I hope I did this justice. It was one of the harder ones to write and then edit because I have so thoroughly destroyed Massie and I'm trying to put her back together. I hope I expressed her confusion well, so if you are confused or uneasy as you read this, that is the point.

Derrick is here, though, and we love him, so hopefully that makes up for his previous absence.


Let's Kill (Tonight)
Part Nine


focus | ˈfōkəs
verb
pay particular attention to
synonyms: concentrate, fix, center, pinpoint, zero in, zoom in


It's not hard to get Massie ready for the Capitol.

She can toot her own horn as much as she wants, can be called conceited and full of herself, but it's not wrong if it's true. She's pretty. She's well-fed. She has ample opportunities to gorge, to exercise, to pick and choose when and what she wants to eat. She knows other districts are not given the same privileges, but she does not live there and so she does not care. Not really.

Mainly this just means Jakkob doesn't have to spend hours on her appearance. Massie cares about that. Has to, in a district like One, where beautiful things are coveted. So she is only wakened from her sleep an hour before she has to board the train to the Capitol. She can even doze, though her mind is more tired than her body, while she is worked on.

She feels Jakkob pulling at her hair, feels the applying of blush to her cheeks, feels the brush of lipstick to her mouth.

Twenty minutes in, Cam enters, hands shoved in his pockets. His cheeks are pink, and his face is pale—paler than usual—and his pupils are blown: all signs of him drinking much more than he should have. Massie knows William must look no better, because it's not like Cam would drink alone. And even if he planned to, her father would have joined, because that is the kind of thing they do together.

That, and she remembers the end of their conversation as she fell asleep earlier.

Have a drink with me. There's a lot you need to know before we get to the Capitol.

So the look on his face is not so much the look of a person who'd had two glasses of whiskey too many. It's the look of that, but more: it's the look of a person who's heard too much, who knows too much. It's the look of a person who now knows someone else's secrets.

Massie averts her gaze, closes her eyes when prompted, and says, "Hello."

"Hey," he says, and she can tell he's trying too hard. "How are you feeling?"

"A little tired," she tells him. He wants to hear this, she remembers, even though it pains her to admit the tiniest weakness. "But I'll be fine. Just have to wake up a bit more."

"We can," Cam starts, a little shaken, though she can't imagine why. He's not the one with a slight hold on his mind. "We can make sure you don't have that issue later, if you'll let us."

Massie flutters an eye open, ruining an impeccably made lid, and looks him head-on. "How?"

"Your dad has…" Cam clears his throat. "He has trackerjacker honey, if you'd like it. We understand if you don't. Most people don't like it, but it's kind of a… it's desired in the Capitol, if you will, so no one will be appalled if you're on it, and it's known to keep the mind in focus—"

"Focus on one thing," Massie interjects. "Sometimes that one thing is not what you want to be focusing on, though."

Cam blanches. Or he would, if it were possible for him to do so. He's already white as a sheet, fingers tap-tap-tapping away on the arm of the chair he's sitting in. "We'll make sure you focus on what's important," he promises.

She doesn't respond to that, merely shuts her eyes again, and asks, "How are you doing?"

"Fine." The word sounds strangled. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem troubled," she murmurs.

She doesn't see it, but he runs a pained hand through his hair. His gaze darts from her to the wall and back. He swallows. "I am, I guess," he admits. "I just—it's important you know that when we get to the Capitol, you won't really recognize me."

"And why is that?"

They're coloring her brows now. Making them darker, more pronounced. She thinks she hears them mentioning something about jewels. She really hopes not. Every one of her looks has incorporated them and she's kind of sick of it.

"I'm different there," Cam says. "We all are. The Victors. We have to be what they want us to be, what they expect. What they… what they've paid for."

Massie sniffs. "And I'm guessing they haven't paid for the version of you I know, then?"

There is a pause, and then, "No. They rarely pay for who you really are."

"Who are you, that they've paid for?"

Cam answers, "You'll see," after too long a silence.

She reads between the lines: I don't want you to.

"Are you worried?" she questions, dropping the subject. A brush presses to the side of her face, along her cheekbone, and she wonders what it's doing there. "About me, I mean, and my… about me."

"A little, yes," Cam says. "Not that I'm worried you can't handle yourself, because you can, but because I do not think the Capitol can handle you."

She wonders if that means she is too easily angered, too easily riled. If she is too fragile, too breakable. Too… temperamental.

The design they are a painting into her skin swirls up to her temple; something is glued to the lines there, probably the diamonds and sapphires and rubies she's grown accustomed to.

She flutters her lashes, hoping she doesn't ruin whatever Jakkob and his team have painstakingly drawn there, and catches the tension and agony in Cam's face, his eyes, his shoulders.

Even though her body screams against her, even though her mind says no no no NO, even though it is against everything she's ever known, ever been, Massie announces, "When I'm done here, I'll take the honey. If you'll help me focus on what I'm supposed to focus on."

Fleeting memories of trackerjacker venom and blood and gleaming tridents and sharp axe blades send a tremor of terror down her spine, but she breathes through them, pressing her palms to her thighs. She will take this if it means it will put everyone, herself included, a bit more at ease.

And it does. Though it does not do it for her.

Cam deflates, like all the air has been released from him, and he slumps against the chair. He still seems worried, but she chalks it up to him being a good mentor. Sorry, a good friend. He pulls a smile from somewhere deep down, meeting her gaze. "Of course," he replies. "I'll make sure you're perfectly safe."

She trusts he will, but she's not sure how capable she is... which is probably not the first step she should be taking. She breathes again, centers herself, and wills a sense of calm through her veins.

It lasts through the day. The question, though, is if it will last the night. If it is strong enough to survive once the trackerjacker venom takes over her body.

...

The look, when her team is done: Skin paler than she actually is, lips matte purple. Her eyeliner is stunning, black and long, wings sharp, sharp, sharp, like they can break skin if used as a weapon. From the outer corner of her eye to her temple, the liner continues, pearls and emeralds glued to her skin in a pattern that makes her seem more serpentine than human. It shimmers. It threatens. It could kill. Maybe that's the point.

Her dress is white, sheer and short, with a mock neckline and willow bell sleeves. It is cute, with its lace trim and cutouts around the waist, and it fits her. Not in the way that it hugs her body and leaves nothing to the imagination, which it does, but in the way that she knows before-Massie would wear it. She is almost certain there is something like this gathering dust in her closet. She is even more certain she will come back from her Tour and throw it away.

...

Her father mixes the trackerjacker honey with peanut butter and makes her a sandwich. He even cuts it into eighths to make sure she doesn't mess up her makeup.

Bit by bit, Massie consumes it. It is as sweet as normal honey is, if not a bit more, and Massie has a hard time finishing the whole thing. Her teeth seem to have a layer of sugar along them that no amount of water or milk can remove.

Cam does not let go of her hand, does not let her look away from him—not the entire time she is at home, not the walk to the train, not the ride to the Capitol. He tells her over and over how she should act, what she should do, words she should say.

Polite. Charming. Accommodating.

Dance when asked to dance. Laugh when the opportunity arises. Smile, smile, smile.

Men will touch more than they are supposed to. Women will ask for secrets. Let the men do what they want. Give the women nothing. If she gets too uncomfortable, there are ways to excuse herself: say she needs the restroom, go for a refill, find a face she knows. There will be other Victors at this party; she may have never met them, but they are on the lookout for a startled newcomer who may be in need of saving.

Remember these names: Alicia Rivera, Todd Lyons, Josh Hotz.

Say them back to me, Massie.

Alicia Rivera, Todd Lyons, Josh Hotz.

Fawn will be there. Avoid her. She does not have your best interests at heart.

If you see me, ignore me. I am not who you think I am there. I am not—I am your friend, but I have other business to attend to. Remember—

Alicia Rivera, Todd Lyons, Josh Hotz. I know.

Good.

How do you feel?

I'm okay. Wait. No. I'm not. Cam, what's—

Shh. Shh. Breathe.

Massie doesn't think she can. Her throat is clogged, her nose is stuffed, her chest is down for the count. She feels all of her ribs, every single one, and her heart beats too hard for her to calm it down. It wants to break them all, one by one, until her insides are a bloody, messy pulp.

