For the monthly oneshot contest at the Caesar's Palace forum. The prompt is below, in italics. Each section is centered around a different line of the prompt and a different will-be tribute from the 74th Hunger Games.

It should be pretty obvious, but 'Malachite' is what I have named Foxface. I've also taken the liberty of naming a couple of Rue's siblings, for the sake of clarification.

Thanks to my amazing beta, stick-at-nought shady, who put up with the length of this oneshot.

Hope you enjoy!

The Darkest Words

Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace

Wednesday's child is full of woe

Thursday's child has far to go

Friday's child is loving and giving

Saturday's child works hard for a living

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

- English Nursery Rhyme

Monday

On the first day of a grueling week at work, a filthy diamond miner was barred from the exit doors of his company's main building. His clothes, caked in dirt and dust, were a far cry from the glamour of the office. He would have normally felt extraordinarily out of place, but the situation left him uncaring. "Please," he begged, before he had even reported to his job, and before the other man had spoken. "I wanted to tell you, sir, that I came here, to this godforsaken place, and left my wife in labor without a doctor. May I please take off for the day?" He ignored the director's furious expression. "It's our first child, and my poor wife-"

"Back to work," said the director monotonously, pointing one finger at the automatic double doors. They had just been renovated, along with the genuine marble flooring, and he was rather devoted to them. "We can't have you wasting time - we're behind on our quota, and if everyone left for little things, then we'd have no workers at all. And you're dirtying my office. I expect you back in ten minutes, perfectly clean and ready to wipe away the grime that you distributed across my floor. You had better be thankful that you missed my antique rugs, or you'd be fired." He pointed one bejeweled hand at the doors in a dismissing gesture. "Go."

The young man was irate. "Damn you - my beautiful wife... my beautiful child... they're suffering, and you expect me to work until sundown!" he seethed, spitting off to the side on the rich man's prized rugs. The director stared at the glob of phlegm with a horrified expression and bulging eyes that were almost comical. "To hell with you, sir, and I damn well hope that the Peacekeepers blow your head off for mistreating fellow human beings!"

Storming from the room, the miner was too preoccupied with his anger to realize that he would likely be a father within the day. It was especially tragic, considering that he wouldn't live to see the child.

"Crimes against authority," the Head Peacekeeper snidely told a trembling woman and her tiny, bawling child. The baby refused to be calmed, a wad of her mother's hair in her lips. "A slight religious reference, also, but it was the former that really did him in, so to speak." The woman screamed wordlessly, covering her baby's delicate, pale ears. "The man was insane, Miss, and I dearly hope that his sweet child doesn't turn out that way. It's for the good of our proud district, and for the good of Panem herself."

The cold-looking man reached out a gloved hand. "What a sweet little girl," he cooed, almost sarcastically, lightly touching the infant's chin. The baby, before being pulled sharply away by her protective mother, cried with increasing vigor, burying her tiny face in her mother's hair. "Her name, Miss?"

"Keep your hands away from my baby!" the new mother shrieked, rocking the girl with shaking arms. "Her name is Glimmer, and she'll never be touched by the people who killed her father!" The rickety door slammed shut, the rusting hinges rattling ominously as the Head Peacekeeper fled in fury, most likely preparing to fine her in one sweep that would leave her penniless. In fact, it would be pure luck if she wasn't also executed.

Glimmer's scrunched-shut eyes wrenched open suddenly, showing a bright shade of green that was almost as free as the soaring trees - almost, because the girl would never be free. Years later, Glimmer would go from beautiful to hideous, all because of some lowly District Twelve tribute. Years later, her mother's words would become ironic, when the woman's precious baby would become a strong, spirited girl who was willing even to sell her body, just for volunteering privileges in the Hunger Games.

Tuesday

When Clove asked her mother what happened when she was born, her mother had no struggle in offering an explanation to her innocent daughter. "You were born on my day off, sweetie," the woman said with a chuckle. Her frame was rather wide, a souvenir of the day that she had decided to retire from her position as Assistant Director of the manufacturing division of their district's industry. Despite holding this high-paying position, she'd worked right alongside the poor masons, guiding them and pushing them to give their best effort. She had once been a fit, athletic woman from her hard work at masonry, but she rarely exercised these days. "I used to have Tuesdays off, and fortunately, I didn't even have to use up a sick day for you!" Clove, easily provoked to laugh, giggled, snuggled up on her mother's ample lap.

