, I’ll get to see Burdock and Astrid again, Haymitch…
I stand quickly, catching myself on my nightstand when I get dizzy. I wonder how long I’ve been laying in that bed. Once my dizziness clears, I step to my door, turning the handle to open it. The handle doesn’t turn. I knock on the door. Where am I?
No response comes. I step back, examining the room that I’ve been placed in. The walls are pure white, and so is the floor. All of the furniture is identical to my room in the Tribute Center, and so is the bathroom in the corner. I walk toward the bathroom. At least that door has to be unlocked.
It is, and I step into the bathroom, shocked by my reflection in the mirror. I look thin. My cheekbones and jaw are showing, my eyes look sunken in, and I have dark circles under my eyes. My skin however, is glowing like it hasn’t been through a single tragedy ever. My nose also looks straighter than it ever has before, and my lips look… fuller? I’ve never looked that symmetrical in my life.
I jump when my bedroom door opens, and Effie enters my room. I turn to her.
“Effie!” I say, relieved to see a familiar face.
“My girl,” she says, smiling sadly, “We are so proud of you.”
She takes me down some pure white hallways, and an elevator with no windows, before we eventually reach the 12th floor of the Tribute Center. How big is this place? Have I been here all along?
We enter the familiar room, and Effie raves about how much the citizens in the Capitol just adored me. How she told everyone that I was always so brave and she never doubted me. I know this to be a lie, but I don’t call her for it.
She sends me to my room to get dressed. Tonight I will be interviewed in front of all of Panem, and forced to watch the highlights of the Games. It’s sickening.
My room is still the same as it was when I left. I wonder how they got exact duplicate furniture in the room where I’d woken up.
A gown is laid on my bed and I dress in it. It’s long and yellow with diamonds laced into the neckline. It has long sleeves that drape over my hands, and the skirt is so long that it drags behind me. The yellow reminds me of the beetles in the arena, and I wonder if that was an intentional choice. For me to be seen in the color from a memorable moment of the Games. The people of the Capitol love that garbage.
I walk out of my room, but my prep team immediately arrives to pull me back in and fuss over me. They congratulate me, telling me about all of their favorite moments in the Games. Most of them don’t include me. However, they seem to be thrilled to get to be a part of the winning team.
Effie comes in a few times to bring me food and water. She and my prep team rave over how beautiful I look and how all of Panem is going to be simply obsessed with me.
At one point I interrupt them and ask, “Where’s Haymitch?”
Effie’s expression turns from excited to soft. My prep team seems to get emotional over my question, and for a moment I’m afraid the Capitol has killed him.
“Oh, dear,” Effie says, reaching to place a soft hand over my shoulder, “What you two have is so special. When you were in that cave telling Ash about him, we all cried,” she says, gesturing to my prep team who nod, one of them even wipes a tear away.
“Where is he?” I ask again.
Effie purses her lips, seemingly choosing her words before replying, “He had some trouble when you were in the arena… but he will be ready for the show tonight!”
I sit up straight, “Some trouble?” I ask, panicking, “What kind of trouble? Is he okay?”
Effie smiles warmly, and one of the women in my prep team gasps, whispering, “She doesn’t know.”
I swat their hands away, suddenly feeling suffocated by the makeup on my face and the intricate hairstyle on my head, “I don’t know what?”
Effie reaches out to me, stroking my face softly, “He hardly slept when you were in the arena, dear. And—“ she faces my prep team, smiling like she has the hottest gossip in Panem, “I only saw him have a drink once.”
They all gasp, one of them begins to cry again.
“What?” I ask, confused.
Effie places her hand on her chest affectionately, “He couldn’t look away. He did all that he could to keep you alive,” she says, “The only time he had a drink was when you had fainted after being bitten by those horrid bugs.”
The boy on my prep team gasps, “We didn’t think you were going to make it.”
They begin their meaningless chatter again about where they were when the biggest moments were happening. I try to process the information that I’ve just been given. Haymitch stopped drinking? He didn’t sleep? I never knew I meant so much to him.
I interrupt their conversation again when I realize I never got an answer, “So where is he?” I ask.
Effie frowns, pausing for a long moment before telling me, “He was going through withdrawals and with the lack of sleep… the doctors thought it would be best to monitor him for a while.”
