a/n [Co-written with the amazing Zero (ilprincipino). For Selena for Caesar's Palace's Exchange.]

When blood drips off the wing of her mockingjay, staining the white undershirt it's pinned to, Madge pulls a scarf off the wall and steps into the moon kissed yard. From her porch, she can gaze upon half the town, the gallows staring back at her. The shops are nearly empty; a few lights flicker in back windows, upstairs windows, and one front window at the bakery. Through it, she barely makes out a form with wild limbs, watches something fly into the glass. Above, the stars twinkle warmly.

There is a girl she knows, with overcast eyes that don't reflect the world, with mud-splattered hair plaited from the base of her skull. When she's alone, she watches the background, the trees, her face almost soft. When Madge sits next to her in class, she's watching the floor instead, fingers sliding up and down her thigh as if nocking an arrow into place.

There is another girl famous in Panem, valor conveyed through silver eyes, lying in her own blood at nearly midnight. Madge doesn't know this girl.

Behind her, at home, asleep, is her mother. (Madge watched her swallow the pills, blanket smothering her shoulders, gone before she could mutter goodnight.) Awake is her father, busy at his desk when he shouldn't be, his exhaustion pooling under his eyes. (When Madge knocks softly on the door to offer him tea, he cracks the door open barely enough to smile and decline.)

Madge clenches her fist around the end of her scarf, weaves it in between her fingers as she steps off her porch, steps to the right over the dying grass and takes a seat. The crisp glass blades cut into her bare legs, her arms, her neck as she slides further down. Releasing her scarf, she trails her hand up her other arm, and although the stars beg to reach her, to whisper their secrets, she closes her eyes. Like this, it is easier to dream.

(Her father makes pancakes on weekends and her mother asks her about her day and her friends picnic in the meadow after school and Katniss guides her through the woods and the piano trills under her fingers and the peacekeepers smile with haunches on shop stoops and the square is empty of blood.)

Behind her, at home, the television crackles. Heart in her throat, she gasps and sits up, eyes wildly searching the hedges until they adjust to the soft streetlight. Madge is on her feet, peering into the window above her, and angling to see the screen. It's lit, something flashing, until it isn't. The screen turns black first. The lamps follow, shrouding her house in darkness. One by one, the streetlights blink away.

The bakery door squeaks open as someone peers into the night, lit only by the moon. Otherwise, the town is hushed, the hum of electricity halted. Dazed, Madge leans against her house, eyes attracted to the glinting stockade locks, glittering like stars. A summer breeze tugs on her hair, on the edges of the scarf, and Madge allows her shaking breaths to placate.

Like taking aim, she wills her heartbeat to slow and her breath to hold. When the silence strikes her, she lets the arrow go. Gently, Madge turns the knob on her front door, opens the door no louder than her breaths. Something is happening, something big.

Inside, trading her scarf for the blanket draped over her chair, Madge ghosts her hands over the frame of the television, presses against the buttons, plugs and unplugs wires. With her ear against the thin screen, she listens. She only needs that telltale hum again. She only needs to know of Katniss' fate.

The spoon on the coffee table rattles first, metal pinging against the ceramic bowl. Madge jolts, hitting her forehead against the television just hard enough to cause her to fumble. She sets her hand on the table to steady herself, feels it vibrating softly. The spoon keeps pinging.

The knock at the door comes moments later, startling her enough to raise the hairs on her arm.

From the other side of the door: "It's Gale."

Madge walks into the foyer, tiles strangely chilled beneath her feet, clasping her blanket tighter. Steadily, she reaches for the door. Everything is fine, and she repeats it to herself like a mantra. Everything is fine.

When the door opens with a weak cry from the hinge, Gale appears, right eye first, then the left. Madge notices that his fingers are moving fast, like they're playing piano scales. And she starts to worry again.

(He has lost his father he has learned to take care of himself without complaint he has watched his closest friend fight for her life he has been whipped to the edge of death he has lost his friend for the second time he has fought through everything he has never been afraid.

He is afraid.)

Looking up at the sky for help, she finds the stars are dimmer than before.

"Madge, get your family and run. The Peacekeepers are flying in." His eyes are urgent, shouting their own words. "Find me in the meadow."

Madge reaches for the doorframe for support, letting her blanket go. "What do you mean?"

He's already stepping back. "Trust me."

Seconds before the first bomb lands, Gale runs. As he parts through the center of town, the sky turns a soft blue at the edges, a harsh red closer to the impact. In the light, Madge can make out the hoverplanes swarming her district, suffocating it. She's running back inside when the second bomb lands closer, causing her to trip and sprawl across the stairs, shaking. Still, she gets back up.

"Dad!" she calls, pounding on his office door. "We have to go!"

It cracks open, and he smiles at her. "Nothing to fret over, honey. Just a few bombs outside the district to scare us."

"But—"

"I'll come get you if anything changes. Don't worry your mother." The door closes.

Behind her, down the hall, Mrs. Undersee stirs. "Madge?"

She hastens to her mother's room. "I'm here."

"What's going on?"

Closing her eyes, she says, "We're being bombed. We have to run."

Her mother sighs. "No, that won't do. Come back to bed."

"Mother, please."

"Peacekeepers don't hurt the mayor and his family," she says, eyes steady on the ceiling even when it rocks with the force of stronger bombs, growing closer.

(Over a decade ago, the mayor's son was reaped for the Games. Madge still remembers watching that tape for the first time, shaking throughout his chariot ride, his scores, his interview, his death. The sword is stuck in his ribcage to the hilt; there's a mark on the tree behind him to prove it.)

Madge searches for her voice, stands taller, grabs onto her mother's hand and squeezes hard. "We need to go. If there's nothing wrong, we'll come back in a few hours, no harm done."

"Can we wait until morning, dear?"

Kneading her fingers into her mother's palms, Madge trips over her words, running low on new means of persuasion. Her mother doesn't respond beyond a small sigh as she contemplates what the cracks in the ceiling are telling her.

"Madge." Her father hovers in the doorway. "They're getting closer. I don't know wh—" He shakes his head, comes closer, and takes his wife's hand over Madge's, resolve etched into his face like marble. "You need to go. Now. I'll stay with her."

Behind her, in the streets, her district burns. But here, in front of her, the mayor bows his head, slides down to his knees. Her mother closes her eyes, smiles. Exhaling, Madge steps back and back again. Then she climbs over the bottom of the bed to her mother's other side, takes her other hand, and readjusts her blanket.

When hoverplanes cover the moon and stars, hiding the path from light, she's pulling the blanket firmly over her and her mother. When the rumbling of engines causes her entire wardrobe to wobble, and the ringing fills the air, and silence comes too early, Madge's blanket is gone.