However, the little girl was secretly frowning when her mother continued. "I held you for the first time and knew that you would be my best chance at bringing honor to the family," the woman went on, a warm smile emblazoned on her wrinkling face. "See, August and Halcyon were so lovely, but they were never fighters. That's why the poor things are in the graveyard instead of the Victor's Village. But I looked at you and knew that someday, you would be up there in the Capitol, first tribute and then victor." She beamed. "Even now, nine years later to the day, I know you'll be a wonder in the arena."

"Thank you, Mommy; I bet I will be," the little girl said obediently with a somber voice and wide eyes, tucking a stray clump of hair behind her ear. "May I be excused? I'm tired from practice today, and my instructor says that I need plenty of sleep for tomorrow. We're gonna do a five-kilometer run through the streets!" Clove attempted to sound bubbly and enthusiastic, and when her exclamation met her mother's believing ears, it seemed perfectly credible. Really, her feelings on a five-kilometer run included some of the rude words that the older children muttered in vulgar tones when something went wrong for them.

Her mother nodded, and Clove slid from the woman's lap, skipping off to her room with her short ponytail hanging limply. She liked to imagine that her hair was flowing and elegant, swishing as she walked, but she supposed that it wasn't meant to be. Shutting her door and staring happily at her simply-decorated walls, she opened her window to let in the cool spring air. The breeze was a soft kiss on her face, with barely a whisper of humidity.

The streets of District Two's largest city sprawled like dark lines against a blazing night. Stars, those fantastical glowing things of a few other districts, were invisible here. The lights of the buildings dulled the sky to a faded darkness, with the electricity soaring toward the horizon. In the day, the solar panels reflected the sun so fiercely that it was a common dare among Clove's classmates to stick your bare hand in front of one, just to see what you would feel.

Clove pressed a button on her speaker-wall, hastily cranking the volume down with a spinning dial. As the soft music hummed out, the girl removed her specially tailored running shoes and her beginner's swordplay gloves that protected her hands from blisters. She felt free, finally out of her Games training outfit and wearing her favorite nightgown. One of her beloved songs, a thing manufactured in the Capitol from a complex machine, was playing, and for once, Clove was truly happy. She whirled around the room, her sock-encased feet slipping on the hardwood floor as she spun. The skirt of her nightgown fanned out, swirling around her legs.

It was her secret: instead of being an ambitious, knife-wielding future victor, Clove longed to remain a naive girl who danced through her room while praying that her mother couldn't hear her.

Wednesday

Cato's father had always loathed the middle of his work week. It no longer had the dawning, new feeling of a Monday, or the quiet promise of a Tuesday. It had none of the hope of a bright Thursday, or liberty and release of a Friday. No, Wednesday was a bleak, disgusting day, conjuring up images of overcast skies and dull stone.

It was also the worst - and best - day that he would ever live, because a horrible thing and a wonderful thing had both occurred on a Wednesday.

On that fateful summer day, the 54th Hunger Games had been in full swing. In fact, these Games were taking quite a while to complete; it even made the Capitol citizens edgy. It was enough to make all of District Two flow with adrenaline, but nothing compared to the nervous excitement of Julian Kimberly's parents. They had no idea that the Games would end in the need to replace their slain child with Cato, who would be nothing but a smaller version of his deceased brother. But in those years, they had been specifically preparing their strong, persistent child for the Hunger Games, and only five tributes remained to battle for the pride of their districts. When a feast had been announced, they had held an impromptu party, inviting all of their closest friends. Cato's father remembered coming home from an idle walk - as a Games trainer, the only established days off that he had were in the duration of the Games, so his pupils could watch their friends fight it out - to his wife, squealing about how their boy - their brave, brave boy! - was going to a feast.

The celebrations quickly went sour, and the guests were too anxious to eat as their eyes were fixed on the screen. Their district's proud son had just taken a knife to the back, and he knelt, gasping in pain that was impossible to hold back. Blood oozed out grotesquely, and Mrs. Kimberly was forced to hide her eyes as her son's former ally, once loyal and amicable, sliced his sword through the boy's neck.