I nod, blinking away the tears that were making their way into my eyes. “But, he’s okay now? And he’ll be there tonight?”
She nods.
An hour later, I am brought down the elevator and into a waiting room before the interviews begin. I hear endless chatter and excitement outside, and I wonder how these people truly can take this all so lightly. Children died. Twenty three of them. And the citizens of the Capitol are acting like they’re going to the most exciting event of the year.
I can hear from a built-in speaker in the waiting room that Caesar has begun the show. The anthem plays, and I have to blink hard to stop from seeing those faces in the sky again.
Effie retrieves me from the waiting room and brings me backstage. She squeezes my shoulders and reapplies lipstick on my lips before telling me when it’s my turn to go on stage.
First, Caesar will interact with the audience and recount some of the most important details of the Games this year. Next, Haymitch will go on stage and be congratulated for his success. He will thank the sponsors, and then I will go on stage.
I wait backstage and realize that last time I was here, there were 23 others waiting with me. Now I’m alone. It hits me like a knife to the chest, and now I know exactly what that feels like. I can’t believe that only a week ago we were all—
“Sweetheart?” A voice says from behind me. I turn and there he is. He looks clean. Healthy. Sober.
I can’t stop myself from launching myself forward and flinging my arms around him. He’s here. I’m here. We did it.
We’re both shaking, and I don’t even care that I’m crying. My prep team will be angry that I’m letting my makeup run, but that’s the last thing on my mind right now. I can hear him sniffling in my ear too, and my heart twists.
“You did it,” he whispers, holding me tightly.
“Thanks to you,” I say.
Before we can say any more, Caesar is introducing Haymitch and he has to go on stage. He holds my hand tightly in his, kissing it gently until the last second when he steps onto the stage.
I watch from behind the curtains, my heart racing at the sight of him. He’s in a yellow suit, perfectly matching my dress. His hair is shiny, his face lively. I adore this boy.
Caesar congratulates him on his victory, but he declines, saying that it was all me. He mentions the sponsors, thanking them graciously. Normally, this would be where Haymitch takes a seat on the edge of the stage and I come out for my interview.
Instead, Caesar says he has more questions for him.
“Now Haymitch,” he starts, “What were you thinking before you got that last gift to her? You knew that the maze was full of lethal bugs, and you might have saved her life with that net.”
The audience cheers for a long time, and Haymitch seems to take this time to think before responding.
“I just couldn’t lose her,” he says.
Caesar looks touched, looking at the audience for a reaction. They cheer loudly, and from where I’m standing I can see some of them crying.
When they quiet down, Caesar continues, “And when she was in the cave and confessed her love for you, how did you feel then?”
Haymitch sits back, taking a deep breath. The audience goes silent, hanging onto his every word.
“I felt devestated,” he says, and I see more tears in the audience, “That I wasted my time with her. I was always drunk and never thought that things could work between us. I thought she was going to die in that arena before I ever got to be with her.”
“And now?” Caesar asked, literally sitting on the edge of his seat.
Haymitch paused, turning in his seat to briefly look at me. The look in his eyes was asking if we’re on the same page. I gave him a gentle smile, though I was still unsure how I felt about everything. What now? Will the Capitol let us return home? Or will they continue trying to kill me even now that I’m out of the arena? Will Haymitch stay sober? Or will the rest of my life mean trying to keep him from choking on his vomit?
He turns back to Caesar, saying, “Now I don’t ever want to let her go again.”
Lots of “awwww”s come from the audience. A moment later, I am being called onto the stage. Haymitch leaves his seat to sit on the mentor’s designated seat on the edge of the stage. I take the seat directly across from Caesar.
The cheering goes on for several minutes, and I am forced to endure it with a smile as if I am truly happy to be here.
When the cheering quiets, Caesar takes a moment to congratulate me for my victory.
“You were truly outstanding in the arena,” he says, “It was against all odds that we would have another Victor from District 12 of all places so soon, and you defied those odds.” He leans in closely, then turns to the crowd and shouts, “Isn’t she great folks?”
More applause erupts and I have to fake a smile again and act like he is truly complimenting me.
“Now tell me,” he says after the applause quiets down, “how do you feel now that you are out of the arena?”