And when she blinks down at her hands, at her wrists, at the sleeves of her dress, she sees that it is not just her chest that is a bloody, messy pulp, but the rest of her, too. She lets out a strangled sound, digs her nails into her palms, tiny half-moons that actually do break skin, even though she's certain she's already covered in the sticky liquid—

Cam.

Cam.

Cam.

It's not real. You're not hurt. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

I'm not.

I'm not.

I'm not. Cam, I'm not.

Look. Look at me. Look at my hands. Look at yours.

Massie does. She sees his face, brows furrowed, mouth a thin line, eyes duller than she's ever known them, colored with concern. His fingers are wrapped around hers, pale pale pale, just skin and bone, and so are hers, twisted around his, a bit darker. She looks, she looks, she looks—and then she knows. This is true, this is real, this is what is right. There is no blood, there is no pain. There is just what is in her head, and what is in her head, she knows, cannot be this.

Okay.

What do you see?

Nothing. Just hands.

Good. Focus on that. Focus on normality. Focus on—

My Games, my winning, on being annoyed that I am not the only Victor.

What else?

Being nice. Being polite, and charming, and accommodating, and smiling, and laughing, and dancing when I am supposed to.

Yes.

The terror recedes, hides away, though Massie knows, somewhere deep in her, she is afraid of forgetting one of those things. Of—doing wrong, somehow, and President Myner finding out. But he's not just the president, is he? He's her godfather, too, not that it matters, because he'll hurt her like he seems to hurt everyone else—

Stop. Massie, stop.

Stop what?

That is not the road you want to go down. Not tonight. Not like this. Stop thinking like that. You'll be fine.

How do you know what I'm thinking?

I know you.

And what am I thinking?

You know you're not supposed to focus on it. I'm not going to humor you tonight. Tell me something else. Anything else.

Like what?

Something you know from your Games.

Soft, like she's unsure she should bring it up: What if I'm wrong about it?

You won't be.

And so Massie tells him, and she is so frazzled, so overcome with the honey and her fears that she is unaware she is telling him two different versions of the same Games, is unaware that somewhere along the line, she's started living two lives.

Real Massie and Capitol-made Massie are fighting for dominance within her. They have been this whole time, but tonight feels like it is do or die. Tonight feels... it feels final, and that adds to her anxiety. To her confusion. She feels that, can't place a name to it, and continues speaking.

Cam merely nods, listens. He does not correct her. He merely emphasizes the parts she needs to know to survive the night, even though she doesn't know he's doing so. She lets him reinforce these memories. Lets him coax her back into a serene state of mind, keeping the frenzy of the trackerjacker venom from causing too much stress and panic, from manifesting into its most terrifying form of hallucinations.

Better?

Yes.

Tell me about your Games again.

Massie does.

It is the same as before.

For the two hours it takes to get to the Capitol, Cam talks to Massie about her time in the arena. He slips in and twists memories, has her focusing on things that will make her indifferent and angry at her co-Victor. She stumbles a few times, tells him things like I trusted him and I really couldn't have killed him, but he takes those and expels them from her mind. She doesn't know it makes him feel guilty and dirty, and it shouldn't, not really. Trying to help her survive a night and a man that's truly out to get her should not make him feel any type of way.

Before they enter the presidential mansion, he asks How do you feel? It is not about her wellbeing, not about her actual feelings about being there, but about—

Annoyed, she says. Annoyed that I have to share this with someone else.

Cam closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, they have a certain gleam to them that is not normal for the man she knows, but she is hardly in a state of mind to be that concerned about it. He murmurs Good and presses his mouth to her forehead, an action she has become more and more accustomed to in the past few weeks.

He takes her hand, squeezes it, drops it. Takes it again.

They enter the mansion in solidarity.

That lasts mere moments: As soon as they cross the threshold, entering the foyer, they are ripped violently apart, and Massie is left with the ghost of Cam's hand in her own.

He winks at her, pulled deeper into the thrall by someone in a shimmering gold dress and purple flowers tattooed down the right side of her face. Massie's arm is now clutched by a deeply tanned woman, red dress clinging to her like a second skin, long dark hair curled and pulled into an updo. She doesn't even introduce herself.

Massie avoids flinching, avoids shaking at the unfamiliar touch, and wishes Cam never left her. Wishes he never had to be someone he is not, especially when she needs him to be someone he is.

Even more so—stronger, more uncomfortable, wrong, wrong, wrong—she wishes Derrick were here, at her side. He'd know what to do. What to say. She seems unable to do either.

This makes her sick.

...

Or maybe that is just the fact that she's eaten nothing but that sandwich and some fruit today.

...

Thankfully her kidnapper has the common sense to get her to a bathroom before she can vomit all over their shoes.

...

The gods are smiling down on her apparently.

Her kidnapper is named Alicia Rivera.

Alicia Rivera is one of the people Massie must remember.

Alicia Rivera is on her side.

...

"Oh my god, are you done yet?"

Alicia Rivera, as it seems, is also incredibly mean.

...

Massie is, in fact, not done yet.

...

"They're going to notice you're not there," Alicia advises.

"It's my party," Massie retorts between bouts of dry heaving. "I can make a goddamn entrance."

"Yeah, because this is an image they want." Alicia scoffs. "A crazy girl covered in tears and her own vomit. Happy Victory Tour!"

Massie shoots a glare at her, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. It comes back purple, covered in saliva. She'd forgotten about her lipstick. Forgotten about all of her makeup, to be honest. She must look a wreck. "I'm not crazy," she snaps.

"Sure." Alicia swings her legs from where she sits on the sink. "That's definitely what they will not think when you walk in there like this."

Massie groans, pressing her forehead to the porcelain. "Why are you even here if you're not going to be helpful?"

"I'm supposed to be helpful during the party," Alicia replies. "This is not that." She purses her lips, frowning at Massie's disheveled form. "But you're so pitiful and sad-looking that I'll help you before that."

"Wow," Massie mumbles, deadpan. "Thanks so much."

"Welcome!" Alicia chirps.

Massie coughs over the toilet though nothing comes out. She gags and gags, throat burning, stomach contracting, hands gripping the seat. She pulls in a deep breath, insides churning over the stench of her own vomit—remnants of a sandwich and strawberries and is that coffee?—and pushes herself away. All she wants to do is lay on the cold floor until she's better. It feels like the room is spinning.

Alicia stands over her, stunningly pretty in the harsh, fluorescent light. "Are you done now?"

"I want to go home," she says, even though she doesn't know what home is to her. She doesn't want to go back to her house in One, that's for sure, but she doesn't want to be here either.

"No can do, sweet pea." Alicia even looks a bit sad for her, but that can't be right. "Come on, get up. Let me see what I can do about your face."

"Is it bad?"

"No," Alicia answers, grabbing Massie's hands and lifting. "Your stylist either uses incredible setting spray or he was prepared for something like this. It's just your lipstick really. I don't have that color, but I think I have something that works just as well."

Massie lets this stranger fix her makeup, focusing on her blinking and her breathing.

When she blinks, everything is blurry. When she breathes, she is overcome with nausea.

When she blinks, everything is upside down. When she breathes, she chokes on seemingly nothing.

When she blinks, everything is duplicated. When she breathes, she feels her heart sputter to a stop and then start again, like a race car.

"In through the nose, out through the mouth," Alicia says softly. She dabs a pinky-red color to Massie's lips after rubbing off the remainder of the purple. "I used to do TJ. I know what it's like. Let me know if you start seeing things, okay?"

Massie nods.

Alicia blends Massie's foundation back into her skin, rubs powder to cover it, and adds a pop of color to her pale cheeks with a blush that Massie is too proud to tell Alicia reminds her of blood. When she's done, Massie looks like a person again.

"Alright." The other girl holds out her hand. "Ready to go?"

Massie frowns at the proffered palm, the skin lightening just a tad. It's still tanned, but it's bigger now, fingers longer, thicker, covered in calluses. The arm it is attached to is wrapped with corded muscle, a jacket sleeve pushed up to the elbow. Massie's gaze follows the black fabric to the shoulder and then up the neck to the face, where she sees—

She stumbles back, almost tripping over her heels. That hand grabs hers, holds tight, keeps her upright, and Derrick's mouth—because that's who she sees—moves to form the syllables of her name—

"What is it?" Alicia asks. "Massie, what do you see?"

"Nothing," Massie says. "I don't see anything."

