Depending upon who you ask, some might say that the Matthews family is cursed.

It's a rare sort of fate, seeing every single eligible child in a family get sent to an arena to fight to the death. As far as the history of District 9, the Matthews are the only one to ever carry such a burden. Regardless of family size, most clans only worry about the chance of having one child sent off to their near inevitable death. The idea of worrying about much more seems like too much to handle, let alone on a scale of four.

Yet that's what Amy and Alan Matthews endure, watching with resignation as child after child gets Reaped in some cruel twist of fate. After Eric's miraculous victory and return home, most of the district assumed they would never have to fret for anything again. The Victor's Village is so glamourous, after all, and the compensation so generous. No doubt they could afford to never buy another tesserae, saving the skin of Eric's three younger siblings indefinitely. Certainly, that should be the luck of a certified district hero.

But then Cory is Reaped at the young age of fourteen. Morgan, their only daughter, follows a decade or so later when she's sixteen. All of their strategies are different, their arenas vastly dissimilar, promising a new kind of torture for the whole family as yet another one of them is sent off to die.

Depending on who you ask, however, others will tell you the Matthews family is blessed with their own unique kind of luck. Because somehow, for every child they sent to the Capitol to fight for their life, they come home alive and only mildly scarred. Three Victors from one family is no simple feat, and by the time Morgan returns home a hard-fought champion with blood under her fingernails and rage branded into her DNA the whole district has determined they're a local phenomenon.

When Cory goes on to marry Topanga Lawrence, the brightest young woman in town and heir apparent to the mayoral chair, it seems to seal the deal. For everything they've endured and survived, nothing can hurt them now. The immortal Matthews, undeterred by the most violent of challenges, protected by some higher power so strong they practically seem untouchable.

That is, until Joshua Matthews.

From the start, Josh had been a bit of a surprise. After Eric and Cory were both Reaped and when Morgan still had six years of potential Reapings to go, Alan and Amy decided they were not going to bring any more potential victims into the world. But for whatever reason the universe had a different plan, and Josh Matthews was born in the cold snap of a particularly chilling February. Stress and adverse conditions threatened Josh's life from the moment he was brought into the world, but he managed to pull through and prove himself a Matthews through and through by how resilient he already seemed to be.

Breaking expectations, yet always upholding the family name. That was Josh's mode of operation, from birth all the way through a mischievous childhood.

So when the Matthews curse came to claim Josh his fifteenth year, no one seemed to think much of it. Josh was far more clever than Eric, and he had won his Games fair and square. Josh was far more driven than Cory, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his ambitions. Josh was just as physically capable as Morgan and far more naturally charming. If anyone seemed perfectly groomed to uphold the Matthews legacy of life, there was simply no better candidate.

Riley can remember the night they sent him away. She can remember Topanga holding her in bed as she cried, speaking with her usual level-headed assurance as she convinced her everything would turn out alright. She hardly seemed concerned, and Josh was the best their district had to offer. He'd be home to them in no time.

As it were, however, Josh Matthews had always been good at breaking expectations.

Riley watches the way her youngest uncle's death changes her entire world before her very eyes. She sees her seemingly tight-knit and untouchable family unravel, grief tearing their bonds to shreds and sending all of them in different directions.

The sheer loss of a child after surviving so much sends her grandmother into a state, her health deteriorating and appetite fading away until she too passes away not long after the Games end that year. With his children constantly bickering and the loss of his wife heavy on his shoulders, Alan moves out of the Victor's Village and reintegrates back into the humdrum of the district. He never comes around to visit, and for whatever reason Topanga seems keen not to speak about him at all.

Morgan retreats into seclusion in her manor after a particularly nasty argument with Eric, the details of which Riley never learns but knows severed their relationship in a way she may never understand. Eric takes many trips to the Capitol for reasons no one ever bothers to explain to her, spending a majority of the year away from District 9 and as far from the rest of the family as possible. Even still, both of them return each year as the Reaping rolls around again, prepared to perform their duties as mentors for yet another couple of hopeless children.

Although the tension still resonates within their family dynamic nearly four years later, Riley still looks forward to the season for the sole purpose of seeing so much of her loved ones come back together again. It's tradition for the mayor to hold a gathering in celebration of former Victors, and Eric and Morgan are always in attendance even if they avoid one another the rest of the calendar year.

So even if Riley is up late at night fretting over the inevitable dread of the Reaping just days away or biting her nails down to buds, she's grateful there's something to look forward to amidst all the devastation. If the Reaping is good for anything, at least it brings them all together again.

She can't help but think about that very notion as she's hidden away in the memorial chamber, completing her chores by dusting the plaques and portraits of all the Matthews that came before her. It's her least favorite chore, but one that needs to be done. If they're going to honor the memory of her ancestors, the least she could do is make sure they're polished.

Riley knows the reason she dislikes the task is because she so strongly dislikes the memorial chamber. It feels more like a museum than a display of mourning, not one picture out of place or speck of sentimentality present. It's simply a dimly lit portrait gallery, stone walls making it feel as cold physically as it does emotionally and looking more like a cellar than anything else.

As she dusts, she makes a pointed effort to avoid the portrait of Josh. Something about the image has always haunted her—the way his eyes are so bright and his smile so life-like even though neither of those things exist anymore in the present day. She hates how the smile captures so much of the warmth he used to give her, even though the rest of the space feels so empty and cold.

She glances up at the photo of her grandmother instead, expression soft and smile light. Although she still resents the location in which the portrait is hung, this one makes her feel less resentful when she look at it. Perhaps because it seems more fitting to be in a space so dominated by death. Yes, her grandmother wasn't all that old, but she was older than Josh.

Somehow, her death feels a little more fair.

Finishing up the last bit of dusting, Riley gathers her supplies and slips out of the chamber as silently as she entered. Trying not to get caught up in imagining her own portrait hanging up amongst the rest in just a few weeks' time, if the curse continues into the next generation as everybody seems to be waiting to see if it will.

She doesn't want to picture her smiling face up there next to Josh's, appearing full of the life she carries inside her now but ultimately empty and flat with the truth of her unfortunate demise.

Riley is used to the mansion bustling the week before the Reaping, but she has to admit shouting is an unusual presence.

She hears it from the hall as she's returning the cleaning supplies to their storage closet, hesitating as the voices rise in volume the longer their conversation seems to go on. She listens for a moment from afar, but isn't able to make out the words or the voices. Knowing it could very well be anybody in the town coming to complain to their mother for a problem that's often out of their hands—and oh, how often are there problems that even the mayor can't solve—Riley jogs her way down the stairs and towards the dining area where the commotion seems to be coming from.

The closer she gets, the more she's able to differentiate the voices and to whom they belong. She recognizes one as her mother, her tone uncharacteristically defensive as she attempts to argue over the other member of the conversation. The slower but equally heated tenor belongs to none other than her uncle Eric, likely having just returned home for the week's festivities.

Riley continues to head towards the room in the excitement of seeing her favorite uncle, but the topic of conversation makes her pause before stepping into the room.

"You realize what you're suggesting, don't you?" Eric says harshly. "How such a maneuver abuses your power without a shadow of a doubt—,"

"It's not a maneuver, please, be more dramatic," Topanga fires back.

Cory attempts to intervene, her father's soft voice weakly breaking into the discussion. "It was only an idea, but she's made no moves to implement it—,"

"It's a contingency plan," her mother continues, so self-justifying in tone Riley is surprised to hear the amount of venom leaking into her words. "You can judge me all you want, but I don't believe for a second that if you were in my situation you wouldn't consider the same."

"There's a difference between contemplating and considering, Topanga. A spare thought, sure, but it seems like from what you've told me you have the whole agenda already laid into place."

She has to make them stop. She knows her family bonds are frayed enough as it is, and she doesn't want anything else suddenly worsening them to the point that Eric disappears out of her life for good. Whatever they're fighting about, she figures it can't be worth it.

The tense silence as good a time as any, Riley decides to make her entrance before her mother can formulate another heated response. "Am I interrupting something?"

All three of them jump, startled by her arrival. It's obvious to Riley that they're examining her, quickly trying to assess how much she may or may not have heard of their argument. Whatever it is, they evidently do not want her to know.

Eric manages to salvage the moment, breaking into a beam and walking around the dining table to make his way towards her. His arms are already open wide for a hug. "No, I think you're just on time. But this hug is long overdue, come here."

Riley feels her own smile bloom across her face as she meets her uncle halfway, reveling in the bone-crushing embrace he wraps her in. She hugs back tightly, absorbing the one factor of Reaping week that makes the entire thing feel worth it. The return of her most beloved people in the world.

Despite how fiercely Eric and Topanga were arguing the day he arrived home, the discussion ceases to come up again while she's in their presence. Occasionally, Riley can hear her parents talking intensely behind the closed door of their bedroom across the hall from hers or her mother up working late into the night, but the latter isn't necessarily out of the ordinary and for her money she would rather choose to forget about it. With everything else on the agenda in the next few days, she's certain it's none of her business.

Her attention is definitely otherwise occupied, watching as the district transforms itself in preparation for the Reaping. People begin pulling out their best attire, the ones that remain in storage all year to avoid wear and tear and getting chewed by moths in the winter. Some townsfolk take up the extra chore of helping clean up the square in front of city hall, taking on hours of additional physical labor for a meager pay off.