I glance at Haymitch, and just from the look in his eyes I can tell that this is a question I should not answer honestly. Saying how terrified I still am, how frustrated I am that all of those children died, how I still haven’t processed Ash’s death seems like the wrong thing to say, so instead I say:
“Good.”
“Just good?” Caesar repeats, urging me to say more.
I nod, realizing that the Games didn’t end when I left the arena. Every move I make is being watched, and the wrong one might lead to terrible consequences.
I smile, bashfully, “Well, I’m not covered in beetle bites anymore, and my leg is functional again.”
I lift the hem of my dress to show the audience my calf, now completely healed like it was never wounded to begin with. They gasp and cheer. I glance to Haymitch and he gives me an approving nod.
“Ahhh, I love it!” Caesar exclaims, beaming at the audience, “The Capitol is so generous, aren’t they folks?”
The audience cheers again. When they stop, the highlights begin showing on the screen. I learn a lot about the Games that I hadn’t known before.
Four tributes died in the corn maze in the first two days. The mutt bugs, getting cut on the razor sharp cornstalks and not having any way to patch it up, one girl even got chased by the boy from 3 until he realized how dangerous the maze was. The two from District 1 were responsible for most of the other deaths, of course. They were ruthless.
I sat there, reacting live to all of the major moments. I cheered when Ash killed the boy from 2. The audience was loving it. I had to watch myself get sprayed by the lizard and then get the knife in my calf by the District 3 boy. The replay made it seem like we were rivals hunting each other down for most of the Games.
They showed the part when Ash and I discovered each other in the cave. My heart tugged and I had to force myself to not cry on stage. Ash. They highlighted the sweet moments in our alliance, like when he let me rest and he went to gather food, and when we shared our meals together.
The part that really got everyone worked up was on our last night as allies when Ash was asking me about Haymitch. The room went completely silent. They had already seen this, of course, but they were still hanging on to every word.
When I watched myself say, “He just always meant the world to me,” my face got hot. I could feel myself blushing and I hoped that it wasn’t overly noticeable, but by the sniffling in the audience I assumed that it was.
I glanced over to Haymitch, gauging his reaction, but he was staring at the screen like everybody else— hanging on to every word.
When it showed me entering the corn field, I could feel a wave of nausea hit me. I thought I was going to die in that corn field. I also knew that the finale was coming soon. I breathed deeply, forcing myself to relax.
I watched as I cut myself on the cornstalks, and realized that I was trapped. When Haymitch’s sponsor gift reached me, I didn’t realize how hopeful I looked. I looked over at Haymitch on the edge of the stage, and he was looking at his feet.
The bugs. I had to close my eyes at the bugs. The audience gasped, as if they were reliving the horrors with me. I looked to Haymitch, who’s eyes were locked on mine. We both stared at each other until the part came where I escaped the maze.
We see Ash waiting in the edge of the woods when I exited the maze. We see the boy from District 3, I now know that his name was Herman, taunting me before nearly killing me. Ash leaves the woods to save me, and Herman takes the axe to the back.
Ash is about to run when the girl from District 1 shows up. I look away. I can’t watch this any more. I look over to Haymitch for comfort, and he shakes his head, standing. What is he doing?
He starts to walk over to me on stage, and takes a seat next to me on my chair. He gives me a long hug and I am so absorbed in him that it takes a second to realize that the audience is going nuts. Cheers erupt everywhere, tears are falling, the applause is deafening. My head is tucked into his neck and mg own tears are falling, and I can’t stop them.
When Caesar says comically, “Are we interrupting something?” I am forced to laugh away my tears and pull back.
Haymitch stays next to me, holding tightly onto my hand until after I sing The Old Therebefore and am taken onto the hovercraft. He squeezes my hand, silently asking if it’s okay for him to return to his assigned seat for the rest of the interview. I nod, but am hesitant to let go of his hand.
Immediately after the interview I am whisked away to the crowning ceremony. Effie pulls me into a fancy car with tinted windows, and we drive through crowded streets of crazed Capitol civilians to the President’s Mansion. After the crowning ceremony, there is a party held at the mansion in my honor.
Haymitch meets us outside the mansion and refuses to leave my side until the last possible moment. He only lets go of my hand for the crowning ceremony. We stand on a balcony, me on one side and Haymitch and Effie opposite, and thousands of Capitol citizens are below, cheering. President Snow comes out and for a split second I think think that he gives Haymitch a look of disgust, but it is quickly replaced by a charming smile as he greets me, he shakes my hand, congratulating me on my victory.