But she can't get Derrick's face out of her mind, can't look at Alicia right now without seeing him. Wants the girl's hand out of hers because she feels Derrick's, and she shouldn't.

She shouldn't be seeing him. Shouldn't be having any thoughts like this whatsoever. The point of the honey was to keep her focused on her task at hand: pleasing Myner, making it through this party, being the Victor everyone wants her to be. Being the Victor she should be. Derrick does not fit in that equation—maybe a mean Derrick, a vicious Derrick, but not the one she blinked into existence a moment ago. Not the one she fell in love with under a simulated sky, surrounded by bodies they felled together.

No, she is not the Victor she needs to be. She's the Victor that's managed to take four steps into the mansion and vomit in the bathroom for what felt like several hours.

Really fucking excellent.

Just what she needs.

"Stop looking at me like that," Massie says, ruder than she anticipated. "Let's go."

Alicia looks at her—like really looks at her, squinting into her soul—and doesn't seem too perturbed by Massie's tone or sudden one-eighty. "You'll be okay," she tells her. "I was scared to be here, too, when I won."

"I'm not scared," Massie retorts. Lie. "I have an—"

"Appearance to maintain?" Alicia suggests. "We all do. I understand."

"You don't," Massie insists. "There is more on the line for me than there was you. I am one of two—"

"Funnily enough I know who you are, Massie Block," Alicia interrupts again. "And I also know what's at stake. Do not dismiss the people who want to help you." She grips Massie's hand again, just a bit too tightly, and smiles, thin and severe. "A bit of advice, too, before you meet anyone else: never imply you have it worse off than another Victor. You know nothing of winning."

Massie feels another wave of nausea crash over her as Alicia shoves the bathroom door open. The sounds of people mingling in rooms beyond them... it is more like the screaming she remembers from the arena. The cannons. It is not the laughter and animated chatting she knows it to be. She can't find it. Needs to take a moment to compose herself to hear it again, to expel the pained screeches of the other tributes. Of her victims.

"I think I may know one thing about it," she mumbles.

"Maybe just one," Alicia agrees, watching her, and then they are in the thick of it all.

...

Massie hates it immediately.

...

She meets Vice President Robbins, a man with eyes too blue to be real. He shakes her hand, tells her how darling she is, and she feels his gaze as she walks away, settling on the dip in her back.

She accepts a champagne flute from some chatty woman dripping in diamonds. She tells her things Massie doesn't care for, tells her things Massie does—but she can't remember them, has no capacity to remember them—and when Massie is pulled away to meet someone else, the woman recites her son's phone number and address, hoping Massie will deign to meet with him. Massie does not even bother to pretend she will.

She catches a glimpse of her father, at Myner's side. They are talking, but Myner is watching her intently, like he cannot wait to see her mess up. It makes zero sense how he is not only friends with her father, but supposedly someone who cares about her. She doesn't allow herself to dwell on it, though, because that's not a thought Cam told her to focus on. It is still, unfortunately, rather unsettling.

That feeling wraps itself around her heart and squeezes, burrows into her and finds a home.

It multiplies, increases, strengthens when she spots Cam, and what she sees makes her so upset she's certain she's going to start screaming, but she doesn't. She averts her gaze, trying to scrub her memory clean, but it is still there. Her hands shake. She balls them into fists.

She accepts another champagne flute.

And then another.

And another.

She is about to take another when—

She is dizzy when she dances with Head Peacekeeper Davis, who grabs her ass and presses their hips together so tightly it makes Massie gnash her teeth together. Her mouth vibrates with the force, teeth slipping and sliding until she bites down hard on her bottom lip. Copper blossoms on her tongue. She gasps, mouth stinging.

Davis's face looms over hers, interested in the tiny sound she made, and she wants him to move move move, but he doesn't, and he morphs into Skye Hamilton from District Two, who sneers nastily at her, eyes gleaming with the desire to hurt her. It doesn't make sense, it's not supposed to, she guesses, and Skye says you don't even smile. Does Skye want her to smile? Should she smile? Cam said she should always be smiling why isn't she smiling why are Skye's hands on her like this and why are they going lower and wait this isn't Skye no it is the Head Peacekeeper and he is trying to slide beneath her dress in front of everyone make it stop why won't it stop why won't she talk she can't open her mouth oh my god oh no this isn't something she is supposed to allow it's not in the rules where is Cam where is Alicia where are the people she's supposed to look out for—

On their own accord, Massie's palms press against the man's chest, against the rough feel of his shirt. They travel up, slowly, tantalizingly, like she's enjoying this, like she wants it, but she's zeroing in on Davis's neck. Her vision is red, her body is trembling, his hands are where they should not be, and hers are about to wrap around his throat and squeeze.

No no no no no no no no no now there is another set of hands around her, gripping her waist no no no no no no no no let go no no no no no everyone let go everyone let go everyone let go please please please but wait these hands are—are pulling her backwards? Away? Against a chest? She doesn't want to be against it please don't make her be against it now she's not that's nice thank you.

She hears a snarled I believe that's enough and then she is being gently led away from the dance floor, past the buffet tables, and through the swinging double doors. It is only when she is outside, in the gardens, that she can breathe again, that she can see again.

And the first thing she sees: Derrick Harrington's fingers against the inside of her elbow.

And the first thing she does: Punch him straight in the face.

...

Or she tries.

...

Derrick Harrington's hand is faster than her fist. He catches it, fingers warm and callused like she remembered earlier, why did she remember them earlier, and he squeezes her right there and at her hip, where his other hand is. How had she never noticed that? How long has it been? Where is she?

"You cut your hair," Derrick Harrington murmurs. His eyes look over her hungrily, like she is something he wants to eat. No. Like she is something he wants to remember. There are two different kinds of hunger, Massie realizes.

She doesn't have a good enough response, just, "It was getting too long." And that is true. She hated it on that train, the way it laid on her back, pressed against her neck. The way it suffocated her. But seeing the way he looks at her, feeling his hand that travels from her stomach to her neck… she wonders if she should have kept it.

Then she remembers he has no say over her. He is nothing.

Nothing—

Nothing but the most beautiful person she's ever seen, and Massie has spent the past several months living with Cam Fisher.

Derrick tousles her hair and for one brief moment she is worried Jakkob's immaculate bun will be ruined. "It looks nice like this," he says. "But I liked it before, too."

Suddenly she wishes her hair were long again, just so he can tangle his fingers through it. Just so he can pull—

Massie clears her throat very suddenly and peers up at him again. She is confused by what she knows and what she's seeing. She isn't supposed to like him, right? Why does she?

"Thank you," she croaks. It's the best she can do.

His eyes twinkle. They remind her of the stars hovering above them, shimmering, shining, beautiful, and she swallows roughly, wishing he'd let go of her. She needs to be away, away, away. She wants to be close, close, close. What should she do?

This is not good. Not good not good not good. She needs to remember. Remember.

It hits her, right then: He tried to kill her.

He killed Kemp. He killed Landon. He killed Skye. He killed Ripple.

All of this makes sense. It does. Don't ask her to explain though. She doesn't think she can. She just knows he did some of these things, but not one. But which one? Which one didn't he do? Kill Ripple. He didn't kill Ripple. She knows this, Cam told her, and Cam doesn't lie, but she is still confused. Who didn't he kill? Who didn't he kill—

(Kemp. Skye. Ripple.)

(He didn't kill Kemp, Skye, or Ripple.)

(Massie, he didn't kill Kemp, Skye, or Ripple.)

(Who did?)

(You did.)

(I didn't kill Ripple.)

(No, but you killed Kemp and Skye.)

(No. No, I didn't.)

(Massie, you did.)

"Massie," he says, and he says it like a prayer.

Her heart starts, stutters, stops. She sees what they want her to see: a murderer, someone who took Kemp from her, who was important, who mattered. Someone who killed people left and right to make sure he made it to the very end, and Massie… Massie sees it all, sees it, and she—

Isn't that what the Games are about? No matter who you are, if you're cocky and confident, if you're scared and small, if you're big and brash… every year they throw you in an arena and tell you to kill, a reminder that children were dying years ago due to the mistakes of their adults, of their parents, of their government… and every year, only one comes out, and it doesn't matter if you're cocky and confident, if you're scared and small, if you're big and brash. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

It escapes her suddenly.

