District Seven Justice Building
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.

Juniper Anatole, 16
District Seven Male Tribute

I justifiably blame my mom for a lot of things: my parents' divorce, my general discontentment, my mental health. And now, I can add my impending death to the ever-growing list. If she learned to keep her legs closed, I wouldn't have a half-brother who was reaped for the Hunger Games, and if he never existed, I wouldn't be eligible for this twist. I wonder if she even cares that I've been reaped, or if she's just out getting pregnant again.

"You have a visitor," one of the Peacekeepers says. I don't think it's standard to have two Peacekeepers in the room with the selected tribute; hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they're here because they view me as a threat.

Maybe I am.

"Let them in." I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs casually on the wooden table. "After all, I'm on dead man's time here."

It's my dad. I really shouldn't be surprised that he's my first—maybe my only—visitor, especially since I'm the last of his family still alive. (At least, for the time being.) We share many similar physical traits: a pale, almost ghastly, complexion; dark brown, borderline black, hair; light gray eyes; and an alarmingly skinny figure. I'm forever happy I inherited most of my looks from him; my mom has had enough influence on my life already, even in her absence.

"Juniper." My dad's voice cracks. I've seen him cry before, but I've never been the cause of it. My smile falters a bit. "I'm so sorry."

"Dad, it's fine." I move my legs off the table; it feels inappropriate now. "It's not your fault."

"But if I just—"

"No, it's not your fault!" I run my hand through my hair. "If Hebe wasn't such a whore, I wouldn't be in this situation."

"Your mother is sorry—"

"Wait, you talked to her?" I stand up to my full height. I might only be an inch taller than my dad, but I hope I intimidate him enough. "Did you talk to her before you came here?"

"Well, I just thought—"

"Unbelievable," I scoff. "You're so frekain' naïve that you don't even realize she's using you! She's bad for you, Dad."

"When did you become the parent?"

"When you started making stupider decisions that me." I snort, shaking my head. "Is she here right now?"

His silence is enough of an answer.

"She doesn't expect to see me, does she?" I'm conflicted about whether I want to laugh from disbelief or scream at his stupidity. "Oh, that's never going to happen."

"She wants to apologize."

"Apologize! She doesn't even care!"

"She cares!" I open my mouth to interrupt, but he stops me. "No, you've spoken enough; it's my turn. You haven't given her a chance since the divorce, you haven't seen her try to reconcile with you because you were too stubborn. And now, she's here, trying to apologize for something she truly is not responsible for, but you won't let her—that's all on you."

"Whatever you want to think. Just let me know if she's there for you when I die, or if she'll disappear like when Amara killed herself."

Sylvie Linden, 36
District Seven Mentor
Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games

I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or if there's even anything to do at all. The mentors—well, just Matvei and I—hop on the train once the reaping concludes to start discussing a general strategy, to determine who will advise which one, to calculate how much money could be scavenged from last year. But what's the protocol when your daughter is reaped? Do you join the rest of the family and visit her in the Justice Building, or do you merely say your goodbyes separately in the Capitol?

I walk towards the train. Bryony was reaped because of me, because of my reckless decisions. I doomed her to an early demise, and I can't face her, let alone the rest of my family, with that knowledge. She deserves to know, just . . . not yet.

"I didn't think you'd be here so quick," Matvei says, downing the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. "Why aren't you with your family?"

"I just didn't want to deal with it." I move towards a couch besides the mini-bar. "Not right now, anyways."

"Ah, is this about the Daedalus situation?" I freeze mid-stride. "What? You don't think people know about it?"

"And what do you know?"

"That you and Daedalus were a thing back in the day, and every year, you two sneak off to a secluded room do 'the dirty.'"

I chuckle and sit down on the couch. "Oh, you're still so young. You should learn, sooner or later, that rumors are almost never true."

"No, they're usually not, but there's always some truth to them." He sits in the chair adjacent to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "So why don't you tell me what's real."

"You've changed since—"

"Stop deflecting." His raised tone throws me off. He's never yelled at me before. "Just tell me what happened."