Riley puts most of her effort into pretending life is proceeding as normal, attempting to get through the school day without notice and then spending as much time as possible outside the outskirts of the Victor's Village before she has to return home. She's never been particularly clever or charming, and trying to make friends when everyone knows you as the girl whose mother might condone your name getting pulled out of the bowl on Reaping Day, or approved the staff cutting that lost your father his only paying job, or who might rat you out on principle if you slip up and mention the work your mother does at the Hob…

Simply put, while there are advantages to being in the mayoral bloodline, Riley has always found the status somewhat isolating.

But she's adaptive, and she's always been good at making the most of a bad situation—a dynamite trait to have according to her grandfather, considering the world they live in. So she found other ways to create moments of joy in her daily routine, making sure to stop by the pastures where the animals are kept to say hello before finding a spot near the district line to hide away for a while. Her backpack is constantly heavy with the weight of novels siphoned from her mother's study, books she's aware she's not supposed to be indulging in considering no one else in her class is allowed them. But no one is going to stop her if no one is paying her any attention, so she's never run into the issue of getting caught with them.

Sometimes when she's hiding out in the underbrush, Riley can't bring her mind to focus and allows herself to daydream instead. She's not sure what exactly she's so desperate to explore in the world of her imagination that books can't offer her, but when those days creep up on her it's all she can do not to get caught up in the mayhem of the reality of her district.

Riley thinks she might like a change of scenery. She never knows where she might go, but the potential to go somewhere else, be someone else and do anything, is a rather alluring prospect. Perhaps she could follow her uncle to the Capitol, just to see what takes him there for so many days out of the year. It's supposedly quite the spectacle, after all.

Somehow, she thinks she'd rather stay somewhere closer to what she's known. District 10 has always seemed lovely—likely just as desolate as 9, she knows, but at least they have more animals. She figures the destination doesn't actually matter so much, as what would make the change feel fulfilling is to have people to share the new world with. To not feel like an outsider in her own district and a liability within her own home, so long as she's still at an age where her name could be called out on the morning of the Reaping just like everyone else.

Fact of the matter is, she's not nearly as capable as Josh. If he didn't have a chance, she knows without a doubt she'd be an absolute goner.

For whatever reason, this year is already promising to be different. When she arrives at school the last day before the weekend of the Reaping, she's immediately accosted by one of her most friendly yet most pointedly nosy classmates.

"Is it true?" Haley asks the moment Riley enters the school building, coming up to her side and falling in step with her towards their classroom. "Riley, you have to tell me if it's true."

Haley Fisher has been Riley's classmate since they were in primary, and she's probably the closest thing to a friend she has. Effortlessly pretty and sharp as a tac, Haley climbed her own way up the social ladder through strategic charm and knowing how to make the most out of whatever cheap clothing got passed down to her from her older sisters. She's one of the more well-off children in the district, her family profiting not from the grain production her father runs or the sewing jobs her mother picks up to make ends meet but rather from their most skilled trade—sharing secrets.

So Haley's penchant for gossip is near hereditary, but that doesn't mean it helps Riley understand it any better. While she's grateful her oldest classmate has never turned her back on her and always remained kind, she is almost always rambling on about something Riley has no grasp of considering how removed she is from the rest of their social sphere.

Riley hugs the strap of her book bag closer to her chest. "You'll have to give me a little bit more than that, Hales."

"Well, if you didn't immediately recognize what I'm talking about, then my assumption is you don't know." Haley raises an eyebrow, examining her inquisitively. "Because I'm fairly certain if you knew, you'd be trying your absolute best to hide it. One way or another."

Her friend also has the rather strong talent of elevating her anxiety. She doesn't know what Haley is referring to, but all the sudden she gets the feeling that whatever it is, she should be feeling fairly guilty over it. "What are you talking about?"

Haley tilts her head at her, giving her a sympathetic look. Then she glances around them, making a theatrical show of checking that no one else is eavesdropping. Seeing as Riley has the miraculous gift of being invisible, they're hardly interesting to the rest of their classmates passing by.

Gently, she takes her wrist and leans in conspiratorially. "You know how you always disappear into the fields for lunch alone like some kind of stray cat?"

Riley blinks. Not how she'd put it, but she supposes it's not inaccurate. "Sure?"

"Well, don't. Not today. Meet me outside the school house when we're dismissed for afternoon recess. There's someone I want you to meet."

Haley nudges her arm playfully before spinning on her heel and taking off down the hall, not leaving Riley any room for questions. Frustrating, seeing as she has about hundreds that seemed to have bloomed with the anxiety in her chest.

Instead, she bites the inside of her cheek and finishes her trek to the classroom. Keeping her head down and hoping her invisibility holds up in spite of whatever rumors are swirling around to disrupt it.

When Riley finally meets up with Haley on the back steps of the school house, she's processed about every worst case scenario in her head. She neglected to pay any attention during the lecture on history of Panem, so she hopes there's no assessment coming up that she'll have to project her worries onto once this weekend is done.

Haley greets her with a light smile, waving her over. Without waiting for a greeting she begins the trek towards the town square, where many students gather for the lunch hour.

"Where are we going?"

She shushes her, holding up a hand. They pass by the city hall, where evidence of the annual tradition hanging over their heads is beginning to populate the square. "We get there when we get there. What's the old saying? If you keep going so fast you'll miss all the flowers, or something."

Stop to smell the roses. It's one of Riley's favorite sayings, its origins unknown to her aside from the fact that her grandmother used to say it all the time. It's something she and Josh spent a lot of time bonding over, the idea of what that phrase actually meant. The act of observation, searching the world for beauty even in the darkest of places.

"Haley, you're the quickest person I know," she says in lieu of all the emotional baggage that seems to have sprung up in her memory.

Haley shrugs. "Why, thank you. Anyway, we're almost there."

They've left the showier town square and are making their way through the side streets, depicting the harsher yet more accurate reality of a majority of the residents of District 9. Family-owned shops that don't receive nearly enough business, ratty clothes hanging out of windows to dry in the hot summer wind. Kids too young or perhaps too busy to attend school, perpetually covered in grime and completing household chores like a game as they've learned them their entire lives.

It's the poorest part of the district, the vast majority of poverty that gets lost in the weeds and conveniently hidden away when the Reaping comes around each year. No matter how many fanciful decorations they erect in the square, no matter how much effort her mother puts into making the district seem better off than it is, walking around these avenues of crumbling homes makes the truth impossible to ignore.

Riley feels distinctly like she's crossing a line. Like her mere presence is a punishable offense, an unfair reminder to the rest of the population that she's so much better off simply because of her parentage and that she gets to enjoy a decent living situation for surviving brutal Games she herself never had to play.

"I don't think we should be here," she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. A shutter closes over a nearby window just as she turns their way, sending a chill down her spine.

Haley waves her off, approaching one of the humblest shacks of the bunch. "Don't be dramatic. And wipe that sad puppy look off your face, you're making yourself look guilty."

Riley presses her lips together, folding her arms over her chest and making herself as small as possible as Haley lifts her hand to knock on the front door. She raps lightly three times, tossing her a look over her shoulder.

For a moment, nothing. "Maybe they're not home."

"Wait for it," Haley says wisely, holding up a finger.

True to her word, a couple of beats later Riley hears the lock on the other side of the door slide open. The creaking door pulls back just a crack, enough for a girl a few years younger than them to peer outside.

"Open up, Selena," Haley says, clearly familiar with her. "It's just me."

"Oh," is all the girl offers. She leaves the door open and disappears from the frame, giving Haley and Riley access to the space without further discussion.

Haley leads the way into the ramshackle house, navigating the narrow walkways with relative ease. Riley has to struggle to keep up, far too distracted by the decrepit and cluttered state of the structure to notice which way they're heading. She can't wrap her head around the size of it, how she feels as though she could fit the entire home in the memorial chamber in their mansion in the Victor's Village. It makes her itchy with shame, even though she still isn't sure why they're there in the first place.

When they finally stop in the meager living area, she's surprised by how hectic the room seems to be. It's obviously a work station rather than a comfortable place to recline after a long day, scores of tattered and worn clothes in various stages of cleaning. She recognizes she must be seeing one of those home businesses in full operation, taking over a majority of what's supposed to be an escape from the dull labor of their district.

Selena is nowhere to be seen, but about three other girls with similar build and features are occupying the space in her absence. Two of them are definitely younger—no older than ten—but are methodically folding the clothes that have been already laundered with expert precision.

The eldest is seated on the couch, hunched over what Riley can tell is a Reaping Day dress and painstakingly attempting to sew rips in the seams back together. Although her hair is curtaining her face, Riley recognizes the girl as one of their classmates.

"Clarissa," Haley says, stepping through the jumble of cloth and coming over to join her friend. "Look who I brought."

Clarissa lifts her head, glancing towards her friend before locking eyes with Riley. She's evidently surprised to see her, which checks out considering how much effort Riley puts into skating under the radar as it is. After a moment, her lips curls into a shy smile.

"Riley, you know Clarissa," Haley prompts, plopping down on the ratty couch next to her.