It escapes, that curtain over her memories, the things she knows and the things she doesn't. She sees him, standing right there, and she sees him again, standing in the arena. She sees blood, and bone, and death, and she sees a boy who has not created any of that. She sees—she sees herself.

He is there, too, of course. He is always there, as a tribute in the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games, and he is always there in her mind, as an enemy, as someone she should defeat, as, as, as, as—

Massie Block killed seven people in the arena. She killed the girl from Twelve, the boy from Twelve, the girl from Seven, the girl from Two, the girl from Six, the girl from Five, the boy from One.

Derrick Harrington killed six people in the arena. He killed the boy from Ten, the girl from Nine, the boy from Nine, the boy from Two, the boy from Six, the boy from Eleven.

They are the scariest tributes anyone has seen. Apart they are basic, like any other kid in the arena—six and seven kills are nothing, not when there are people like Cam Fisher, and William Block, and Nathan Biggs, and Kristen Gregory, and Dylan Marvil out there—but together… together, because that is where Massie and Derrick should be—together, they are frightening and threatening and murderous.

Together…

Together…

Together…

Together, Massie and Derrick would do whatever it takes.

Together, they mattered more.

Together—

All she wanted to give Kemp the glory he deserved.

All she wanted to prove them all wrong.

All she wanted, all she wants, is standing right in front of her.

"Derrick," she replies, and she is shaking his fingers from her, but he won't let her, tightening his grip. And it doesn't matter that his own hands are against his face, that she is stumbling back against a bench, that he is hovering over her, knees digging into the wood at either side of her thighs.

His nose brushes hers. Their intertwined hands are right there, pressed against him, pressed against her, and he says—he says—he says, "Fuck, I missed you so much," and Massie is—

Massie is condemning herself to something she knows will only ruin her in the end, but his mouth is worth it, if she remembers it correctly.

She doesn't respond, just presses her lips to his, and the fire in her stomach builds and builds and builds, overtakes her, sets her aflame, burns her skin and creates a new one. A new one that has her gasping, biting down on his lower lip, taking her hands as her own, running them through his hair, flipping them, straddling him, slanting her mouth just so

His fingers brand themselves into her hips.

She hadn't realized he'd shoved her dress up so much to dig into her skin, his fingerprints burning burning burning.

She hadn't realized that she started crying, either.

He kisses those away, her tears, pulling away to hold her face in his hands.

"No," she exclaims.

"There's time," he promises.

Massie stares at him, devours him, like he does her, and she sniffles. He is the same, but different: gold is threaded through his hair, green eclipses the brown in his eyes, bronze is spread through his skin when he doesn't need it. He is so pretty, so stunningly attractive that it makes her mouth dry quickly. Efficiently.

This is not the boy she knew before though. None of this was part of him. He had hair the color of the sun, eyes the color of caramel, and skin the kind of color that only comes from spending a lot of time outdoors. He'd been perfect then, but he is more so now, and Massie loves it, loves him, but—

She presses her mouth to his again, the one thing they couldn't change the feel of, even if they can change how he kisses. It's hard to explain, even as she is doing it, even as she is changing her course of action to match his more dominant one. She is aware there have been other people he's kissed, other people he's touched, even without anyone telling her. He's amazing, and he's perfect, and he has had months of pleasing his sponsors, and Massie knows, suddenly, with utmost clarity, that the way he's had to pay them back is different from that of other Victors.

She remembers that one letter.

She'd crushed it in her fist, annoyed by him not knowing he had to give back to the people who spent so much money on him.

She thinks, now, that maybe she was annoyed because she knew what he'd have to do, being as beautiful as he is.

She wonders, very idly, as he presses his mouth along her jaw, if she will have to do the same.

The way he looks at her, like he's never seen anything as perfect, as beautiful, as right, as she is… She knows she won't. Knows it deep down in her gut, knows it in her hands that grip him, in the teeth that pull at his lower lip, in the sigh that escapes her, in the words she should not utter.

She utters them anyway, because there is something in the back of her mind that says she may never be able to say them again.

He stills, stiffens, starts, big hands running down her body, and she is pressed against him. "I love you too," he breathes against the column of her throat. He nips at the underside of her jaw, sucks on the skin there, leaves a bruise.

Massie wants to tell him no, don't do that, don't make it seem like I'm not available, but she can't form the words. She merely pulls his face to hers, takes his mouth with her own, sighs raggedly—

...

And strangles him.

...

She doesn't know how it happens, just that it does.

One moment she's overcome with the desire to tear his clothes off, kissing him as hard as she possibly can. She's trying to move enough that he figures out where she wants his hands (hint: not at her hips, not on her waist), shifting and twitching and pulling, trying to mold him into her, make them one, make him hers.

The next she's holding his neck and she's squeezing.

It is so sudden, so distinct; two feelings of similar strength coming head to head. She actually, physically, feels herself gasp, or maybe that's him, she doesn't know, and—

Derrick jerks, knee hitting the back of her thigh, takes her wrists, and pulls. Her nails dig into his skin as he wrenches her off of him, unceremoniously dropping her to the ground.

She hates him, and the way he's towering over her like this, like he's better than her, and he bends down, is about to finish what he started in the arena—

But he merely mumbles, "Sorry," and helps her up.

Tries to help her up, actually.

She refuses to take his hand, glaring up at him. He swallows, confused. Massie reads all that and more in the set of his jaw. What, is he upset she's not more hurt by the shove? Please.

She can't believe she's momentarily lost her sanity and kissed him. Though it was nice, she admits. He's very skilled with his tongue.

She presses her palms to the ground, pushes herself up, and momentarily laments the grass stains that are no doubt all over her backside. The pains of wearing white. "Don't," she replies.

"I didn't—I wasn't expecting—"

Massie rolls her eyes. "Are you always this inarticulate?"

"Um." Derrick swallows uncomfortably again, toeing the grass with his shoe. "No? I mean. No. Only when you're around, I guess."

"Why?"

His hand twitches like he wants to reach out for her. "You're pretty," he says. "I find I can't—"

"Don't you dare say you can't talk around pretty girls." Massie scoffs. "It's not that hard."

Derrick shrugs, the furrow in his brows growing more and more pronounced. "I can talk around plenty of pretty girls," he replies, "but I find it harder to talk around you."

She searches his face for any sign of insincerity, for any… lie, she guesses. There is none. He is as open as a book, feelings and thoughts written across the planes of his face, and Massie reads them.

Reads them, and reads in between the lines.

He is looking at her the same way he's always looked at her. She knows he's always looked at her like she's something straight out of his dreams, but she doesn't know why. Doesn't have proof that this is true. Just has what is starting to settle in the pit of her stomach. Just the horror that is overtaking the anger she feels, the guilt that she even tried to hurt him.

You do know, Massie. You do know.

No, I don't.

Yes, you do. Fight it.

Fight what?

(She should have never taken the honey. This is exhausting.

Don't blame that. You know why you're so tired. Open your eyes.)

"Massie," he starts, pleads, begs. Like he is trying to appeal to her.

She forces herself to meet his gaze. It is overpowering. It is strong. It is… it burns right through her. It dries out her throat and makes her palms itch and has her pulling shuddering breaths through her lungs that don't seem to be working.

"Massie," he says again. Like he is trying to find her.

And his voice, that deep accent that comes exclusively from Four—it breaks through the fog.

The memories and feelings she was supposed to focus on thanks to the honey are spliced apart with those she felt when he touched her, things like training after hours, and harmless flirting, and sleeping too close, feet tangled to ensure the other was there. Things like unadulterated fear for his life, things like the taste of his mouth for the first time… these chase away the anger and hatred that started seeping into her bones—

They fight it. They fight—

But she still wants to hurt him. Her fingers itch with it. She can use her shoe if she gets close enough.

Real Massie whispers: Don't don't don't.

Capitol-made Massie hisses: Do it. Be the only Victor. Do it do it do it.

Don't. Don't, Real Massie begs, don't you dare.

"Say something else," she blurts, hanging on to the golden hue of his eyes. She feels mad again, but not at him entirely, but rather at whoever thought it was best to alter the color there. The green is striking, but he is already striking, and he doesn't need to be changed. She focuses on that. Really focuses on that, because that's what trackerjacker honey does. It makes you focus, if it doesn't make you hallucinate. "Anything. Say anything. Please."