In the gathering, someone made a tiny squeak of terror. "No," a woman said with wide eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry... he was so brave, too... something must have gone wrong; someone must have- have cheated, and-"

"Go," mumbled the young man's father, staring with hollow eyes at the footage. His voice was thick with suppressed sobs. He had laid all of his hope on one son, and his last hope was lost. This jabbering woman only made it worse, and made the possibility of tears all the more likely. I'll have to have another kid, he thought, before the grief took over, and he could no longer hear his wife's disapprovingly comforting voice:

"Really, honey, we knew that this might happen. It's nothing much, just a little scary... We'll have another boy, just like him, won't we? Honey, don't cry. There's no reason to cry over something like this when there's always another chance."

When the once-elated parents received the box containing their son's body, they pretended not to notice the badly-done gluing job on the dead boy's neck. It was obviously fake, and to avoid the shame they felt upon seeing his head glued back on, they buried him privately in the cemetery's mausoleums, reserved for the children who had come back dead from the Games. They were wrought of the district's finest stones, but that would never make them any more beautiful.

On the night of the funeral, the grieving father felt no emotional pleasure in making love to his wife. It was all hollow these days, and he didn't know if he could still feel properly. Even while they were falling asleep to their empty house, he cried silently into his pillow, hoping that his wife would never see him in the throes of such grief. It was too much to bear, especially with the thought that he would likely go through this again when they had another child. Another death, another wooden box, another boy with a falsely healed face that could never be fixed.

Nine months later, almost to the day, Wednesday returned, bringing with it the sobs of a pained mother-to-be. In a rebellious mood, the man called off his morning classes to watch over his wife, stroking her hair and telling her that of course the doctors would help her, of course he would hold her hand even when their love was nothing but emptiness.

Cato. The boy's father loved the sound of the name, and as he cradled his son in his arms for the first time, he remembered his first child's fate. This infant, this little Cato, was doomed from birth. The man leaned closer, putting his lips near to his sleeping child's ear. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, echoing the woman's words when Julian had been killed.

So sorry.

Thursday

The girl, playing with a strand of her vibrant titian hair, couldn't wait to leave the school. She knew that she would come home to a tiny shack of a house, lonely and desolate, but she didn't care. She had her dolls to play with - really, they were old stubs of school pencils that she could no longer sharpen, but that didn't matter to her. Her little games, unseen by her parents, would have been endearing if they had not been so violent.

Startled by the sudden tap on her shoulder, the girl whirled around from her position on the old playground swings, succeeding in not falling off. It was her teacher, the old woman with veined, wrinkled hands and a grandmotherly smile that reminded her of freshly baked pie. She'd never tasted the delicacy, but she had seen luckier and wealthier classmates bring the treat to school.

"Malachite," her teacher said gently. Malachite. It was a ridiculous name, reminiscent of pompous District One woman arrayed in the latest fashions. Her poor parents, caught up in their yearning to be in style, had given their daughter an overly fancy name that caused her to be teased often by her peers. Besides, malachite was a green mineral. Green was one of the few colors that didn't clash with her bright-red hair, and the thought of wearing an expensive necklace of the stones made her envious.

The teacher cleared her throat pointedly. "Malachite," she repeated, her voice genuinely kind, "recess is over. You can go home now. I've heard they're showing some particularly poignant reruns from the Games on television, so if you want something to watch..."

Malachite filed away the word poignant for future use - it sounded beautiful to her, and would have a place of honor in her ragged notebook, filled with drawings and lovely-sounding words. Her teacher, noting this, had made a splendid effort in subtly distributing new vocabulary to her eager student. "No, but thank you for letting me know," she said politely, giving a tiny smile and scuffing her cracked shoe in the wood chips. "My family's television is malfunctioning, and I'm not supposed to leave the house when my parents aren't home, so I can't go to the community screens."

Her teacher smiled. "Of course," she said kindly. "Isn't technology an annoyance when it doesn't work the way that it should?" This statement, of course, was a cover for the true reason. Malachite's family was one of the poorest in the area, and the old woman had done her best not to call the girl out on it. "And still not allowed to leave the house? I keep forgetting that you're only ten. You're so brilliant for your age."

A compliment, Malachite thought. Here in District Five, true compliments were rare. "Thanks, Mrs. Andrews," she said with a grin, sliding off of the swing. "I'd better head home. Today's my birthday, and my parents always like to tell me about it." She made a face, crinkling her nose, and the teacher laughed.