Riley feels as though her feet are nailed to the floor. She doesn't feel apt enough to navigate the space without Haley's guidance, and she would hate to send the careful process of their work into disarray with her clumsiness.

So she clasps her hands together in front of her and nods, offering a smile in return. "Yeah, of course. Good to see you."

"Who's Riley?" one of the little sisters pipes up, not even looking up from their work to ask the question.

"You could afford to be a little more polite, Lyra," Clarissa criticizes, using a tone Riley is all too familiar with. It's the tone of an older sibling having to play parent, the way she often does with Auggie when her parents are too busy with mayoral duties to help him with homework or take him to the square. Clarissa looks to her again, smile widening. "Especially considering she's the mayor's daughter."

"The daughter of the mayor?"

The other sister crinkles her nose. "Well, what the heck is she doing here?"

"Honestly, I'm kind of wondering the same thing," she admits, tossing a sideways glance to Haley.

Her friend nods and gestures them to another room, angling for a better sense of privacy. Clarissa climbs to her feet, laying the cotton dress carefully on the ironing board in front of her. "Lyra, try to get that pile done before lunch is over. We need to start the next load if we want to get these orders done before Sunday."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Clarissa gives Riley a polite smile and leads the way towards the back door, pushing it open and allowing the three of them to step out onto the porch. The echo of their work seems to follow them, more and more clothes hanging on the railings and gathered in bags by the doorway. They stay on the rickety porch under the cover of the wooden awning, a light drizzle beginning to fall from the overcast sky.

"Ugly weather," Haley comments nonchalantly, hopping onto the railing and sliding a couple of shirts out of the way.

"I don't understand," Riley begins, eyeing Clarissa as she makes a point of adjusting Haley's haphazard move. "Why aren't you in school? I didn't see you in class this morning."

"It's not a big deal, just a lot to do," she responds, keeping her focus away from her. She pushes some hair behind her ear. "We always get a rush right before the Reaping, so there's way more work this week than any other. I usually take the time away to help make sure we get all the orders done on time."

"It's the family business," Haley sings under her breath.

Riley absorbs this, the blatant reality of just how deeply some of her classmates have been pulled under the surface. Trapped into life sentences they never asked for, bargaining for the best way to make the most of a bad situation. She thought she had a knack for it, but now she realizes she's barely even begun to utilize the strength. She's hardly needed it.

Clarissa shrugs, embarrassed by the attention. "It is what it is. And provided everything goes well on Sunday, it'll be worth all the effort. Even if the unthinkable happens, at least my sisters will get the profit of it."

Riley frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Unbelievable," Haley muses, straightening up and raising her eyebrows. "They really didn't tell you, did they?"

Immediately, her mind jumps back to the argument she overheard only a few days prior. She starts running through what she can remember of it in her head, frantically searching for the puzzle pieces she's missing. That she apparently should know, that for some reason has pulled her classmate into the fray without her knowledge.

Haley slips off the railing, coming over to stand next to Clarissa. She pats her shoulder, giving Riley a pointed look.

"Riley Matthews," she declares, pausing. "Meet your back-up plan."

Contingency. That's the word her mother had used when she spoke at length about her grand plan that Eric so vehemently hated. An emergency exit, a failsafe, a life vest to get them out of an otherwise unideal situation.

Riley had no idea what her mother had been referring to when she accidentally overheard the conversation, but now she can understand Eric's anger. She feels it deeply, coursing through her veins like electricity as she attempts to wrap her brain around her mother's ridiculous scheme.

Her contingency was not a course of action, it was a person. A whole person with a future and family just like Riley, apparently worth so much less than her that she could afford to be paid off to do the unthinkable when the time came.

Clarissa Cruz is Riley's failsafe. Should the worst happen and her name get drawn on that fateful Sunday morning, it is purportedly Clarissa's job to volunteer in her place and protect her from having to face the horrors on her own. In return, Topanga will give the Cruz family an undeniably helpful sum of money as well as take extra care to see to it that they have enough supplies to get through the winter. Winters are notoriously rough in District 9.

Riley knows there's no way Clarissa could say no. How could she, when she has three younger sisters who need money to eat at night and many more winters ahead to endure? How could she, when she's already skipping out on lunches and school days to help run the home business just to scrape by?

Her mother is incredibly bright, gifted in many senses of the word. She's smarter than anyone else Riley has ever known, and that's why her devising this plan makes complete sense to her. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn't true, the more Haley told her what her father had heard through the grape vine and Clarissa confirmed, it seemed too crafty and specific to be false.

Topanga found one of the many vulnerable girls in their district and negotiated a way to protect her own. She did this out of love, Riley knows, but she also did it because she decided her life was worth more than any of her classmates. Simply because of her legacy, simply because the Matthews have endured enough and lost enough even though Riley herself has done absolutely nothing.

She's practically seething with rage when she storms into the mansion that afternoon, skipping out on the rest of school to confront the situation head on. Only her parents aren't home when she arrives in the entryway—only Aunt Morgan, pouring herself a glass of whiskey in their kitchen as if she's there all the time and not just showing up in their orbit for the first time all year.

From one glance at Riley and the flush in her cheeks, Morgan can tell what Riley has come to know. And evidently she knew too, because all she does is smirk as she raises the whiskey glass from the countertop.

"Found out about your mother's little emergency exit, did you?"

Riley can't even bring herself to speak. Suddenly, the extravagance of the home she did nothing to earn feels far too imposing. She's suffocating in the luxury, fighting the urge to vomit or tear it all to shreds with her bare hands.

Morgan clocks her hesitancy, nodding knowingly. Cheekily, she raises her glass in mock cheer. "To the Matthews family luck, am I right?"

She knocks the drink back. Riley has never known how exactly to connect with her aunt, and she figures now isn't the time to try and figure it out.

Without a word, she storms back out of the house and back towards town, letting her legs carry her in the direction she's supposed to go. Searching for somewhere to work through her emotions, hoping to avoid any more watchful eyes or whispering townsfolk as the rumor inevitably spreads through the district.

She ends up on the other side of the district line, out in the farmland where the homes grow farther and fewer between. Not exactly the most connected part of the community, but one of Riley's favorite places for its quiet simplicity and sense of reservation.

The reason for her travels is evident the moment she spots the vaguely familiar ranch house tucked down by the corner, just before the electric fence that keeps the population of District 9 well ensnared in their humble dwelling. It's been ages since she's come this far from home, and years since the family spent a majority of their time here. It's odd to her to think that before she was born, this is where her father spent all of his childhood.

She steps up to the front door and knocks, only for there to be no answer. She's about to give up and head back towards the square when she hears a grunt from around the side of the house. The sounds of manual labor, wholly unfamiliar to the Victor's Village.

Peeking around towards the backyard, Riley finds her grandfather crouched over a patch of vegetables along the back of the house. He's working hard, flannel drenched in sweat and face splotchy and red from the sun. But he's determined, and he doesn't appear at all disgruntled as he puts in the effort to upkeep his own place.

"Grandpa."

Alan lifts his gaze from the plants, blinking in disbelief when he sees her standing on his lawn. "Riley?"

She nods, not sure how to explain her presence verbally. She doesn't want to tell him about it considering he already abandoned the rest of their family, although now that she's discovering secrets of her own she decides maybe his isolation isn't all that odd.

"What are you doing all the way over here?" He wipes his brow, squinting in the sun. "School day isn't over yet, is it?"

"Let out early," she lies, crossing her arms. She stares down at the gardening in front of him. "Do you need some help?"

Alan examines her. It's clear he doesn't believe her, but he elects not to push the issue further. He rolls his shoulders with a pointed groan, subtly emphasizing how much work she's getting herself into before she willingly offers her help.

"Well, not particularly. But I'm not fool enough to pass up help if it's being so freely offered."

Riley can't help but smile, already remembering how fond she was of her grandfather and his unique brand of cheek. He's a realist, intensely grounded, but he's always had a twinkle in his eye that she sees in her father and her uncles.

For everything they've lost, their family never talks about Alan. There's no plaque for him hanging in the memorial chamber even though he's never around. He's only a few miles away, yet it feels like he's gone forever the moment she steps back into the Victor's Village he so happily left behind. It's startling, she realizes, how everyone can spend so much time mourning those who left without agency that they can completely neglect to miss the ones who walked away from them by choice.

Riley kneels down next to her grandfather, grateful to have stumbled back into his company again. She allows him to teach her exactly what chore needs to be done before the two of them settle into work, the sun beating down and silence settling comfortably between them.

There's something about the exertion of actual work that feels refreshing. She doesn't mind the way the dirt gets under fingernails and in the crevices of her skin. The way her shoulders begin to ache from leaning to tend to the garden is strangely satisfying, a burden she's more than happy to carry even if it's only for a moment. As if for a moment, she's taking some of that weight off the shoulders of her fellow district neighbors.

For a moment, she's contributing to something that actually matters.

"Although I appreciate the labor," Alan says after a few more minutes of silence, settling back on his heels and wiping the dirt from his hands. "I get the sense that you're not here just because you felt like now would be as good a time as any to stop by."

Uncle Eric had always been good at reading people, seemingly knowing things without anyone having to tell him one way or the other. Riley assumes now she's observing where he gets this skill from. She avoids eye contact with him, finishing tucking a sapling into the dirt with tender care to dodge the question.