“I would like to meet with you later,” he says quietly just before he places the crown on my head.
I am stricken with terror, but I know better than to let it show now.
After the ceremony, we are brought inside to a fancy room to wait. The walls are trimmed in with gold, the ceilings painted with imagery that seems familiar but I don’t quite recognize. There is more food than I could imagine spread across tables for us. I am far too nervous to eat. Effie, Haymitch and I sit in various velvet chairs around the room.
Effie announces the itinerary, and then we all fall silent. The silence is only broken when Haymitch says, “Effie, do you mind if we have a minute?”
She smiles excitedly, standing from her seat, “Of course! Where are my manners? I will be outside, but remember, we must go downstairs to the party in ten minutes!”
She exits the room quickly, shutting the door behind her. Now it’s just us. I don’t know what to say or do. Haymitch stands from his chair and walks over to me. I expect him to embrace me, or maybe hold my hand like he did earlier, but instead he grabs my shoulders tightly.
“Listen,” he says in a hushed voice, yet incredibly serious, “Before we go down, you have to know.”
“What?” I ask.
“You weren’t supposed to win,” he says hastily, “The Gamemakers were planning for you to get killed by the maze but you survived. Then by the girl from District 1. They didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off. Snow isn’t happy. He—“
“Haymitch, slow down,” I say, panic rising in my chest.
“No!” He says urgently, “You need to listen.”
I am silent, waiting for him to continue.
He waits for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “That moment in the cave— when you were talking about me— that changed everything.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“People talk in the Capitol. A lot. It had already gotten around that I’d stopped drinking when you went into the arena, and when they found out how much you cared about me…” he trailed off, taking a step back and running his hands down his face, “They started rooting for you. Everyone wanted to sponsor you.”
I shake my head, not understanding what he’s trying to say. “Snow wants to meet with me.”
Haymitch pauses, opening his mouth but no words come out.
“Haymitch?” I ask, but I’m afraid I already know what that means.
He kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his, “I’ll find a way out of this, okay? I won’t let him take you from me.”
I nod, solemnly, squeezing his hands in mine. I lean down, pressing my forehead to his. He’s broken out in a sweat.
“Let’s just wait and see what he has to say.” I say.
The party is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It takes place in the backyard on the President’s Mansion, and everyone is dressed in even more ridiculous clothing than they normally are. One woman has a shirt that is made out of beads that look like bugs. Glad my terror has made a new fashion trend.
There are people standing on high platforms doing tricks, people swimming in a gigantic pool with live fish swimming beside them, and even real caged birds as centerpieces. The entire thing is appalling. These people have no concern for anything other than themselves.
Haymitch and I stick closely together. He leads me to thank my sponsors, it’s customary, whom are mostly older men with a sickening look in their eyes. They look at me like I’m a piece of meat. Haymitch keeps his arm around my waist until we sit down to eat.
There are large tables lining the yard, with more than enough food to feed my district for at least a year. Everyone sits down and President Snow makes a toast. It’s some scripted nonsense about how the Capitol’s generosity has allowed me to break free from the suffering that happens in 12, and how only becoming a Victor can provide such a freedom. Everyone applauds like he just granted us national peace.
I’m seated next to Effie, and some wealthy business owner from the Capitol. Everyone chatters about what a lovely time of year it is, and how President Snow is so generous to throw such a grand party. Just as I finish a large plate of green vegetables and some sort of gourmet aquatic creature from District 4, a Capitol servant taps my shoulder.
I turn, and the servant holds out a card for me. I take it, and read it. It is a thick piece of card stock, with gold along the edges. Probably real gold. In cursive writing on the front, it reads:
See me in the study- President Coriolanus Snow
My food begins rising up my throat, and I search the table for Haymitch. He is nowhere in sight.
“Everything okay, dear?” Effie asks from beside me.
I nod, “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady.
I follow the servant out of the yard and into the mansion. We walk through extravagant rooms filled with artwork and servants. Eventually, we climb the stairs and reach a large room covered in a dark brown wood, and filled with books. All of the noise from the party below feels miles away from up here. The servant stops at the door, but gestures for me to enter. I do. What other choice do I have?