There are two of him now and she is losing control of her body like she did with the Head Peacekeeper. Is it because her mind is tired? Is it because of the honey? Should she even blame it if it's only enhancing what's in her already?

Remember the brown. Remember the brown. Does one of these Derricks have green in his eyes? That's the right one. The nice one. She thinks. Look look look.

She is dizzy.

One of him is concerned and beautiful. The other is angry and homicidal, but still as beautiful. She can't figure out which one is truly standing in front of her.

"Say something," she repeats. Frenzied. Bordering on hysterical.

But why? Why is she hysterical?

"I need you to say something."

Is her hand bleeding? Her hand is bleeding.

Brown and green. Brown and green. Brown and green?

His eyes cannot be described as just brown, she realizes now. She takes a step forward, squinting to find all the colors in them. She's done this once before. She remembers that quite vividly. Remembers colors quite vividly.

"What do you want me to say?" both Derricks ask. One is meaner than the other.

That doesn't work. The sound of his voice now doesn't do anything. Why did it work before? What is different about it now? He said her name twice. Anyone could say her name twice, it means nothing

But if he were to say it again, maybe…

He does.

Say her name out loud, that is.

She focuses on that, on the way his mouth forms the syllables of her name.

For a brief second the two Derricks collide. The one in the cream colored turtleneck and dark peacoat wins out for a moment, because the other one, the one in the lightweight jacket and flimsy shirt, would never say her name with such…

With care. Consideration. Longing?

Massie grips that, holds it tight in her mind, in her body, in her fist.

And then she's overcome with nausea and Derrick is two people. She is two people.

Pick one, Massie. Pick the person you want to be.

She closes her eyes, breathes. In and out, like Alicia said.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

She focuses on things she knows are true right now, not the things Cam wanted her to know. Not her Games. Not this party. Not the voices in her head or the hands she still feels sliding up her thighs.

Her name is Massie.

She is from One.

She is seventeen now.

She is in a white dress and her lipstick has changed from purple to pink and there are a series of pearls and emeralds uncomfortably glued to her face.

She is cold.

It is cold out and she is cold and she is only in this white dress and this pink lipstick and these pearls and emeralds. Her shoes aren't even practical enough to be out here.

She must shiver.

She must, because Derrick is sliding out of his coat, and it looks so comfy and warm, and he's stepping forward, one arm in, one arm out—and she still hasn't figured out which person she is.

"No!" she shouts, throwing her hands out. "Don't! Stay where you are."

"But you're cold."

"I don't care." She grits her teeth. "I… I'm sorry, but I really need you to stay away from me until I figure out who I am." The apology sounds lackluster on her tongue. She's had to force it out like it is something particularly awful. It is and it isn't.

"I know who you are," he replies automatically. "Do you want me to tell you?"

Yes.

It would be so easy for someone to tell her what to do, who she is, what he is, what he means to her, but someone has already done that, haven't they? "I need to do this on my own."

She runs through what she knows again, adds new information. Name: Massie Block. Age: 17. Home: One. Parents: William and Kendra. Games: Seventy-Four. Status: Victor. Cold. Confused. Looking at a boy that… that…

Her heart flutters.

He moves again, impatient with her thought process. Annoyed that it's taking so long. It must be irritating to be so certain of someone—of yourself—and then watch them try to piece it, piece them, piece you together in front of you.

"I said no, Derrick," she snaps. "I said no."

He freezes, eyes wide, like the refusal somehow means more to him than her. Like he's hearing the word for the first time.

Maybe no one has ever said no to him before.

No, that's not right.

It's not right because he stops right there. It doesn't even look like he's breathing, eyes raking over her, inspecting her. It makes her feel weird, though she can't put a name to the feeling exactly. He is still half out of his jacket and he opens his mouth to, what, argue, maybe, now that he's gotten over the shock?

No.

That word again.

No.

"You're cold," he says again, like that matters. Can't he see? It doesn't. She'd rather freeze than give into her whims and try to snap his neck or shove her heel into his eye. She'd rather die of pneumonia than hurt him. "Just—take it," he offers, stretching his arm out. The sleeve of the coat brushes against the dying grass.

She watches it rustle the blades, blinking at them, remembering brighter, greener grass that she picked and ripped apart while she waited… while she waited... waited for him. For him, because she wanted him. Because she hadn't felt complete without him.

He sighs, but it doesn't sound as annoyed as she originally thought. He sighs and bites his lip and tries again. "Take the jacket. I won't come any closer. I won't even… I'll just leave it right here. Just please. Please take it, Massie."

Her name, once again, illuminates something. She gasps around a strangled breath and sees him notice it just as she did earlier. The way he says her name, it awakens her. Or fights off the part of her that dislikes him. That is confused.

He's only one person now. When did that happen? When did he become someone to her but she remained so unreachable? So unattainable?

Massie tilts her head, meets his gaze head-on. Brown and green brown and green brown and green.

He must notice her renewed attention, the clarity, the recognition, in her face, because he says her name again.

And again.

And again.

It doesn't sound real, her name, not anymore, not after the fiftieth time he says it.

Derrick manages to get closer. Manages to tug her arms through his coat, bundling her up.

He says her name again, MassieMassieMassie, a caress against her earlobe. She shudders, but not from the cold.

She fists his sweater in her hands, tugging on it, on him, bringing him closer and closer until he's practically standing on her toes. He is hesitant as he wraps his arms around her, tucking her into his chest, but he keeps saying her name. Says it over and over, like a question, like an answer, like she is everything and more. Like she single handedly created the world and razed it to the ground.

Amidst the trackerjacker high, which is hitting her too hard, and the confusing emotions pulling tug of war in her mind, the way his tongue wraps around the six letters of her name is the only thing that makes sense.

"What's the matter?" he asks softly.

She clutches him, tries to bury herself in him, and whispers, "I don't know what's happening to me."

His hands are hot against her back. He's slid them beneath the jacket. He doesn't have anything to say that can help her, doesn't know what's going on with her either. He's remarkably brave to be this close to her after she tried not once but twice to hurt him, and she still kind of wants to now. She has this fleeting thought that it would be so easy, so simple, to knock him out, to punch him so hard in the nose it causes a brain bleed.

She swallows it down, presses into his shirt. He doesn't smell right. Maybe that's what it is.

"Do you want to talk through it?" he asks.

Massie doesn't. She wants to touch him, so she shoves his sweater up and grips his waist. His skin is warm beneath her trembling fingers and she carefully outlines the line of muscle she feels along his back.

If she does this, and if she keeps her eyes shut, maybe the feeling will pass. It is quiet. Her heart is calming, her blood is no longer pumping. She can relax now.

"Massie," he says when she doesn't reply after a while.

Her heart jumps, startled, scared. No longer silent. She lets out a breath, trying to keep herself loose, and curls her fingers around the waistband of his dress pants when she wants to dig her nails into the dimples at his spine, when she wants to draw blood. Her eyes are squeezed shut, it is so dark, but she somehow sees a glint of gold and it is not his hair or his eyes but rather his trident and she has to hold tighter to his pants, accidentally digging her knuckles into the cleft of his lower back.

"This isn't a good idea," she whispers.

"You touching me like that?" he replies, strangled, like she wanted him earlier. "I agree. It's not."

"No." Though she is somehow amused he is so sensitive here. Without knowing why, she flicks her thumb against the skin, feels him tremble beneath her fist. "Us being together. I don't think we're supposed to be."

He is so much taller than her that he has to slouch a bit to rest his chin on the top of her head. "Why do you think that?"

She feels his muscles clench and jump as she continues running her free hand along his spine, letting her fingers dip beneath his pants just a bit, and then up again. He chokes, and she says, "There can only be one of us but there are two and that is not right."

"Does it matter?" he asks, reaching around to stop her teasing. He holds her hands in his, intertwining their fingers. "If we're together, everything is right."

"No, I don't—I don't think this is okay, I mean." She clears her throat, unsure how to explain to him how she was the only one affected by their Games. He seems sane enough, he seems him enough, and she's… she's only able to fight off the urge to throttle him by the sound his voice and the touch of his fingers. And even then it doesn't last too long.

His eyes are bright as she mulls this over.