Alan sits back, releasing a sigh and tilting his face up towards the sun. She can't help but notice how much tanner he is than the rest of her family—a side effect of actually existing in the world rather than shying away from it, she supposes.

"You gonna tell me why you ended up all the way out here, or what?"

She knows she can't avoid him much longer. She is trespassing on his property after all, and although they're family Riley knows how quickly that can mean nothing within her bloodline. She echoes his exhale, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Why don't you come to the Village?" she counters, soft with hesitancy but unable to hold back the question. Now that she's spent even a fraction of time with him, she can't believe she's wasted so much of it not being with her grandfather. Especially given how down to earth he is, the calm energy he seems to radiate just from life experience and a level head on his shoulders. "You're never around much anymore. Not since—,"

"Joshua. Yeah, not since then, huh?" Alan pauses, a thoughtful expression on his face. He shifts his gaze to his granddaughter, eyeing her curiously. "I'm guessing since you're here with me for whatever reason, you're getting a sense of what I must've been feeling the moment I left as well."

Riley doesn't know where to begin. The sensation of having so much advantage yet having done nothing to earn it? The guilt of knowing there are hundreds, thousands of people in the district you're supposed to represent who are far worse off than you and likely far more deserving? The numbing reality that even when you're full of privilege you're still going to have to cheat your way to safety, because so much of their world is cruel and grossly corrupt and in just a few short days another two dozen children are going to be sent to die for no other reason than decades old vengeance?

Instead, she merely shrugs. "I wouldn't know what you're referring to, so I can't say."

The ghost of a smirk graces his lips, tickled by her subtle sarcasm. "Sounds exactly like something your youngest uncle would've said." He gets to his feet, taking his time and joints creaking all the way up. When he rises to his full height he offers her a hand, helping her back up. "Come on. There's something I think you should see."

Alan leads the way down the fields, stretching on back towards the district line and the forest in the distance. He surprises her when he doesn't stop at the fence, heading right for it without the slightest hesitation.

"Grandpa!" Riley cries out, wondering if maybe he's more senile than he appears. When he pauses and spins to face her, she finds herself lost for words at the amused look on his face. "I just—that fence is—,"

"Dangerous? Yeah, so we might think," he agrees. Then he gestures Riley forward, waiting for her to come by his side.

Leaning down, he picks up a small piece of gravel and turns it in his fingers. He holds it up so Riley can get a good look at it, before aiming and chucking the rock with pitcher's precision towards the wire of the fence.

She hesitates on instinct, expecting the tell-tale crackle of electricity and a seared stone to potentially kick start a brush fire amongst the long grain surrounding them. But nothing of the sort happens, the fence remaining dull and unassuming as the gravel pings off its wiring and lands in the grass unmarred.

Riley blinks, totally stunned. Stepping forward, she reaches out and hovers her fingers over the fence. No sign of the hum of electricity she was so easily trained to believe ran through the wires at all times. "It's broken?"

"Not entirely," Alan concedes, jogging up to join her. "You always gotta toss a rock its way, make sure it's not one of the few hours its actually up and running. But typically—,"

To accent the point, he touches the wire with his own hand, nodding for Riley to go on and do the same. She does, closing her fingers around the thin metal without the slightest shock or discomfort. The fence is nothing more than a deterrent in her grasp, effective on the basis of fear rather than voltage.

Alan grabs the bottom of the fence and lifts it high enough for the two of them to crawl through. Then he looks to her, gesturing her onward. "After you."

Riley stares, frozen by the possibilities of what might be waiting on the other side. Never having considered that going beyond it, beyond what she was taught to know and understand, was ever even an option. She glances over her shoulder, back to the familiarity of the district and her parents who she knows would lose their minds if they knew she was venturing illegally out of bounds.

Then, she thinks of Clarissa—a girl trapped by circumstances she never had the option to search beyond—and she decides her parents can deal with a little discomfort. Besides, she trusts her grandfather, and she has the distinct feeling that since he's rarely around he won't be ratting her out any time soon.

Taking a deep breath, Riley wills herself to be bold and ducks under the fence.

Alan isn't far behind, and in seconds the two of them are heading towards the underbrush just a few footfalls away from the district line. So close to her this entire time, yet deceptively out of reach by the roadblocks she'd built up in her mind. It amazes her to realize how much of her world view is shaped by others—the Capitol and their propaganda, her parents and their intense drive to shield her at all costs, her stay in the Victor's Village and the comfort it keeps her nested in every single day.

Regardless of what happens in the next couple of days, Riley decides she wants to do more thinking for herself.

She follows her grandfather about ten feet into the woods, coming to a stop at a somewhat open clearing amidst the tree cover. The scenery is dotted with natural flora, but what sticks out to her are the patches of flowers that seem to have grown completely out of place with the rest of the scenery. Obviously deliberately planted, two separate collections of blossoms more beautiful than anything Riley has seen in the confines of the district.

"The ones on the left, the pink ones, those are for your grandmother," Alan explains softly. "Always her favorite flower, but they don't grow very often around these parts. Had to do a special trade at the Hob and have them sent from 5."

Slowly, recognition dawns on Riley. She kneels down in front of the second patch, the small groupings of baby blue petals just as charming as the person she knows they were planted to represent.

"And those blue ones—,"

"Josh," she murmurs, delicately running her fingers over the petals.

For all the time she's spent dusting off his portrait in the memorial chamber and thinking about his absence over the years, for the first time she feels closer to him than ever before. Some of the warmth he used to bring so effortlessly into her life is suddenly in full bloom here, as untamed and radiant as the sun beating down on them earlier.

Alan crouches down next to her, gently adjusting the soil around Amy's collection. "When they sent him back to us, there was a big debate over what exactly to do with him. No one could decide what was best. Your father, he couldn't even look at him—and he didn't ever let you close enough to see the casket. Honestly, think that was probably for the best."

Riley can't argue with that. She much prefers the memories she has of her uncle alive, and she doesn't know what seeing him lifeless would've done to her at the age of twelve.

"Your parents decided they didn't want anything to do with it. Wasn't Josh anymore, after all, and they didn't want that memory haunting the house. Now your aunt, she thought that was a bunch of bull. Totally offended, thought it was an insult to his memory. She was the closest in age to him, and I think she took the hit worst of all." Alan sighs, gazing at the patch of blues. "Me, I was just sick of the fighting. Sick of the eggshells we had to walk around on in that place, all the energy it took to keep up the illusion of strength only to have it shattered so quickly. I wanted rest—for myself, but more so for Josh. So I opted to take him and gave him the spot out here. Right outside the house he barely got to grow up in, considering how young he was when Eric won his Games."

She's grateful her grandfather was there to speak for Josh when seemingly no one else would. Just spending a moment in it, she can tell there's no better place for him to stay resting. With the fresh air and thoughtful touches and the vast expanse of the world all around them, it feels like the perfect setting for him to end up—somewhere he feels as free as his adventurous and ambitious personality always seemed to want to explore.

"Not long after those Games, well, you know what happened to your grandmother. So I figured I'd give her the same sort of reprieve, right here next to her son. Eric came out to help, in fact. And then it simply felt strange, not being near them and so far across town. So I moved back into the ranch house and let myself be." He sighs. "I think at some point, we got so wrapped up in being this legendary force, this pinnacle of what the district had to offer, that we forgot how to be us. How to be the Matthews."

Riley can feel the tears threatening to well up in the back of her throat. She's not sad, exactly, but the loss of her uncle and childhood best friend is hitting her deeply, perhaps for the first time since he boarded the train to the Capitol and went away. She never did mourn him properly, in a way that felt real. Little did she know he was so close, just waiting for her to come and pay him a visit.

"You're nervous about the Reaping," Alan guesses. "Even after five years of dodging a bullet."

She doesn't want to explain all of the jagged edges to the story. She doesn't want to get into the risk she seems to be elevating for others and the sense of dread that's been heavy on her shoulders since the summer rolled around, some premonition warning her that this year is not going to be like the others. A completely irrational notion spurring very real nerves.

She simply nods, keeping her eyes on the lovely memorial in front of them.

Tentatively, Alan reaches out and pats her shoulder. It's not quite familiar, overtly simple, but it's been so long since she's had any sort of affectionate contact with her grandfather that the gesture alone feels like the warmest embrace she could imagine.

"What I've come to discover is that life, at the end of the day, is all about choices," he says softly, choosing his words carefully. "Whatever happens at that town square will happen regardless of whether you're down in the dirt working your fingers to the bone or cozy in your Victor's Village bed every night. At the end of the day, we're all the same, and we're all facing the same challenges. Just trying to survive."

Riley hangs on his every word, searching for advice. Searching for answers that will make this sticky scenario she's found herself boxed into less complicated in its resolution.

"What matters is our choices, Riley. How we choose to respond to each situation we're confronted with. Whether that's the easy or hard decision, I can't say. But you have to choose the moves that feel most true to you." He gives her shoulder a squeeze, casting another look at the miniature cemetery. "As long as you know your own heart, then you can't go wrong."

She knows it's not that simple. She knows that decisions are far tougher and more complex than that, that even heinous ones like the one her mother made are done with the best intentions. But she figures there's truth to her grandfather's words, a truth to the notion that if she lives life to the best of her ability and through the choices that feel right to her, then dying at some point along the way certainly couldn't be too much in vain.