President Snow sits behind a large wooden desk, with nothing but a vase of white roses in front of him. I walk toward him, trying to keep my limbs from noticeably trembling. He gestures for me to take a seat at the wooden chair across from him, and I do.
I smile, trying to be as polite as I can. If I make the wrong move, he will certainly kill me.
“Enjoying the party?” He asks, raising his chin to show his pride in the extravagant party that he has thrown.
“It is lovely,” I say, nodding, “The food was incredible.”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “We have the best chefs in all of Panem here. It is truly a dining experience like no other.”
I nod again, “Certainly.”
He leans forward on the desk, folding his hands into each other. “You must be wondering why I wanted to meet with you.”
“Yes sir,” I say, “I am.”
He smiles, “I simply was curious, my dear. There has been so much talk of you in the Capitol, yet I know so little about you.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the need to steady myself, “What would you like to know?”
He starts speaking before I finish asking the question, “That charming song you sang for the boy in the arena. Where did you learn it?”
My mind flashes back to Ash’s death.
“We sing it in District 12,” I say, “For funerals. It’s our way of saying goodbye to our loved ones.”
He nods, smiling as if the subject is fascinating, “And do you know where that song comes from?”
I think for a moment, before shaking my head, “I don’t know sir. We’ve been singing it at funerals since I was a little girl.”
“Ah,” is all he says, readjusting in his seat so he is leaning back comfortably.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He looks surprised, but his face quickly shifts back to a smile and he says calmly, “Is there a reason that you think I should kill you?”
I shake my head, “No sir.”
“Then I will not,” he says, plucking a white rose from the vase on the table. “You really are a fascinating girl.”
“I am?” I ask, feeling equally repulsed and intrigued.
“Yes,” he says, pulling a petal from the rose as he turns it in his hands, “A girl from District 12, winning our Annual Hunger Games.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“Did you know that you are the first female to ever become a Victor from District 12?” He asks, eyes scanning my face.
“I didn’t know that,” I say, trying to recall the previous District 12 Victors. I can’t. Just Haymitch. “What an accomplishment,” I say carefully.
“An accomplishment indeed,” he nods, pulling another petal from the rose.
“And your mentor,” he begins, setting the rose down and looking directly at me, “I heard a rumor that he stopped drinking alcohol… to protect you…” he pauses for a moment, smiling, “How… remarkable.”
I force a smile, trying to look surprised. “I know,” I say, “I couldn’t believe it.”
He nods, leaning forward again so that I could practically smell his breath, “Tell me, do you think the Capitol is beneficial for the Districts?”
No. Of course not. No one in the Districts thinks that.
“Of course,” I say, lying through my teeth, “We wouldn’t have order if it weren’t for the Capitol.”
He nods, staring at me for a moment before saying, “Some don’t believe that.”
“Really?” I ask, waiting for him to say more.
He nods, picking up the white rose again. “Some like Haymitch Abernathy.”
My chest gets tight and the blood drains from my face. “Haymitch?” I ask, and my voice shakes more than I’d like for it to.
“Hm.” He says, still twirling the rose in his hands, “Yes, your alleged lover. My dear, I want to make a deal with you.”
I say nothing, afraid that my voice will betray me again.
He continues, “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill the boy either. But people who are threats to the Capitol can not be trusted.”
I nod, heart racing in my chest.
“I will allow you both to live, get married, have children, whatever you may wish,” he says. “But, you have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” I say, but immediately regret it.
“You must control him,” he says, voice suddenly less charming, “If I hear about Haymitch Abernathy rebelling against the Capitol again, I will kill you. And anyone else that the two of you may love.”
I stay silent, even more terrified in this moment than I was in the entirety of the games.
“Haymitch Abernathy does not have the power to overthrow the Capitol, does he, my dearest?” Snow asks.
The name makes my stomach churn, but I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Do we have an understanding?” He asks, holding the white rose out to me.
I take it, breathing deeply, unable to think it through before I say, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says, sitting back in his chair again, “Go back and enjoy your party.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising from my seat.
“Ah,” he says just before I turn to walk out, “Be sure to thank your surgeon. He did a remarkable job, don’t you think?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. My suspicions were confirmed. They did straighten my nose and enhance my lips after the Games. The worst part is, that I don’t entirely hate it. I just hate that they didn’t give me a choice. They did what they wanted to make me more desirable and the picture of envy for people in the Capitol.