Finally she settles on, "I'm not okay. You know that, right? I'm not… me." It's hard to say this. She doesn't know why. It's kind of like the block on her memories is keeping these words close, not allowing them to let out. That wall she was sure collapsed earlier is being rebuilt. She can see the hands layer the brick again, feels herself closing off. She's certain Kemp is the one doing it, but why would Kemp want her to be something she's not? That doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense that she's scared of it. Scared of him, right now, not Derrick. "In a few minutes I may want to choke you again."

"I'll allow it only if it is sexual in nature," Derrick teases.

"That's—I'm not kidding." Massie wets her lips. "Even right now I kind of want to hurt you, but not you. A different you. You're not the you I want to hurt." She is frustrated then, because that's not the right thing to say. "That doesn't make sense," she mutters. She wants him to let go of her now.

She feels the wall again. She is suffocating beneath it. Behind it. In front of it. She thinks if she reaches out she can touch it. It would be smooth. Tough. Harder to break, like someone has learned a lesson in construction.

There is laughter, but it's not hers. Not his. It's not even in the vicinity. It's in her head. Part of her thinks it's funny she's so confused.

Given everything, Derrick still stands there. Still keeps them wrapped in each other. "What can I do to make it make sense?" he asks, like she hasn't just informed him she may stab him in the eye with all the bobby-pins in her hair.

That is just as confusing and disconcerting as the rest of this is, if not more, but it is the only thing that makes her cry again.

This is a mess. She is a mess. They're going to kill her.

She failed the moment she stepped foot in this stupid mansion. Myner always knew she would. Two tributes may have been pulled from the arena but only one was crowned. It wasn't her.

There is a point in not giving her a crown. Not that she really wants or needs it to know she's won, but it means something to not have it. To be denied it.

She might as well make it count, she guesses, if she's never going to get it. If she's going to die.

"Tell me something true," she says.

Derrick does not hesitate when he replies, "I love you." His voice is oddly serious. Tight. "Only you. You're the only person I love."

"Tell me something else," she replies, because those words don't have to be true to be said out loud. Plenty of people lie about that.

Again he has an answer without even a second's thought. "I have never felt like this about anyone else." He runs his thumbs under her eyes, catching her tears before they fall. "I'll relive that arena over and over if it means you're in there with me. It doesn't matter what version of you is there: the one I first met, the one that sometimes gets caught in her mind, the one that's standing right in front me. If you're there, I'm home."

Home.

"I want to go home," she'd told Alicia. She hadn't known what that meant when she said it. Hadn't known where she felt most at home. Now she knows she meant this. She meant him.

Home, it turns out, can be a person.

Someone kicks through the wall Kemp is building. A tiny little someone. Massie feels it deep in her bones as it crashes again, the third time that day, and she shudders almost violently against him.

He wraps his arms around her waist, holds her steady, and asks, "Are you—"

But he doesn't get to finish his sentence because she's kissing him. She's kissing him, she's kissing him, she's kissing him.

She's going to die later and she doesn't care because she wants to die kissing him.

...

Spoiler: She doesn't die later.

But she does stop kissing Derrick because good things, because nice things, always end so quickly.

...

Have you noticed it's only the terrible things that drag on and on and on?

...

The clock in the foyer reads several hours later. Several meaning two. Massie watches the hands move, seconds ticking by, and doesn't look at Derrick's back as he slips into the party. The party for her she's been neglecting.

Okay, she does watch his back, but only for five seconds. She counts.

She buries her face in the collar of the peacoat she's still wearing and hates the way she feels so empty all of a sudden. It smells less and less like the Capitol and more like him: sand, and surf, and a hint of lemon.

In the time he's been gone, the affection she's felt for him has slowly started to dissipate.

It's not for lack of trying, but the Capitol changed not only him but her. She hears him say her name but because he's not standing there in front of her, mouth moving, it does nothing. She feels the ghost of his touch but it makes her skin crawl, makes her itchy. Makes her think of painful touches. She wonders if she'll be able to remember him in any capacity that is not tinged in hatred. She wonders if she'll be allowed anything ever.

Again she inhales Derrick's scent, finding it comforting—they may have been able to alter everything tangible about him, but they never knew enough about two things.

Scent.

Taste.

Massie lets her world turn into salt and citrus and warmth and the tang of champagne and the tingle of chocolate.

When the footsteps sound behind her, she is resigned to it.

So resigned, in fact, she is hardly aware of it. Just of the extra body in the room, and then—and then—

"No," she shrieks. Not shrieks, actually, no, because she knows better. But that's what it sounds like in her head. It resounds there. It echoes. It gets louder. No. No. No. No. NO.

"I'm not—I'm just taking it off. It's not going anywhere."

Massie digs her nails into the sleeves.

"They've seen him wear it all night," the person hisses, trying to tug tug tug her arms out of the peacoat. "They know it's his so you can't wear it, you're not allowed, but you can—I'm sure he'll let you keep it, if that's what you're concerned about."

It's a struggle. A goddamn fight.

Massie grits her teeth and acts like this person is ripping her skin off, and he's—because it's a he, she knows from the feel of his hands and the rumble of his voice—he's grunting and cursing her under his breath, over his breath, out loud, quietly, over and over. His fingers are calloused, cracked. They rub against her wrist the wrong way; his hands are all wrong and this is oddly intimate, the way she's pressed against his chest, and it's not Derrick, it's not it's not it's not—

"Let go of me," she hisses. "Stop touching—"

"Take the goddamn fucking jacket off and let me put it somewhere else before you get all of us killed!"

She stomps her heel on his toes.

"You know what? I'm done playing nice." He twists her around by the collar, ruining it. Doesn't he know this is important? This jacket is the only thing keeping her relatively sane? Relatively—calm? "You've already fucked up big time, and normally I wouldn't give two shits about a new Victor but Cam is—he—means a lot to me, and you mean a lot to him, so." There is a tick in his jaw. "I'm cleaning up your mess."

Massie glares into the dark brown of his eyes, refusing to sweep her gaze over his darker, tanner skin. "You call tearing a girl out of her clothes playing nice?"

"If I liked you, it would be nice," this kid hisses. "Give me the jacket and listen, Massie."

"No," Massie says again. "No. I don't care, I want this, you don't understand what—"

"Don't understand what?"

Don't understand what this does to me, what it means—even as its smell is fading because he's touching it and her hair is all over it and she's angry again, at this kid, at herself, at Derrick Harrington—

"It doesn't matter," she snips. "Let me keep the jacket and go away. I don't need you."

"You may not need me, but I need Cam, and I'm not going to let your idiocy kill him." He's in her face now, fingers digging into both her neck and the coat. "I'm not opposed to hitting a girl."

Massie bites her lip and pulls.

He's stronger.

She's more persistent.

It doesn't matter.

"Josh!" Alicia shouts. "Stop!"

He halts immediately. Massie kicks at him blindly, whacking him in the knee. He hisses, hand shooting out, and grabs her ankle. His grip is tight and painful but she ignores it, glaring up at who she just figured out is Josh Hotz of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games.

"She's annoying, Ali," Josh snaps.

"Doesn't mean you should manhandle her." Alicia comes to Massie's side, a comforting hand on her shoulder, and murmurs, "Are you alright?"

It sounds like she's asking about more than just Josh's rude behavior.

"Yes," says Massie, even though she really means no. She hugs her arms around her middle.

Josh balls his hands into fists in the pockets of his khakis. "I don't want to help someone who doesn't want to be helped." He spares a glare at Massie. "Let her self-destruct, I don't fucking care."

Alicia levels him with a nasty look of her own, fingers slipping from Massie's shoulder to her elbow, swiping against the material of Derrick's jacket. Massie isn't sure it's doing much anymore besides keeping her warm, but she burrows into it anyway. "If I recall you were a bumbling, weeping mess when you won and you needed Todd to—"

"You didn't know me then," Josh interrupts, snarling, "so shut up. You were the bumbling, weeping mess, not wanting to sell yourself even though you used your body to win your own—"

Massie finds her hand tangled with Alicia's, not sure who instigated this, not sure who grabbed whose hand first, and squeezes the girl's fingers. "This isn't about me," Alicia snaps. "It's about making sure Massie and Derrick don't get in trouble."

"They're already in trouble!" Josh all but shouts. "And fuck, I'm not letting Cam sleep his way through the party just to keep the peace!"