Riley knows what she has to do. And if worse comes to worse, there's comfort in the fact that she knows if she ends up like her brave, brilliant best friend, at least her final resting place will be warm and full of love.

Even in the face of death, she figures, there's beauty to be found regardless.

Bold. That's the trait Riley attempts to conjure up as she reenters the Victor's Village and makes the trek back towards her mansion. The sun has begun to set and she's out far past her curfew, so she knows already that her mother and father aren't going to be pleased with her. But it's the necessary discussion that will come after the chiding that she fears will be much, much worse.

All the lights are on in the windows of her home, and she can see more than a couple silhouettes dancing in the shadows of their living area. A full house for what she's sure is going to be quite the spectacle.

Inhaling a deep breath, Riley pushes open the front door and steps inside.

She's greeted not by reprimands as she anticipates but a full-blown collision, Auggie barreling into her and wrapping his arms around her torso. She spent so much time preparing for the confrontation with her parents, she had completely forgotten to consider the other factor at play in all of this chaos.

"Riley!" he chirps, tightening his embrace and burrowing his head into her stomach. "You're back! Everyone was so worried. No one knew where you were. Why didn't you tell anyone you were leaving?"

"I had the same question," Topanga states, appearing in the doorway to the living area. Her tone is less concerned than Auggie's, heavier with the tension of having to be the authoritarian in the situation. Her mother is unfailingly complex, even in her simplest of parenting moments.

Riley leans down to meet her brother at eye level, ruffling his curly hair and giving him a reassuring smile. "Just some things I had to take care of. If you go and get ready for bed, I promise I'll come tell you all about it."

"Okay, but don't leave out anything cool," Auggie demands, already darting his way towards the stairs. "Even if mommy says not to tell me!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," she assures him, keeping the pleasant smile on her face until he's disappeared out of view. Then she locks eyes with her mother, expectant gaze already making her feel guilty for statements she hasn't even said aloud yet.

Topanga nods stiffly towards the living area, where the rest of her assembled family is waiting. "Now. Seems we have a lot to discuss."

Riley tries her best to remain level-headed like her grandfather, not allowing her emotions to get the best of her in a conversation she knows is going to be full of landmines that could easily become explosive. But she feels a shrivel of indignation at the tone in Topanga's voice, as if she's the one who should be in trouble when she's not the one who was bargaining the life of others.

"Yes," she states, marching past her mother and into full counsel. "I think we do."

It's odd to see all of her older family members assembled in one room without absolute necessity, especially before the Reaping eve party the following evening. Cory jumps to his feet the moment she enters, concern more clearly outlined in his features as he pulls her into a hug. Eric watches from the archway to the kitchen, relieved, while Morgan remains unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest and legs crossed in the large, cushy armchair she's elected to occupy.

"Where the hell have you been?" Cory stammers, pulling back from her and checking her for injury. As if her neglecting to arrive home before nightfall is as dangerous as an evening in the arena. "No note? No explanation? All we get is coming home to Morgan telling us you came by after school only to storm off without a word. Do you have any idea how stressful that is?"

Riley pulls out of his hold, stepping back to give herself a little more room to breathe. If she's going to stand her ground, she's going to need it. "Then I suppose Morgan told you what we chatted about when I stopped by."

Topanga frowns. "No. She said you didn't say anything. That you just left."

"She's correct, I didn't." She locks eyes with her aloof aunt, trying to pick apart the intrigued expression on her face. Wondering if she believes she'll really bring it up, or if she's simply bluffing. "Because I didn't have to. She spoke enough for the both of us."

"You said something?" Cory exclaims, as if this suddenly paints the picture crystal clear. He pushes past Riley and approaches his younger sister, judgment already permeating his expression. "What did you say to her?"

Morgan crinkles her nose. "What makes you assume I said something to make her leave? Or that I said anything at all?"

"Because you always have something to say," Cory snaps.

Eric shushes both of them, holding up a diplomatic hand and waiting for them to go silent. He nods to Riley, indicating that she should continue. Advocating for her, as he always seems to be in the darkest of times.

Riley clears her throat, locking her fingers together in front of her to keep from fidgeting. "All she asked was if I had discovered mom's contingency plan. You know, the thing you all had been arguing about for nights without bothering to tell me about it."

Cold silence rushes over the room, casting all of them in the shallows of being caught. Even Eric looks reproachful, stunned at the prospect of Riley putting together the pieces of the puzzle they'd been building without her.

Topanga recovers first, as she's the most practiced in tense situations. Naturally. "I don't have the faintest idea—,"

"Clarissa Cruz," Riley states, stepping forward and raising her eyebrows. "That name mean anything to you?"

Her mother blinks, and that instance of vulnerability alone convinces Riley that she's not on the wrong path. "I don't—,"

"Don't lie, mother," she pleads, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Willing herself not to lose control of her emotions and do something silly like cry. Not when she needs to be strong on behalf of the ones not fortunate enough to be here for themselves. "Lying is only going to make this so much worse."

Silence encroaches on the space again, seeping into the cracks in the floorboards and chilling the room in spite of the muggy summer heat. Topanga opens her mouth to retort, but after a moment of indecision she lets it drift closed. Allowing Riley the floor, as she so wisely suggested.

"Clarissa Cruz is girl in my year," she starts, hands trembling. She can't determine if it's out of nerves, or out of anger for the girl she's currently speaking for. "Oldest daughter of four, working alongside a single mother, skipping days of school to help make ends meet. Endearingly sweet. Sings the mountain song better than anybody in our school, but so shy she never bothers to audition for the solos."

Eric drops his gaze to the floor, shaking his head. Cory can't look away, volleying his attention between the two of them.

"Clarissa Cruz is the girl you promised to pay off in exchange for volunteering in my place at the Reaping, should things not go my way." Riley grits her teeth. "Surely, you remember that, at least."

Topanga holds her gaze impressively well, but she can see the cracks in the foundation where the guilt and uncertainty and defensiveness are threatening to leak through.

In a way, it's a relief to see those things. At least she knows that somewhere deep down, her mother knows her decision was wrong.

"You don't understand," Cory jumps in, immediately searching for a way to remedy the issue. "The things we're trying to protect you from, you haven't seen—,"

"So, what?" Riley turns her gaze on her father. Her resolve almost crumbles when she takes in the pained expression on his face, how earnest and genuine he is about his fear of her entering that arena. The fear that she will ever have to see or experience the horrors he himself survived. "So some other girl is more worthy of being sent to her death than me?"

His frown only deepens. "No, of course not. But Riley—,"

"There's nothing else to be said about it. I know that you all want to protect me. I understand that. But the fact of the matter is, just because I live in this fancy house set apart from the rest of our district doesn't mean that I'm not a part of it. It doesn't mean that I'm exempt from the risks the rest of the children here have to face every single year."

Topanga's turn to shake her head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, evidently frustrated with how quickly all of her precautions fell apart.

Riley is out of sympathy to give. She gave most of it to the rest of their district counterparts over the course of the afternoon, and she can't help but think they're far more deserving of it.

"You're going to give the Cruz family the money."

Eric raises his eyebrows. Topanga lifts her head, locking eyes with her daughter and cocking her head as if she didn't quite hear her correctly. Daring her to say it again. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You're going to give Clarissa Cruz the money." Riley holds her ground, determining this to be the one moment where she doesn't let her apprehension win out. Where she doesn't let her voice waver or her intentions be muddied. "You're going to tell her she can save her luck for herself, and you're going to give her family the payment regardless. They need it far more than we do."

"I don't know what you think you're talking about," Topanga says warningly, but Riley doesn't let her finish the sentence.

"You're going to give. Clarissa. The money," she commands, words shaky not with trepidation but with rage. All of the anger she figures must be directed at her, at their family, hundreds times a day by dozens of residents who have to suffer while they live a life of relative luxury. She steps towards her firmly, earning an amused eyebrow raise from Morgan as she watches from her perch. "And you are going to tell her there is no way in hell that she volunteers for me if the universe decides the Matthews family tradition shall continue."

Topanga turns up her nose, attempting to maintain an air of authority. But so much of their world order has crumbled around them, and Riley can tell in the way her eyes are glimmering that she's contemplating the decision. That remorse is a more powerful motivator than security, particularly when the one you were so harshly working to protect no longer wants any part of it.

"And what makes you so sure I'll do just that? You have no idea what the arena is like, the things it can do to you. You have no idea what it is we're protecting you from."

Riley exhales, chewing her lip as she searches for the answer. "Because I know you know it's the right thing to do. And if we're defined by our choices, if that's what makes us who we are, then I know you're going to make the right one eventually. But I will never stop fighting this, and if for whatever reason it's my name that gets drawn from that bowl, regardless of who speaks up I will walk onto that stage and I will follow in the footsteps of every single Matthews child who had to take this journey before me. That much, I can promise you without question."

There's nothing left to say. Riley avoids the gaze of all her family members on her as she retreats from the room, heading up to say goodnight to her brother and absorb the normalcy for what she's suddenly feeling is a fleeting amount of time.