When I get outside of the door of the study, I take a deep breath, blinking tears away. I realize that as horrible as that was, I feel slightly relieved. I’m not going to die. Haymitch isn’t going to die. President Snow will allow us to live long lives as long as we follow Capitol orders. That shouldn’t be too hard.
Or will it? Will we be able to live our entire lives watching innocent children be sent to slaughter, or will we eventually feel the need to act? Even if we wanted to, we would end up dead.
I breathed again. I just needed to get through the night. Once I was back in 12, then I will have all the time in the world to think.
I walk back down the stairs, breathing deeply and plastering on a smile to rejoin the party. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Haymitch is waiting for me. He smiles at me, but I can tell that he knows something has happened. He gives me a kiss on the cheek that makes several women around us squeal and applaud.
He takes my waist and we rejoin the festivities. We dance, we chat with strange looking people, we eat. It’s not until after my ‘surgeon’ approaches us and compliments his own good work that we sneak off to find somewhere more private.
Surrounding the yard is a large wall of bushes. We manage to find a gap in one of them and conceal ourselves behind some thick branches when no one is looking. As soon as we get into privacy, Haymitch lets go of my waist and stands across from me, eyes panicked.
“What did he say?” He asks, now grabbing my hands tightly.
I breath out, unsure of how he will react. “He wanted to make a deal.”
Haymitch’s face turns to one of fear.
“He said that you and I are free. To live long lives together,” I leave out the part about marriage and children, “As long as we never interfere with the Capitol again.”
His face relaxes slightly, but not all of the way.
“We will talk about it when we get back to 12, okay?” I ask, taking a step closer and squeezing his hands in mine.
He nods, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
“We’re going to be okay.” I say, leaning into him, my face pressed into his neck.
He wraps his arms around my waist, drawing me closer, “I can’t believe they operated on you.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, nodding, “I know. I feel so violated. But at least it’s hardly noticeable. I could’ve come out all swollen like that girl on my prep team,” I say.
He laughs, and pulls me tight against him, silent for a moment before he speaks, “I can’t believe you’re back.”
I nod, running my hands through the back of his hair, “I can’t wait to get home.”
“Then what?” He asks, pulling away and looking at me in the eyes. He’s getting closer and my face is getting hot.
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking behind his face at the bush branches. Our faces are so close and I feel so hot and—
A flash goes off, breaking the moment. At the small break in the bushes is a photographer, beaming at us.
“Can we get one more like that? You two are gold,” he says eagerly.
“I don’t think so,” Haymitch says, grabbing my hand and tugging me back into the party. My face is hot for the rest of the night.
The train ride back to District 12 is quiet. Effie is there to go over what’s next. The Victory tour, my mentoring next year, and the occasional interview that I will have in the next few months. The press has become so enthralled in my life (particularly the part including Haymitch— I guess it’s a big deal that two Victor’s might be getting together) and they’ve requested follow up interviews from when I return home.
That night is the first conscious sleep I have since being in the arena. I wake up three times from nightmares. Ash dying, the beetles crawling all over me, the boy from District 3. Eventually, I decide to not try to go back to sleep.
I wander the train, and find myself at Haymitch’s door. I knock once, and he’s at the door with a knife in his hand. He says he can’t sleep without it since being in the Games. I realize that I want to learn absolutely everything about the new Haymitch.
We lay in his bed together and he holds me, telling me happy stories— some about his mother, some about when we were young together— until I fall asleep. I don’t have any more nightmares that night.
The next morning when we exit his room together, Effie has to wipe her eyes several times.
Adjusting to life back in District 12 is weird. My parents stay with me in my new house in Victor’s Village sometimes, but they have their business to run. I have enough money now to support us all forever, but they’d rather continue helping people in whatever way they can. I admire them.
Burdock and Astrid come over often, but Haymitch still is afraid to see them. I stay at his house frequently. We have found that sleeping in the same bed helps to fight off the nightmares.
One night when neither of us can sleep, he tells me all about his Games, and everything he lost afterwards. My heart breaks for him. He deserved so much better.
“It’s better now,” he tells me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah. Now that I have you,” he says.