"Maybe you should help him out," Alicia simpers. "I'm sure some of his people would looooove to sleep with you, too."

He looks like he wants to slap her but thinks better of it, running a hand through his hair. "Alicia, you have no idea—"

"You forget I know him as well as you," she snaps. "I won right after him. I was older than him, but that doesn't mean anything. I care about him too. I was there too. Sometimes when you weren't."

Massie blurts, before they can get into it: "He knows?"

She's not sure what she's asking about.

"He knows everything," Josh answers. There is less of a bite to these words. He sighs, dragging a calculating eye over Massie—and subsequently Alicia, who still holds her hand tight. "Everything."

"So why bother trying to take the jacket then?" Massie asks. "If he knows everything…"

"Trying to save face, I guess," says Josh. "Keep it."

"Cam thought this would happen, so…" Alicia tugs at her arm, making Massie look at her. Her eyes are wide and sad, her lips pulling into a tiny frown even as she smiles at her. "I have to ask you: How do you feel about Derrick?"

Josh's attention swivels from the two of them to the many doors surrounding them, like he's doing surveillance. Like he's the lookout.

It's an easy answer on the tip of her tongue, and she's about to say it when she remembers.

It feels like she's always going through some state of remembrance. Constantly forgetting and remembering. Remembering and forgetting. Over and over: things she should already know that have turned into things she doesn't.

So she looks from Josh's stiff back to Alicia's earnest expression and lies, "I can't stand him. I wish I didn't have to share my victory with him."

The sharp breath Josh lets out makes Massie wonder, but she doesn't have a chance to voice it or even acknowledge it when a new voice croons, "Let's find out how true that really is, shall we?"

"Fawn," Alicia greets mechanically. Her eyes narrow a smidge and her fingers tighten around Massie's. The way she shifts her body makes it seem like she's getting ready for a fight, or to throw Massie out of the way. "I was unaware you were invited."

"Why would I not be? Massie was one of my tributes."

"Right," Massie replies dully. Fawn does not have her best interests at heart. "Because you loved me so much."

A step behind her and the feel of breath against her neck alerts her to Josh's presence.

"Granted I did favor Kemp more, but…" Fawn smiles. It is icy and cruel, much like her. "Can you blame me when this is the alternative?"

"Massie's fine," Josh snaps.

Fawn's smile only widens. She looks like a predator, all sharp teeth and pretty face, eyes glinting in the dim light. "Is she?" She turns towards the girl in question, takes a light, stalking step towards her. Alicia gets ready for something. "Are you, Massie? Are you fine? Is everything fine? Is it working?"

"Not sure what you're implying but I am, in fact, fine," Massie replies. She tries to shake Alicia loose but can't. "Everything is great. I'm so happy to be here."

"No distractions? No… changes of heart?"

"Nope," she answers, popping the p.

"We'll see about that." Fawn jiggles a wrist, bangles clashing together, and holds a hand out, like she's a friend. "Come with me. The president has asked to see you."

Massie's heart stutters in her chest. She casually wipes her hands on her dress; they're clammy and sweaty and nervous, trembling against her skirt and in Alicia's grip. "Okay," she says, like she isn't terrified. She only hopes it isn't written all over her face like she feels like it is.

Alicia squeezes her fingers again. Lets go.

Josh brushes his palm against the back of her neck under the pretense of fixing the collar of the jacket she still refuses to remove. They don't know each other like that for him to do this, but she leans into the touch anyway. "Focus," he whispers against the crown of her head.

"And if I can't?" she counters as quietly as possible, because that is a possibility.

Josh smooths down the shoulders of Derrick's peacoat, hands traveling down her body like they've been friends forever, like they're lovers. She feels a new weight against her side as something is dropped in her pocket. He pats her hips. Once. Twice. That is answer enough.

...

She follows Fawn.

...

They meet in a room much unlike his office, though she only has slight recollections of it from her childhood. That, and the overwhelming sense of doom, but that can't make sense. She's never been there for longer than a second; at least that is what her mind and her memories are telling her.

This place, though—this place is set up like a home theatre, equipped with plush, reclining seats and a huge screen against the far wall. It must be where Myner hosts his favored guests—read: his top sponsors—for the Hunger Games viewing. It's a nauseating homage to Victors past and present, their promo photos framed in gold hung along the wall. They go back so far, but Massie can see her father and her mother, Victors a year apart, eighteen and fresh-faced. She sees Cam's mom, Pamela, and then, several pictures later, Cam himself, fourteen and small. Josh is three behind him; Alicia is one in front. Kristen Gregory and Nathan Biggs are in the mix as well, along with Dylan Marvil, who has her nails permanently filed and shaped into weapons themselves, and Christopher Plovert, the tech genius who used the Capitol's own technology against itself.

The space for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games is empty. Massie avoids thinking about the reason why, even as her mind whispers it.

He hasn't decided yet.

This is but part of the test and Massie wearing this peacoat means she's already on uneven ground.

Fawn runs her fingers lovingly along the picture of herself: blonde curls, blue eyes, tiny nose. Eighteen and probably just as annoying as she is now.

She fucking chirps a greeting to Cole Myner, as if she's a teen and not a thirty-something who needs to chill and get a life, maybe.

Massie is not even surprised a little Fawn has turned into a Myner lapdog. It's fitting, really, since she's shitty and so is he. And she hates Massie, so of course she'd volunteer to do this for him. She wants to see Massie suffer.

But Massie will not suffer.

She will do as they ask, as they say, and she will be as silent as a mouse if they do anything that upsets her. Weakness is not an option—not during training, not in the arena, not in front of the president.

She shoves her hands in the pockets of the coat and fingers the tiny vial Josh had snuck in there.

"My dear," Cole says to her, not Fawn. He strides towards her to press cold, unfeeling kisses to her cheeks. Massie smiles. "My love, if you were cold you merely could have said. No need to take jackets from others."

"He offered," Massie replies. "I couldn't say no to such a thing."

"Even if it is from Derrick?"

"Even so," Massie says, making sure to add just enough bite, just enough twist of the lips. "I will return it once we are finished here. I have no intentions of keeping it."

(Yes, you do.

Shut up.)

Myner must see right through her: "Take it off now, then, and I will make sure it is received."

She hopes they do not see her hesitance as she does so, shoving the vial in her fist. She drapes the coat over one of the seats, letting her eyes remain shut a moment longer than usual as she blinks.

Derrick's scent—the sand, the surf, that citrus—it floats about her still, settling into the ends of her hair and the fabric of her dress. She wills it to stay, to give her strength.

Unfortunately everything is overpowered by Myner's ever-present floral scent. He always smells like a greenhouse or cedar-y, like nature. They say he is a real outdoorsman, chopping wood and planting trees.

"That's better," the man in question murmurs. "Now we can see your lovely dress. It becomes you."

Massie allows pink to settle in her cheeks and smiles again, attempting to look bashful. "Thank you," she returns. "Jakkob and his team always know what to do with me."

"That they do," Myner agrees. He waves a hand. "Please, have a seat. There is much for us to catch up on. I haven't seen you since the Recap." He glances up. "Dim the lights as you leave, Fawn."

The sound of retreating heels is all Massie hears for a while, then the lights are lowered and Myner has his attention on her once more.

Focus.

You know what to focus on.

What is it?

Tell me it.

Focus focus focus.

Massie squeezes the vial. She doesn't want to have to do any more drugs to make it through this night, but if she has to, she has to. She just hopes it is not anything derived from trackerjackers; she doesn't think she can handle it. Without an anchor, she is slipping, like she did on the dance floor.

She sets her gaze on Myner, using the blue in his eyes to keep her steady. It doesn't work. Like all blue eyes, she sees Landon, and she feels that sense of foreboding again.

Myner smiles.

Massie swallows.

Focus focus focus.

He's talking. What is he saying? Listen.

"...all healed?" is what she hears.

She may be sweating as she answers, "Yes. No residual pain and especially no scars, which I am incredibly grateful for. I am in perfect shape for the Tour." She takes a breath, recalls her manners. "Thank you for throwing me this party. I know it is not—typical to have two Capitol parties during one Victory Tour."

"It is not typical for my goddaughter to win the Games." Myner winks. "It's the least I can do without seeming biased. I am so proud of you."

Liar.

Still, she acts gracious, like she normally would, even as it eats her up inside.