"And now you're eleven!" the teacher exclaimed. "Why, I remember when you were just a little girl." She paused, as if in deep thought, propping her thick-rimmed glasses up on her bulbous nose. "Someday, you'll be so famous in the district," she said hazily, with a wondering smile. "Such a smart girl - you'll go far someday; you truly will."

Malachite remembered this statement even as she made the trek to her house. It made her want to float happily above the streets, drifting home to a shining fortress, but she knew that things like this only happened in her beloved fantasy novels. And nobody, nobody at all, would be insane enough to put the Districts in a mystic, royal fantasy. This only proved that life was achingly real.

As she played with her pencils, she found their mock battle becoming a Hunger Games of sorts. One pencil, a taller one that had cracked down the middle, stooped in front of Malachite's shoe, which, in the game, was a pond. But she, Malachite, the ruthless Gamemaker, was the only person who knew the truth: the water was filled with a deadly poison. The poor 'tribute', finally outsmarted, drank to soothe her parched throat.

It could have been seen as suicide to the 'Districts', but Malachite knew. It was only one more tragedy.

But the game was making Malachite feel uncomfortable, so she stashed her dolls away in a box and climbed into her cot, pulling the ratty blanket up to her chin and closing her eyes. It's not real, she told herself, frowning. It's not ever going to be real. Still, there was an unshakable feeling of doom. Doom. She loved that word, although it was more simple, and it was penciled into her notebook several times. It seemed like something out of her novels, and she imagined herself as the fated heroine.

"Doom, on the fey woman of the Fifth Land!" Malachite imagined a magic-wielding king calling to her, raising a suitably mighty sword. "Let there be a fate of darkness for the Auburn Lady!"

Her mother walked into the room unexpectedly, sitting next to her and brushing her hair from her face. Malachite's skin felt clammy with nervous sweat; she had worried herself with her own little game. "Want to hear about the day that my favorite baby girl was born?" the woman said in her sweet, clear voice. It was almost teasing, distorted to the voices of Malachite's imaginary companions that proclaimed death and doom upon innocents. "It was in the spring, and I-"

"Leave me alone, Mom," Malachite said. It came out more brusquely than intended, and she was shocked to see the horrified, melancholy look on her mother's face that she had caused. "I'm sorry. I don't feel good."

Poison. Doom. Games.

Friday

Five siblings were far too many, according to Rue. Of course, most families in District Eleven were almost embarrassingly prolific, having an extreme number of children, but Rue was only eleven. There wasn't a moment's peace in her household, but it never bothered her. In fact, the house wouldn't be home to her without little children underfoot and two parents trying desperately to maintain order.

"You're a little mother already," teased Rue's father, ruffling her dark hair. The girl giggled, smiling up at her father's grinning face. She couldn't help but love the funny facades that her father put on for his children. "Soon enough, my little Rue will be having kids of her own - lots of 'em, I hope. I want plenty of beautiful grandchildren, and a nice, handsome son-in-law who'll treat my girl like a real man would."

"Daddy," Rue said with a laugh, stirring the soup, careful not to upset the pot's precarious position above the fire. She reached in with the family's small, wooden ladle and offered some of the food for her littlest sister to taste. "Is it hot enough, Gracie?" Rue asked, pouring the broth between the girl's lips. After thoroughly chewing the groosling meat with a thoughtful expression, the four-year-old shook her head, but knew better than to spit it out.

"Just a few minutes, then. Thanks for helping me out!" Rue said brightly, scraping the floating greens from the sides of the pot to keep them from burning. "You're all my best helpers," she announced to her siblings. Sorrel, the third of the six children, grinned, showing off a conspicuously missing tooth. His rusting pocketknife was being put to good use as he cut up the dandelion greens into manageable-sized pieces.

When the soup was finally at a healthy temperature, the family crowded around their dinner table. It was far too small to fit the eight of them, so they took turns sitting. Every other night, the youngest four of the family would sit in actual chairs, while the others sat on the floor. It was an arrangement that Rue took pride in, having made it up for the benefit of her nagging siblings. Still, she loved every one of them dearly, despite their occasional pestering.

On the bad days, Rue could always hear the words echoing in her mind: Mommy, why don't we have seconds at dinner? Johnny's parents let him have seconds. Rue, why is Daddy sad? This stew is yucky - why do I still have to eat all of it? And the worst, most plaintive statement: Rue, I'm still hungry. Even after Rue illegally scrounged the meadows for food, anything to sustain her family, her siblings were still unsatisfied. They learned from a young age that hunger would become a daily pattern, repeating until their last days, and it was a heavy weight for Rue to bear.