The morning of the Reaping, Riley makes a concerted effort to leave the house as early as possible. She dresses in her periwinkle cotton garb and braids her hair on either shoulder out of her face, then darts down the stairs to beat her mother and father to the town center. She doesn't want to run into either of them if she can help it.

What she doesn't plan for, yet again, is her baby brother. He's waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, nowhere near ready to attend the ceremony but wide awake at the prospect of her leaving.

Something about the image of him sitting at the foot of the stairs is hauntingly familiar. She can remember being seated in the same spot the morning of Josh's final Reaping, unable to sleep as it was her first ever year as an eligible contender. She can remember Josh coming down to settle beside her just as she does with Auggie now, granting her reassurances that everything would turn out all right for her. That in a few short hours, it would all be over and life could proceed on as normal.

She can't help but note the similarities as she settles down to do the same thing, brushing the hair from Auggie's forehead and promising him that no matter what happens, everything is going to be okay. Knowing she's thwarted her own ability to grant him such assurances, but saying them anyway because it's far easier than processing the alternatives.

As she leaves him behind and makes her way towards the square, she has to wonder if Josh felt the same sense of impending doom.

She knows it's simply her anxiety playing tricks on her, but as the Peacekeeper pricks her finger to mark her attendance she can't help but think all the effort she's put into keeping her status of eligibility fair can only signal a greater incoming dilemma. She doesn't believe in coincidence, and her pounding heart and lightheadedness are screaming at her that it can't be happenstance that this is the year Topanga decided to try so hard to keep her safe. It can't be happenstance that this is the year she discovered where Josh is actually buried, as if she isn't going to join him in just a few weeks.

It can't be coincidence that standing there in the middle of the square as the rest of her classmates file in, she's suddenly convinced this is the last time she's ever going to see it.

She spends the better part of the hour before the ceremony begins trying to keep her breathing even, figuring the only thing worse than getting her name called out in a few minutes time would be to pass out before that possibility even occurs. She watches as her classmates file in and families gather around the pens they've been assigned to, ready to watch with bated breath as their children are selected at random to fight for their lives again.

Riley catches Clarissa enter the seating area, but she can't tell from her expression whether or not anything has changed. She sees her mother take her seat up on the stage with Morgan and Eric and the Capitol representative, but her face is even harder to read. As the representative greets them all too cheerfully and the annual propaganda video begins rolling, she's worried herself into a spiral and can feel her palms prickling with the very real potential of fainting.

"As usual," the representative chirps, heels clicking as she makes her way to the bowl set up in front of their section, "let's start with the girls."

If her name is called and Clarissa steps up, she has to volunteer anyway. She cannot take the easy way out, no matter how conveniently the universe seems to have set her up to take it.

Seconds longer of uncertainty. Seconds longer of normalcy.

"Riley Matthews!"

She hears the ripple of reaction from the crowd around her before she comprehends the reality of it for herself. Her female classmates around her immediately step back to give her a wide berth, eyes wide and expressions shocked. Based on the rumors they've likely heard, she can't say she's so surprised.

For a moment, she doesn't move. She holds her breath, glaring at the back of Clarissa's head and counting down from ten. Hoping, praying, that she makes it to zero without interruption.

Nothing happens. No one volunteers. It's just the crackling of the microphone and the square shuffling impatiently around her as she stands stock still in the astonishment of it, finally feeling some blood begin flowing back to the rest of her body.

"Riley? Come along, dear. Don't be shy, now."

Oddly, getting to make the walk up to the stage is a strange sort of relief.

She doesn't have time to acknowledge the fact that her premonition was eerily accurate. She doesn't have the strength to pay attention as a boy is called up to face the same fate as her, the blood rushing in her ears blocking out all other noise and rendering her useless. It's all she can do not to turn around and face the pained expression of her family, but she can feel their eyes boring into the back of her head like daggers.

Finally, the ceremony concludes and she and her new district partner are directed towards the city hall doors. She catches one last glance at the crowd, looking just in time to see Haley breeze through the crowd to come to Clarissa's side and engage in frantic chatter. The two of them look towards her and meet her eyes, regret passing between the three of them although Riley isn't sure what or who it's intended for the most.

She makes it through the doors and into the city hall atrium before she collapses, nerves finally getting the best of her when she's out of sight of the rest of the world.

She comes back around a few minutes later, reclining in a small, library-like room she doesn't recognize as unfamiliar Peacekeepers poke and prod at her to assess her condition. Considering she's likely in for a lot of poking and prodding, she figures she might as well get used to it.

"She's awake," one of them reports, and suddenly Eric is at her side. At first she's confused as to why he's there at all, but then she remembers his status as a mentor. Although it felt like goodbye, it seems she won't be without allies for a little while longer.

He gives her a proud smile, lightly slapping her clammy cheeks and exhaling a laugh. "Don't worry, happens all the time. Should've seen me when I was Reaped. Vomited all over the Peacekeeper guiding me away."

Eric helps her sit up, Riley's head still feeling strangely empty as her body reorients itself to its new normal. She figures she's about to endure quite a bit of drastic changes to her environment.

The Peacekeepers return a couple of minutes later with her parents in tow, informing her that she has two minutes to say her goodbyes. Now that she has to face them, her resolve to do the right thing is suddenly less confident than it was as she marched up to take her place on the stage.

She rises to her feet and steps away from the comforting presence of her uncle, coming to stand in front of her mother. Her expression is hard to read as usual, but she can tell that disbelief is prevalent amongst all of them. Trying to absorb the fact that all of their shared dread about this year proved to be oddly pertinent, wishing with all their might that they could've been wrong.

Still, Riley is grateful that her mother listened to her conscience. That she didn't take the easy way out and send someone else to their death in her place. If that's the last thing Riley ever ends up doing, then she figures it's a perfectly honorable legacy to leave behind.

"I'm proud of you," she says softly, locking eyes with her mother. Searching for the warmth in her eyes that she hasn't seen in almost four years, since the last time they were here to say goodbye. "I'm proud that you made the right decision."

Topanga holds her gaze, obviously torn up beneath her professional façade. She opens her mouth to speak then thinks better of it, changing tracks and stepping back a bit. "Tell that to him."

She pulls forward her hand and allows Auggie to step into view, cheeks already stained with tears and on the verge of being inconsolable. He looks up to Riley, eyes wide with terror, and she feels all of her resolve and bravery fade away in an instant.

She drops down to her knees to get to his level. "Auggie—,"

He collides with her again, holding her in a hug impressively tight for a child. She returns the embrace, pouring enough love into the squeeze to last him two weeks. To last him forever, if the odds continue to be out of her favor.

"They can't take you," he says tearfully, tears dripping down his face and staining the cotton of her Reaping dress. "Riley, don't let them take you away."

"It's going to be fine."

"Don't let them take you where Josh went," he sobs, pulling back from the hug to lock eyes with her. "Don't let them take you there, because he didn't come back."

Riley feels her lip tremble, willing herself to hold it together as long as he's with her. She needs to be strong for him, just like Josh when he gave her the same courageous speech.

"Auggie, I promise you I will do everything I can to come back home," she declares, gripping his shoulders and making him look her in the eyes. "But I need you to be just as brave while I'm gone. Take care of daddy, and don't let mommy get too caught up in her head. People are counting on her not to do that. I'll promise you, if you can promise me that?"

Promise? She can hear the echo of her uncle rattling around in her skull. How he made a promise he ultimately couldn't keep.

Auggie nods, sniffling and wrapping her in another hug. "I promise."

She holds onto him until the Peacekeepers arrive to pull them away. She rises to her feet again, locking eyes with her father before he cracks and yanks her into a tight embrace in the remaining seconds they have left.

"I'll make you proud," she whispers, not at all surprised to discover that the warm embrace of her father is the hardest one to step away from.

He squeezes her tight, swaying them a bit until he's forced to let go. "You already do."

Riley manages to keep her emotions in check as long as they're in the room, watching with an ache in her throat as her family walks away from her for what may well be the last time. She silently lets a couple tears fall as she and Eric make the trek to the train waiting for them outside city hall, already geared up to take them far away from home to the Capitol for the next phase of the journey.

When they board and enter the dining car, Riley is surprised to find Evan Holt standing in his Reaping best and looking out the windows. She hadn't registered which boy from her district had been chosen in the chaos, but looking at her former crush of the last few years now it seems obvious. Of course, it would be the only guy she's ever minimally shown interest in, effectively killing whatever possible romance they had.

If the universe is intent on making the last two weeks of her life as hellish as possible, she sure hopes it enjoys itself.

Evan offers Riley an awkward smile, shifting his attention to Eric without a moment's hesitation. "You're Eric Matthews? My mentor?"

"That's right," he says with his usual friendly tenor, offering a hand for Evan to shake. Eric casts one more glance to his niece before nodding to the next car "Let's have a chat. I'd like to get to know you as much as possible before we talk strategy."

Riley admires how seriously Eric takes his role as mentor, aiming to give their kids the best shot they have at an insurmountable challenge. Even when his own family is on the chopping block, he's not going to let his mentee fall through the cracks. She has to respect it, even if it sends nerves through her whole body.