"I would like, if you're willing"—and she will have to be willing, there are no choices with Myner—"to walk through your Games with you. We did not get a chance to discuss them as I normally do with other Victors. Your health was of the utmost importance."

"Of course," she trills. "It would be my pleasure."

"Excellent," the President says. "Are you up for a rewatch?"

Shakily, Massie replies, "Yes."

When Myner turns his back, Massie uncaps whatever Josh gave her and downs it. She's glad it is a liquid: easy to take, easy to hide. It is a fluorescent pink color, something she's never seen before, and she has a fleeting sense of terror that Josh is trying to kill her or something similar, he doesn't even like her, before that disappears as quickly as it came. Whatever this is, and she'll ask later—if she survives, of course—works fast.

She's lightheaded and squinting, snippets of earlier conversations flying to the forefront of her mind—snippets of conversations with Cam flying to the forefront of her mind—as the screen blinks awake and the country's seal shines against black.

Her head hurts a bit, and her hands seem much bigger than they are so she sits on them. Myner puts his palm on her shoulder and that, too, feels different. Off. Extremely heavy.

She swallows as the Opening Ceremony starts. Sniffs when she sees herself and Kemp, pinkies linked, dripping in jewels and gems. She has an extravagant tiara atop her glossy curls. She recalls it was taken from the vault of some big name socialite, a woman who was proud to let Massie wear it for an hour or two. That woman was one of her biggest sponsors. She thought Massie was so sweet. So pretty.

Massie looks away from herself, glances over the warriors they turned Two into, avoids the mechanical look of Three, and makes herself look at Four. At Derrick and Ripple, who are different tides of the same sea.

Ripple is the calm, the bright blues and greens, where the sun is shining and the children play amongst the waves. She has a headband of shells braided into her hair. She looks like a princess. A mermaid. Derrick, on the other hand, is the embodiment of brutal storms. All darks and blacks, with navy painted down the sharp line of his cheekbones. Seaweed is threaded through his riot of golden waves, damp and mussed to look like he'd just risen from the depths.

She doesn't remember this. She hadn't paid attention to the others until halfway through training, worried more about herself and Kemp.

She zeros in on the easy way Derrick smiles, how he subtly dotes on Ripple, who looks nervous. It works for him; she can see the sponsors, the women especially, already deciding to send him gifts. He tugs on Ripple's messy fishtail braid, makes her laugh, and Massie feels something in her heart crack.

It may very well be her heart that is actually cracking, to be honest. She looks down to check she is not bleeding through her dress.

She's not.

He did not kill Ripple.

There's no way.

Watching him here, where he splits his time between charming the crowd and making her feel comfortable—he did not kill Ripple.

She knows he didn't because Cam told her and Cam doesn't lie, but she knows herself because she's looking at him right now, and there is no way he can so senselessly kill this little girl. No possible way.

Massie feels Myner's gaze on her cheek and moves her own along, taking in the rest of the brightly-colored tributes. They look as one dimensional as the Capitol sees their districts to be—except for Twelve. For once they are not the coal miners they are always dressed as. They are more. They are better.

She wonders if they were supposed to be that way for a reason. Wonders if they were a sign of something and Massie just… didn't give them a chance.

Not something to worry about now, seeing as both from Twelve are dead and if she isn't careful she will be too.

"Whatever happened to my outfit?" she asks airily, leaning forward a bit. "I forgot how great it was."

"We keep them all," says Myner. "Many people here will pay to buy these outfits—"

"Even if the tributes who wore them didn't win?"

"Especially if they didn't win," he tells her. "Naturally the Victor's Opening Ceremony outfit is the most precious, but I have not yet allowed anyone to place a proper bid on yours. I've had offers, of course, but if you would like, you can wear it at the end of your Tour, when you find your way back here."

Unspoken: if you find your way back here.

Another test.

She clasps her hands together, feels the vibrations of that movement all the way up to her elbows, and grins. Her face doesn't feel right. "I would just love that!"

And she would, actually. This dress is stunning. She wishes Jakkob could have just given it to her. And that tiara… ugh.

"Your wish is my command," Myner murmurs.

The tape continues.

Massie presses her heels into the ground.

The interviews are the same. She's incredible, Two is lackluster, Derrick is amazing, and the rest are unimportant. She makes sure to look displeased when she sees everyone that is not her.

"A quick word of caution," Myner adds as the countdown begins.

Massie turns away from the screen, from where she is standing between the tribute from Three and Andy from Eleven, and meets her godfather's eyes. There is a glint in them, amused and calculating all at once; despite it being alarming, Massie holds it.

It is silent for a moment, except for the thirty twenty nine twenty eight.

"This is real."

"What is?" she asks, even as fear shoots its way through her bloodstream.

Again his hand is on her body. When she looks at it, it is as slimy and snake-like as its owner, a person she used to like. Used to look up to. Part of her still does, if she's honest, because that's been ingrained in her, but the bigger part can't believe she ever did, especially if this is how he treats people. Treats her.

"Your memories have been tampered with," Myner says. "What you know is not what really happened. What's in here"—he taps her head—"is not real. It's what's on this screen that is true."

How long do you think the Capitol can suppress my memories for?

She doesn't say anything, pretending to mull it over.

"I know it's a lot," he continues, like he cares, like he's concerned for her, "but your father and brother thought it would be best—"

"I don't have a brother," Massie blurts, ignoring the heat surging through her. Another test. This is another test.

Everything is a test.

The countdown ticks on: twelve eleven ten nine.

"You don't?" Myner looks delighted. "Think, Massie. Have you ever noticed how similar you and Mr. Fisher look? How he has your father's hair? How your father dotes on him?"

Eight seven six.

"No." Massie shakes her head. "You're just trying to confuse me because I am already confused. You're trying to make it seem like I don't know anything, but I know things. I know who my father is and who my mother is and I know I am an only child and I do not have a brother or a sister. I know I know I know."

Myner's smirk widens. She shouldn't have said that. She definitely shouldn't have said that.

Massie's hands shake beneath her thighs. She feels like she is going to combust, maybe. Her heart is racing faster than it ever has before, and she's not so sure if it's because of what's happening now right in front of her, or if it's the drugs Josh gave her, the drugs she shouldn't have taken.

Five.

All she can think about is Cam, and his dark, dark hair, and his too pale skin, and his one blue eye, and his easy going grin, and his impressive jawline, and his—

She gasps as it pieces itself together. She twists in her seat, squints at eighteen year old William Block, and then at fourteen year old Cam Fisher, and she sees.

Four.

"Your family did this to you, Massie," Myner says silkily. There is a roaring in her ears. He is yelling. "It's always family that hurts you in the end. Sad, isn't it?"

Yes. Yes, it is.

She is nauseous again. She is dizzy again. She spots all the similarities in William and Cam—the dark hair, the blue eyes, the same way they dimple on the left side when they smile. How come she never noticed this before? How had she never seen it?

Three.

Brother. Her brother. Is that why he cared so much about her? Because he felt like he had to? Because he was obligated?

The longer she stares at the pictures, her seat deliberately picked so she is square between them, the more she sees the resemblances. The more she can pick out how Pamela mixed with William created Cam and how Kendra mixed with William created her.

It makes her head hurt. Makes her question everything, including herself, and she slowly unravels, not sure what is real and what is not. Who has lied to her? Who has told her the truth?

Two.

Is it her father? Is it Cam? Is it Derrick? Alicia? Josh? Is it Myner? Who has never lied to her?

Not herself, that's for sure. She doesn't know herself enough to figure out if she's telling the truth or not.

One.

Massie tears her gaze away from the photos to look at Myner. Maybe he's bluffing. Maybe he only wants to confuse her to prove he's right, that she's not the right fit. Not the right Victor.

Because she's not. She's not the right one. She knows that. Cam knows that. Her father knows that. They all know that, every single person here.

But she only sees that smile on his face from before, just more pronounced. More amused. Only sees the way it twists in on itself, changing, evolving. She sees that smile, and then she sees something else: It is the feral grin of the mountain lion mutts that tried to kill her in the arena. It is the jaws that snap, eager to dig into flesh bone. Eager to destroy her.

She swallows, unable to look away as Myner transforms into an awful, angry predator right in front of her, and the cannon sounds, the Recap starts, and she is screwed.

BOOM.