Later, after her siblings had gone to bed, Rue sat in front of the mandatory television, listlessly staring at the screen as an especially macabre rerun of the Hunger Games came on. The tight feeling in her chest only worsened when she saw the District Eleven boy, cornered by one of the Career tributes from Two. "Here, we have two tributes from the 71st Hunger Games," the Capitol announcer said in her hideous, shrill voice, without pity for the screaming boy. It made a disgustingly unfeeling voice-over. Rue remembered seeing him walk to school every morning, and she bit her lip, having never seen his scared eyes so close up. "We see the defensive tactics performed by the boy from District Eleven, but they are for nothing. Suddenly, however, an interesting bit..."

The boy from District Eleven was yelling obscenities at his opponent, flailing as the Career boy pinned him to the rock wall with one arm, the other hand occupied with retrieving a knife. The Capitol had censored most of it, but it was fairly simple to fill in. Each gap in the clean speech was punctuated by a loud beep. "You son of a - don't - kill me, you stupid - go shove that knife up your-"

Rue switched off the television, standing up shakily. It was horrific to watch the quiet neighbor boy she had known transformed into this... this monster. It was even more sickening knowing that everyone's darling Capitol had caused it. She scowled in a manner that was strangely unlike herself and climbed into the bed that she shared with her sisters, preparing for dreams of the Hunger Games.

Hours later, after comforting Sorrel, who was sick to his stomach, and keeping the youngest two children from crying at the sight of their brother in such a state, Rue was a mess. She had done all of this willingly, without asking her parents for help, and she would have normally felt a sense of triumph at this, but it was impossible. Her own nightmare had been so terrifying that thinking about it transported her back to the imaginary arena.

"I saw the rerun," Sorrel said sleepily, rolling over. Rue stiffened, hoping desperately that he wouldn't ask why someone would kill another. "It was scary, Rue." He paused, exhaling softly and snuggling into the threadbare sheets. "Why? Why would anyone do that?"

Rue sighed. Her brothers and sisters were almost wise beyond their years sometimes - she supposed that all children were, occasionally. It was so difficult for her to deal with, and she suddenly felt that this was the closest she would ever come to having children. "We all act differently on screen," she said finally. "Now go to sleep. You'll never have to worry about that - never."

Saturday

"Prim," Katniss said exasperatedly, resisting the urge to stomp her foot in a childish fashion, "we can't keep that... that cat, if it even is a cat. It's disgusting, a waste of food and water, and it won't stop hissing at me. Get it to shut up, or it's dinner tonight." She saw the heartbroken expression on her sister's face and sighed gustily. "Prim, it's just a cat. Don't make a fuss over it. If it's survived that long outside, it can do it for the rest of its life."

The younger girl was crying hopelessly, stopping only to gasp out a few sob-woven words and to blow her nose in a faded handkerchief. "But's he's such a nice cat! And he's still just a kitten," she protested, hugging the poor animal so tightly that it yowled. "Isn't he the most beautiful cat you've ever seen, Katniss? His fur is beautiful." She stroked the cat's flea-infested head, oblivious to the arsenal of insects that it carried. "That's why I named him Buttercup."

Katniss scoffed, rolling her eyes. This 'Buttercup' was the most revolting thing that she had ever laid eyes on. What was left of its yellow fur was clumping together, and its skin was afflicted with a multitude of sores. It looked as if it had charged into the fence when it was - for once - electrified. Likely, a wild dog was responsible for its shortened ear. Even as Prim cooed over the creature, it bared its teeth to hiss violently at Katniss.

"Just put it down, Prim," she said tiredly to her now hiccuping sister. "If you've got fleas now, you'd better stay away from Mom. I don't need the house infested." She paused to relent slightly, while at the same time getting a brilliant idea. "I left you some turkey and goat cheese on the table, if you're hungry. I'll watch the cat."

"His name is Buttercup," Prim corrected, before departing to eat her dinner. Katniss sighed inwardly. As soon as her sister was out of sight, she snatched a half-full bucket of water from underneath their leaking sink. The cat, not entirely clueless, gave a questioning meow. Katniss hauled its worm-swollen body onto the floor, next to the bucket. She eyed the cat's sharp claws. They could cause injury, but how much damage could this weak creature do?