As the two of them exit, Morgan enters the train car from the other end, assessing the situation and observing Riley carefully. Obviously aware of how events unfolded in the last forty-eight hours, a witness to all of it and intrigued to see how Riley composes herself in the face of everything she's headed towards at Capitol-grade speed.

She's never quite known how to interact with her aunt. Now, she's counting on her to give her the tools to make it back alive.

After a long moment of scrutiny, her aunt cracks a smile. She lifts her hand and gently takes Riley's chin, tapping it affectionately a giving her a proud look.

"That's my niece."

Riley had heard legend of the extravagance of the Capitol, but seeing it in person is almost impossible to believe. She and Evan spend a majority of the first day staring in awe as the glamour and glitz unveils itself around them, boasting an exuberant amount of discretionary funds in comparison to their district home that seems to be falling apart at the seams.

Thankfully, Riley's standing as mayor's daughter seems to do her one favor. She's a little more prepared for the rich Capitol cuisine than her counterpart, Evan spending a majority of the evening vomiting simply because his body isn't accustomed to such fanciful food. She battles her fair share of nausea, but she manages to get some sleep without completely upchucking her insides.

The evening before the opening ceremonies, Eric meets with her privately and sits her down to talk without Morgan or Evan. Once he's sure the coast is clear he hands her a worn notebook, no larger than her hand and sealed with a cord. As she flips it open, she absorbs the scribbles in unfamiliar handwriting and sketches of people and places totally foreign to her.

She lifts her gaze to lock eyes with her uncle. "What is this?"

"How I survived," he says sagely. He points to the page she's opened, letting her read some of the notes for a moment. "The thing about these Games is they're designed to dehumanize. You, your competitors, the whole world around you. It's easy to forget who you are, and even easier to forget that your fellow tributes are just as scared and vulnerable as you are."

She takes in his hasty scrawl from decades ago, writing small details about the children he was entering the arena with and little things that stood out to him. An odd practice in theory, but immediately Riley understands the appeal.

She doesn't want the Games to change her into something she's not. If she has to go down fighting, she wants to go down feeling like herself.

"You're so good at observing people, I thought you might find solace in the same method," he explains. He places his hands over hers, securing the notebook in her possession. "Don't ever lose sight of your humanity, Riley. That's going to be what keeps you alive."

Riley takes the guidance of her oldest uncle to heart, viewing the world of the Capitol with an observant eye the moment training begins the morning of the second day. She carries the notebook with her everywhere—weapons training, meals, the sparse nuggets of alone time when she gets the time to sort out her thoughts. She perches on the windowsill in their district accommodations and watches the bustle of the Capitol below, taking time to journal all the small moments she observed throughout the day.

She notes how the girl from District 3 can't seem to keep her glasses on her nose, but how she seems perfectly capable of anything else the Games might require of her. She notices how although they don't interact publicly, the boy from 3 is constantly glancing in her direction, watching his district counterpart from afar with an almost steadfast devotion. She'd heard rumors about the mayor's boy who volunteered out of nowhere in a shocking twist, giving him an edge of hype as they all headed to the Capitol. Observing him as they work through training and he mostly keeps to himself, she doesn't see how he's much of a mystery at all.

Seeing as all he can seem to focus on is his counterpart, she gets the feeling his decision volunteer has everything to do with her.

Riley notes how the two children from District 6 have an effortless rapport and dynamic, making her a bit envious considering how fractured her relationship with Evan seems to be. He tells her the second night that he believes the best strategy would be for them to play separate games, especially considering her own uncle is his mentor. He doesn't want any distractions to prevent him from his own effective gameplay, and she supposes she has to respect that.

As nice as it would be to have an ally, she's rather used to going it alone. The Games would be the last place she would expect the status quo to change.

In spite of her dedication to observe rather than intimidate, Riley puts in a fair amount of effort into learning the tricks of the trade that might keep her alive. She makes the rounds to all the survival skill stations during training, picking up knot tying and snare building and plant identification. She keeps her distance from the weaponry, more than willing to take her chances and avoid the use of them at all costs.

It's at the plant station that she makes her first connection, standing next to the tall blonde from District 5 as they each work through their individual puzzle boards. She's not sure of her name or whether she's particularly friendly, but her notes from the last few days list her as having a "pretty smile" and certainly lacking the malice of some of the other kids from the early districts.

She's also currently far from intimidating, brow knit in confusion as she attempts to identify possibly poisonous plants. Riley notices her struggling, hand ghosting over the plant in the corner of the board and potentially costing her life if she fails to catch it in the arena.

"Nightlock."

The girl jumps, evidently startled at being addressed. She turns her bright blue eyes toward her, blinking in fear. "What?"

"Nightlock," Riley repeats, offering a shy smile and pointing out the button she overlooked. "You ingest that, you'll be dead in a minute. You'll want to avoid it, if you come across it in the arena."

The girl doesn't get the chance to comment. The lead trainer blows a whistle and signals they should switch up stations, not allowing Riley the chance to catch her name as she floats off to another station. But she feels good about her decision to speak, hopefully giving that girl a greater chance of survival.

As it turns out, the gesture of goodwill comes off even more welcome than anticipated. That evening at dinner the blonde spots her in the crowd of tributes, eating alone and scribbling in her notebook. She locks eyes with her and hesitates for a moment before marching over, coming to stand across from her.

"Is anybody sitting here?"

Riley shakes her head. "Nope."

The girl hesitates, uncertain if she should prompt the question. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Riley can't help the grin that spreads across her face. "Not at all."

The girl heaves a great sigh of relief, collapsing into the seat across from her and running her hands through her hair. The theatrics of it all would be somewhat amusing under any other circumstances, but considering the literal deadly stakes surrounding them as they mix and mingle between training to fight to death, Riley understands her level of anxiety perfectly.

Choosing what friends to make is hard enough on a regular day—the reality that said friends may decide to kill you at a moment's notice in a week's time is too much on top of an already stressful scenario.

"God, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that," she exhales, making a face. Riley fondly notes how expressive her face is. "I'm Darby, by the way. I'm from District 5."

"Riley. District 9."

"You're the mayor's daughter, right? Well, one of two mayor's children this year as my mentor tells me. Your counterpart isn't sitting with you?"

Riley nods at the empty seat next to her. "Decided we were better off playing separately."

"Mine too. And honestly, it's for the best. Wyatt is an absolute jerk, and totally out of his mind at fourteen. His big plan is to get in with the Careers so they'll protect him long enough for him to survive. Can you believe that?"

Riley tosses a glance towards the table of Careers, all seemingly best friends from the get-go and far more prepared for the Games than any of them could ever be. Her aunt warned her this tactic might be at play from the Careers, operating like a clique meant to make you feel isolated and unprepared so that you're far easier to take down.

She focuses predominantly on the fiery blonde laughing with the boy from District 1, sneering in the direction of the duo from 6 before muttering an obviously unkind comment to the group. She's supposedly the youngest tribute District 2 has had in years, a pattern that Eric and Morgan agree was always suspicious. Her counterpart is far from breaking the curve though, large and intimidating and lacking any sort of warmth in his features.

She's trying hard to see the humanity in all of her fellow tributes, but she's having trouble locating his to begin with.

"I wouldn't trust the Careers with my lunch, I'm pretty sure they'd split me open right now if they were allowed to."

"I'm sure that would take the fun out of the actual Games," Riley jokes, trying to keep the tone light.

Evidently, Darby is far from ready to look at the bright side. She twiddles her fingers nervously, far too anxious to eat the delicious meal served for her. "I don't know how the hell we're supposed to stand a chance. Everyone here is so much more… I don't even know. I mean, have you seen the boy from 10? He's a bull. I'm pretty sure he could crush me if I looked at him the wrong way."

She'd seen the boy from 10, yes. She's noticed him more than a couple times, honestly, somehow always managing to find him just as he looks her way and resulting in more than a few embarrassed stares as she quickly averts her eyes.

Riley lets her gaze drift beyond Darby, where the tributes from 10 are seated at the far table. Although they're sitting at opposite ends of the table, it's clear to her that the boy is very purposefully keeping his counterpart well within his line of sight. She's young, one of the youngest in the pack, and even though he does have a very convincing detached demeanor she can tell that he's looking out for her. He wears it on his sleeve like a badge, the tell-tale signs of being someone so trained to care for others even a situation as dire as the Games can't strip the instinct away.

He appears physically capable enough, certainly, but she has no idea what's actually underneath the hardened glare and broad shoulders.

Truthfully, she can't decide if she wants to know or not.

"I'm positive I'm going to die." Darby says the statement blankly, a declaration so profoundly forward she cannot wrap her brain around it. "That's such a strange thing to know, isn't it? That without a doubt, I'm going to die."

Riley focuses back on her new friend, seeing the fear laced through her expression despite her attempt to play it off breezily. She recognizes the dread she's been feeling since the Reaping rolled around again, that odd sense of certainty that your fate is out of your hands no matter how hard you try to negotiate with it.

She offers a sad smile, finding comradery in the tragic reality they're bound to share. "Me too."

Somehow, this honest admission does seem to make Darby feel a little bit better. She laughs in spite of herself, returning the grin before looking down to allow herself some food.

If she can assuage her fear for even a moment, then Riley figures she's making herself useful. If this really is to be her last few weeks on earth, then she decides there's no better way to go out.