I lean in and kiss him for the first time that night. No Capitol party, no cameras, just us.
Neither of us have to work now, so we spend a lot of time in the meadow just beyond District 12, imagining what life could be like if things were different. We spend hours laying in the dandelions. They give us hope. That one day things will grow to be beautiful.
We’re laying in the meadow when the sun sets one night. The sky is the beautiful shade of orange that it turns right before the sun gets too low. I turn to Haymitch, admiring how the orange glow sets on his features.
Without thinking twice, I whisper, “I love you.”
He turns to me, smiling wide. He looks even more beautiful with a smile. He tackles me, pressing kisses all over my face.
“I love you like all-fire,” he says.
When the interviewers come, Haymitch is by my side. When the Victory Tour comes around, the nightmares come back. It’s normal for us to sleep in his room every night on the train now.
One night, we were laying awake and I asked him, “Do you ever think about if things were different?”
“What do you mean?” He asked, his thumb stroking my cheek affectionately.
“Like, if we were to just say screw it and try to rebel against the Capitol? Would things be better?” I ask, yawning.
He scoots closer to me, kissing me softly on the lips, “One day, sweetheart. Until then, I’m keeping you safe right here with me.”
It turns out we aren’t great at the mentor thing. I am there for him when he struggles to get through the Games sober. I get sponsors for our tributes when he is too distraught. We’re there for each other when the tributes don’t make it home.
For the rest of the year, there are some days we spend hours in each other’s homes. On the fifteenth consecutive day that we’ve spent in his house together, we’re sitting at the dining room table and reading when he says, “Why don’t you just move in?”
“Move in?” I ask, a blush raising to my face.
He shrugs, taking a sip of water, “You practically live here already.”
“Hmm,” I say, nodding, “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” He says, laughing. He stands, coming around the table to kiss me. And kiss me. And kiss me.
I break away, shaking my head, “Nobody in 12 moves in together until they’re married.”
He kisses me again, smiling.
A month later he gets down on one knee.
The details of our wedding are broadcast throughout all of Panem, but we don’t care. This isn’t for their entertainment. The tradition in District 12 is that you’re not truly married until you toast with bread in your new home, so once all of the cameras leave, we toast with bread and pronounce our love to each other. That night, I find myself underneath him for the first time.
Effie writes us letters, congratulating us on our marriage and saying she is so thrilled that we’ve found happiness.
We talk about children, but both of us know that we can never bring a child into this world.
When the mine explosion happens, Haymitch is sent into a terrible spiral for months. He doesn’t attend Burdock’s funeral. I do. I tell his little girls that they are going to be okay. The oldest looks just like him.
Haymitch starts drinking again, and is afraid to even be around me for weeks. He believes that Snow orchestrated the explosion, and I don’t know if I disagree.
One day months later, I come home from buying bread in the square, and Haymitch is sitting at the dining room table. He cries, apologizing over and over again to me. For pushing me away again, for losing control of his drinking, for everything. He swears he won’t let it get that bad again. We spend the evening holding hands and crying together.
We spend more time in the meadow again after that. It helps take his mind off of the horrors that he’s experienced. He helps me take my mind off of my own.
It’s early one morning when we decide to escape for the day, having a picnic while the sun comes up. He kisses me, again and again, until I’m breathless beneath him.
“I love you like all-fire,” I whisper to him while he makes love to me.
He groans into my neck, pressing gentle kisses everywhere, “I love you like all-fire,” he repeats.
We lay there all day, gasping each others names and desperately announcing our love.
When Burdock’s daughter’s name gets drawn at the Reaping, I nearly faint on stage. Haymitch keeps me stable. The older daughter volunteers. For the next few days I am terrified that we’ve done something to upset Snow. That this is him showing us that he will always control us. But, she wins. And she’s defied the Capitol.
Three years later, the Capitol has fallen. We are finally free. We don’t move out of our home in District 12, but now we have neighbors. Watching Katniss and Peeta fall in love reminds us of ourselves years ago.
We have a son now. I found out that I was pregnant with him right after we moved into District 13. He was born shortly after we got back home to District 12 with the help of Astrid.
His name is Ash. He is the light of our lives.
Late at night, we look back and reflect on everything we’ve gone through to get here, and I couldn’t be more proud of how far we’ve come.