"Okay, fine." I take a deep breath. "Emrys—you know, my husband—broke up with me before my Victory Tour. He couldn't take all the cameras and interviews and stuff, so he left me. Then, when I was in District Two, I met this man, same age as me, who was charming and nice and considerate. He told me that he was grateful the escort didn't select him as the volunteer, because he didn't want to be my enemy. One thing led to another, and, next thing I know, I'm waking up in his bed, late for my train, naked."

"You knew him before he was victor?"

"Honey, I'm the reason he was reaped." I sigh. "When I was late for the train, I ruined the schedule for the rest of the day. Three weeks later, I found out I was pregnant."

"With Bryony," he confirms. "So Bryony is Daedalus' child?"

"Yes," I nod, blinking the tears out of my eyes. "I had already gotten back with Emrys, so I pretended like it was his child. Bryony looks so much like me, nobody asked about the father. But somehow, someway, President Quain found out because Daedalus was reaped when he wasn't eligible."

"I thought he volunteered?"

"He was coerced into volunteering." The first tear rolls down my cheek. "The only child he had at the time was Bryony, and— and—" I take a deep breath to compose myself. I can't be hysterical now, not when the tributes—when my daughter—could arrive at any moment. "And, I just . . ."

"What?"

"Is it bad that I regret keeping the pregnancy?"

Bryony Linden, 17
District Seven Female Tribute

"You know your mother is going to blame herself for this," my dad murmurs in my hair. I stay frozen in his arms. I don't want my parents to blame themselves for this situation, much less my possible death. "So I need you to be there for her, to make her believe she's not at fault for this. And I need you to win for her."

"Dad, I can't—"

"No, I know, that's a big promise to make, but I need you to try your absolute hardest to come back home."

"I will, Dad." I take a deep breath. "I promise."

We stay locked in each other's arms for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes; I don't know how long, but time seems to freeze. His shoulder is much damper than it was before from my tears, and I know his sniffling isn't from allergies. For a moment, we're not in the Justice Building anymore; instead, we're in my bedroom, sobbing over the death of our family dog. I thought that was the most devastating thing that could happen to me, but I was wrong, gravely wrong.

"Mister Linden, your time is up," a Peacekeeper says, barging into the room. He turns towards me. "You have another visitor."

"I love you, Brie," he whispers one last time before following the Peacekeeper out the door.

My mouth hangs wide open as the next visitor enters the room. Her platinum blonde hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, styled in a bob cut, and she dyed a few strands of her bangs violet. Her hazel eyes look dull and lifeless under the light, her posture is slouched and defeated, and the fresh cut on her lips suggests she was recently in a fight. She no longer looks like the girl I dated nearly a year ago; instead, she's a ghost.

"What are you doing here?" I eventually ask, leaning-slash-sitting against the central table and crossing my arms. "No, why are you here?"

"You were reaped."

"You don't say." My tone is heavy with sarcasm. "Have any other incredible discoveries?"

"I miss you."

"Did you tell your boyfriend that?"

"He's not my—"

"Oh, so the cheaters didn't last. Can't say I'm surprised," I scoff. "So what, you're here now to apologize? Because you think I'm stupid enough to come back to you?"

"My family knows." I raise my eyebrow. "Brie, my family knows."

"About . . ."

"About us." Tears swell in our eyes. "They know that we were together, that we were 'lezzing out' and—"

"'Lezzing out?' Are you serious?"

"Yes, and they . . ." she sighs. "Well, they kicked me out, and I didn't know where to go, and I just thought that— that you could . . . I don't know, help?"

"Because I don't have enough going on right now?" I laugh, wholeheartedly laugh until my stomach hurts. "You're so freakin' selfish, do you realize that? I'm literally forced to fight to the death in the Hunger Games, and you think I'm going to prioritize you because you had a fight with your parents?"

"I know you're leaving, but your family—"

"Is going through a lot as well." I stand up, turning my back towards her. "Get out of here. I can't even stand to look at you."

"I hope you die," she mumbles as she heads to the door.

"At least I'll die knowing I had a roof to live under and a family that loved me."

She slams the door behind her.

Author Note: None

Next Chapter: Be Honest (D8 Justice Building)