Morgan vehemently disagrees with Riley's assessment of the situation.

To her aunt, she's far from a lost cause, and Riley's refusal to get tough or explore the harsh realities of what she's bound to face in the arena is excruciatingly frustrating. She finds their mentor discussions ending in an argument and an exasperated dismissal from Morgan more than a few times, and by the time they come around to scoring day it's established itself as a pattern. Despite her ability to pull a 7 from the judges for her demonstration of various survival skills, Morgan is unimpressed as the team lauds Evan's 8 and plots how to utilize this to their full advantage.

Riley doesn't question it until she's alone with her uncle once again, the two of them lingering in the common area of their suite as the styling teams head out and Evan heads to his room to freshen up before supper.

She wraps her arms around her knees, waiting for a moment to see if he will address the tension first. "Morgan hates me."

"She does not hate you," he says diplomatically, as if they're simply discussing a family matter rather than the dynamic that will make or break her survival in the Games. "You simply see things differently, that's all. You're looking at the Games with different perspectives."

"She wants me to be more violent," Riley states, hating the suggestion even just from the sound of it. She frowns, making herself smaller. "She wants me to act like more of a fighter but that's not me. It's just not. I don't even know how to do that."

Eric nods along. "I know. Believe me, I wasn't a fighter either."

"And you survived. So I don't see what the big deal is. She's acting like I'm not trying at all."

There's a long pause. Eric hums thoughtfully, propping his ankle on his knee and getting his thoughts together before he speaks again.

"Morgan had to play a very different game than I did," he explains. "For me, holding onto who I was and playing by my rules was the only way I knew I could live with myself if I somehow managed to survive. Morgan, she's not like that. She's always been tough, and much like your mother sometimes you have to be ruthless to survive the tough way. Sometimes, our way doesn't always guarantee success."

The allusion to their fallen family member goes without saying. Riley absorbs the silence, propping her chin on her knees and chewing the inside of her cheek.

"I'm not saying that Morgan is right or wrong. But she's playing the game the only way she knows how, and she wants more than anything for you to get to go home. To see you refusing what she knows is a smart strategy, that's hard for her. But she wants you to succeed as much as any of us, and I assure you she'll do whatever it takes."

Riley ruminates on this, trying to see the situation through her aunt's eyes. She's never quite understood her, but she's always respected her. She doesn't know the things she had to endure to make it out of her Games, and she's certain she'll never be able to grasp the horrors of it until she's facing it for herself. For now, all she can do is try to maintain her compassion, and learn whatever she can from her until her time is up.

"This might be the last conversation we get, kiddo," Eric admits quietly, frowning when surprise takes over her features. He tosses a glance towards Evan's wing. "There's only a couple of days left, and I know Evan is getting antsy. Regardless of how much I assure him I'm on his side, the more he sees me talking to you the less he believes I'm going to advocate for him. And you know I want you to win, I do. But I owe my best effort to him, too."

Riley can imagine how Evan must be feeling. If her mentor seemed to have ulterior motives, or worse didn't seem to care much at all, she knows it wouldn't help her confidence. Swallowing her hurt, she manages a nod.

Eric gets to his feet, holding out a hand and shaking his head. His voice betrays him, trembling as he addresses her again. "You didn't think I'd make it a goodbye without a hug, did you?"

Riley breaks into a weak smile, allowing him to pull her into a tight embrace. The two of them absorb the moment of connection in silence, Riley savoring the familiarity and the safety of it for as long as she can. Knowing she'll need plenty of it when she steps off her platform in just a couple of nights.

"You're the best the Matthews family has to offer," Eric tells her. "If anyone is going to come home stronger than before, it's going to be you. That much, I know without a doubt."

Eric has always seemed to know things by some natural gift. Riley can only hope his intuition is right in this case, allowing her the chance to survive these dangerous games and make it home in one piece.

The rest of the reprieve seems to pass in a blur. She stumbles through her interview without disaster, Caesar seemingly charmed by her natural kindness and girl-next-door innocence. She hopes the audience and sponsors were equally as impressed.

She nearly trips when she descends the steps and disappears backstage, passing by Evan without comment as he heads to the stage for his time to shine. She casts a glance towards the young girl from 10 anxiously waiting for her slot next, then up towards the stoic presence of her district counterpart behind her.

As they've managed to do all week long, his eyes meet hers the moment she's fixated on him. She doesn't shy away from this exchange, attempting to get a read on him in the brief second it takes to pass him on her way out. All she can register is that his expression is unbelievably hard to puzzle together, and his eyes are so dizzyingly green.

Then she leaves him behind, praying to whoever might be listening that she doesn't have to face him again in the arena. Because she's fairly certain if they cross paths, she's not going to make it out of another tacit exchange alive.

The morning of the Games, Riley packs up her things and ties her hair back out of her face, in the signature dual braid look her stylist deemed the perfect look to capture her natural innocence. She leaves the journal behind on her bed, committing all of the small, meaningful details of her tributes and her journey to memory before she has to leave it behind for good.

Then she joins Evan in the common area, the two of them exchanging few words as they're lead out of the building and towards the ship that will take them to the arena to begin the end of their lives.

Riley doesn't start to feel jittery until she's trapped in the departure room all alone, pacing and eyeing the clear tube that will send her up towards the playing field in a few short minutes. She tries to remember all of the beautiful things, tries to think of her uncles and her parents and Auggie to keep her head on her shoulders.

As if on cue, just as she's thinking of her strong and determined aunt she appears, stepping into the room to give her final goodbyes.

"Sorry I'm a little late," she says, keeping her eyes on the floor as she approaches. "Sure you'd much rather have Eric here."

Riley shakes her head. "It's good to have you here. I don't think anyone could send me off with as much confidence as you."

Morgan manages a smile, the comment seeming to bolster her spirits a bit. She clears her throat, reaching into her jacket and retrieving an item from the inside pocket.

"You still need your district token," she explains. She holds out the object for her. "Eric said this might be just what you need."

Riley's eyes widen as she takes the journal from her hands, having left it behind thinking she would never see it again. A small, unfamiliar pen has been tucked into the binding, one she recognizes as the one Morgan has been impatiently tapping and twirling all week long.

"I've been hard on you," Morgan admits.

She lifts her gaze from the notebook, shrugging her shoulders. "Someone had to be."

"I think Eric is right," she continues, swallowing hard. She takes the journal back and unzips Riley's jacket, searching for the inside pocket and securing the token inside where it will travel safely. It rests against her chest right above her heart, emphasizing the frantic pounding of it against her rib cage. "I don't want you to forget who you are. You're not me, and I didn't acknowledge that like I should have."

"You were a great mentor," Riley assures her.

"That doesn't matter now. What I'm trying to say is…" Morgan exhales harshly, searching for the words. She takes Riley's shoulders, gripping them tightly as the speaker overhead warns her that she has one minute remaining to board the tube. "People change in the arena. All that humanity you saw may not exist the moment you step off those platforms. I know mine went away fast enough."

Riley swallows, trying not to let her fear get the best of her. The way her limbs are trembling aren't a promising indicator. She hopes she doesn't pass out again.

"I don't want you to ever experience that the way I did. So remember your humanity. Don't play my game, don't play Eric's. Play yours. That's what is going to bring you back home to us." She locks eyes with her, glossed over with tears. "And you are coming home to us."

"30 seconds," the intercom intones, crackling overhead.

Riley doesn't have the time to thank her properly. She doesn't have the time and she doesn't have the words, so she settles for a hug instead. It's tight, stiff, one of the first she's shared with her aunt in years. But somehow, it's exactly what she needs.

"Gotta go," she breathes when she pulls apart, willing herself to have a fraction of her confidence. A fraction of Eric's ingenuity, her father's optimism, Josh's effortless charm. "I have a legacy to uphold."

Morgan manages a smile, tapping her chin affectionately one last time. Then she lets her go, Riley taking the short march to the transport cylinder just in time to slip inside before it locks her away.

She gets one more boost of confidence from the pride in her aunt's expression. Then the world dissolves into darkness as the platform begins to ascend, sending her up towards the rest of the Games and transforming the confidence into adrenaline.

She's not another statistic in a long list of child sacrifices sent here to be slaughtered. She's not going to become someone she's not. She's Riley Matthews, daughter of Cory and Topanga, and she has the best parts of both of them. She has the best parts of all of her family, but it's her own determination that is going to keep her alive.

The sun is tantalizingly bright as she is elevated into the arena for the first time, so overwhelming that she's temporarily blinded. All she can make out is the sound of the clock, counting down her last moments of sanity before the whole world as she knows it erupts into chaos.

Riley exhales a deep breath, willing herself to be bold as the gong rings in her ears.

Let the Games begin.

A/N: Happy Ficmas, day 4! Once upon a time, I started this AU with the intention of it being my 2018 project. Then I updated about once every three months, and made a joke at the end of my last update that I hopefully wouldn't be gone longer than three months.

Now it's been six months. Haha, so funny. Love that.

ANYWAY, I was determined to update this fic as part of Ficmas and get us out of Part 1 before 2018 came to a close. So now I can happily declare that we'll be jumping into the arena when we jump into 2019, and I for one am pretty excited.

If you're still around, thanks for being so patient. :) Now baby, let the Games begin...