"'Bye, Buttercup," the girl said sarcastically, shoving the animal's head underwater.

It kicked and yowled, all of the fur on its back standing up. Its back legs paddled at the air, sometimes scratching Katniss's bare arms. She shoved the suffering thing further down. By now, she would just be putting it out of its misery. But unfortunately, it had a tendency to stick its head about the surface and howl away. "Shut it, Prim might hear," Katniss muttered vindictively, shoving the miserable thing's face into the depths of the plastic abyss.

Minutes later, she was comforting Prim, who, having stumbled upon her beloved sister drowning her cat, was in tears. "Fine, we'll keep it around," Katniss said, her arms around the blond-haired girl. Secretly, Katniss knew that if her fears came true and her sister was reaped, she would kick out the pitiful thing.

No one had a use for something ragged and poor.

Sunday

Bread. Take your anger out on the bread, Peeta reminded himself as his small, flour-coated hands pounded at a lump of stubbornly sticky dough. Perhaps his brothers hadn't added enough flour in the first place; they were always prone to making silly mistakes. Still, his mother always seemed to blame him when something went wrong. It was always Peeta's fault, every mistake made by her youngest son.

"It's my birthday," Peeta had said, clueless, still hoping that his mother would take the hint. He gave his best pleading expression. Please, don't hit me today. Don't yell if I burn the bread or let the cake fall. But his hopes had been useless, a futile prayer. "Can I make a cake for myself, after the bakery closes? I want to practice my frosting, and I..."

I want you to taste the cake I made, Peeta had thought sadly, not daring to speak this. I want you to finally tell me, "Peeta, you've done a beautiful job. It tastes amazing, and the icing is gorgeous. Show me how you did it, and I'll give you some tips." But his mother would never compliment his work. His mother would never be kind. To him, she was the evil witch in all of the children's fairy tales, the antagonist that ruined every victory.

His mother had laughed maniacally, not even looking at him as she tied her apron behind her back, preparing for the shop's customer-filled morning hours. "A cake?" she had said, as if scandalized. "Prices for icing are skyrocketing, Peeta, and I'll have none of your wastefulness! We are fortunate to be a family of merchants, and you're lucky not to be some Seam brat who was the nerve to beg at our door!"

"But I'm ten today!" Peeta had fired back, his lower lip trembling in that oh-so-priceless way that always urged adults to comfort 'the poor, sad child'. "I just want to..." His voice trailed off. It was pointless; why did he even attempt at this?

"Happy birthday, Peeta," the woman had said gruffly, to the boy's surprise. "Now get started on the bread; we need twenty fresh loaves by eight o'clock sharp. I'll let you frost the cakes with your father in the afternoon." Peeta's spirits soared, but then his mother continued, saying, "Your frosting could use some practice, and your father is a master at it. He'll teach you in no time."

Could that have been it? Peeta thought as he kneaded the bread, his face set in a grumpy expression. Was his mother finally relenting, finally acting like a true mother would? Maybe this meant that finally, his father would acknowledge the bruises that marred his pale skin and the slap marks that stood out like brands and have a private talk with her. Finally, there was a chance that bliss was something to Peeta besides the sensation of a pastry melting in his mouth.

No one was meant to live shut up in a place that smelled like paradise and looked horrific, a place filled with yelling and sharp retorts and hiding, pretending that this abuse never had happened and never would.

That night, Peeta's father tucked him under the covers, although he protested that he was too old for that type of thing. As the ceiling fan switched off and the cracked nightlight flickered on, his father smiled at him sadly. "Why do we go through this?" he asked his son, and Peeta, confused and slightly uncomfortable, shrugged.

More than six years later, he would remember this night with a bitter nostalgia that was almost impossible, considering how calm and pleasant and good that he was to the Capitol and to the viewers of the 74th Hunger Games, his Games.

Why do we go through this? he thought as the nightlock sat heavily in his palm. It was all a question, and perhaps it wasn't his part to answer it, but he would try. They called him eloquent, and they called him charming, but they would never ask that simple question:

Why do we go through this? From the poorest house in the Seam to the most opulent Capitol mansion, why do we put ourselves through so much pain?

And the answer was simple: in Panem, doing true good was impossible, because in the end, everyone was playing a sadistic game. These were the darkest words, and yet, they were the only truth.