Author's Note: Thank you to Bailey, for reviewing the last chapter! I hope I'll be able to remain more consistent with upcoming chapters. I feel like it's taken a few chapters to really develop their voices, though Cinna is a bit easier, since he has an established canon guideline. I am always open to feedback and constructive criticism, and I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter!

Cinna

Marcello had in fact given Portia my number. We agreed to meet three days after the party, at an outdoor café in the heart of the Capitol, not far from the Training Center. I brought a small selection of my sketchbooks, the most recent including the designs for Cora's outfits.

I had been spending more time on designs, as the Games drew into their second week. No one had been killed since Peris, and the whole country seemed to be on the edge of their seats, waiting for something to happen. Cora had made an alliance with the girl from District 12, and they seemed to be protecting each other. They stayed hidden and on guard, venturing out only to collect food and water, or to find a new place to sleep. Finnick had sent a parachute of bread and soup to Cora, which they shared. They seemed to be the only alliance besides the Career pack, which was down to four members. Though the two girls seemed very different, they got along quite well. I had caught glimpses of their interactions, moving between the apartments, or to parties hosted by various stylists and Capitol citizens.

I hadn't run into to Portia again until now. She was flipping through the pages of one of the books, completely focused.

"Wow," she said. "These are really incredible."

"Well, thank you."

"No, really. I've never seen designs quite like these. They're elegant, but so simple. And so many have a unique touch, something special you've added. I mean, I've only seen two of your pieces in person, but both were beautiful. They really played to the tribute's best qualities. This is only your first year as a stylist?"

"It is," I admitted. "I'm lucky to have such an experienced partner, in such a well-positioned District. But what about you? You must have had quite a bit of options, working with District 1?" The first District was known for their attractive tributes, who lived a much softer life than many of those from the lower Districts. Most stylists coveted the spot, for wealth of artistic lisence it allowed as well. Their industry was luxury goods, which allowed for a great deal of gems and glitter to create sparkling and refined costumes, more commonly aligned with Capitol trends than others.

Portia frowned. "It is really nice. And it's been so exciting to be a part of things, and actually do work. It's just that being on the prep team, I don't get to do much in the way of fashion." I understood what she meant. A prep team could be called upon to help complete a costume, but most of the actual clothing and ideas were formed by the stylists. Prep teams did just what the name implied- they prepared a tribute by way of hair, skin, and makeup before the stylists came in.

"I want to work with clothing," Portia continued. "That's what I really love doing. Creating new fashions, testing things out, and watching one of my designs turn into something real and tangible and beautiful."

"I feel exactly the same way. There's something almost magical about it; knowing that you've put something into the world that only you could've made. And especially when what you've made is able to do something for someone else. As a stylist, being able to use my designs to help Cora, that's what I've really enjoyed doing."

"Yes! I have say, I feel a bit disappointed knowing that my work for the Games is done for know, since Peris was eliminated."

She spoke about it so nonchalantly that it threw me off. Wasn't there a greater loss? "You don't feel bad that he's dead?" I regretted the words as soon as they had left my mouth. Of course not. That wasn't the point of the Games. They weren't people, they weren't children, just entertainment. But Portia's response surprised me.

"I guess… well, we're not supposed to are we? Not really? But I do feel a little sad. It's not like I really knew him. But still, he didn't seem like a bad person. Not someone who deserved to be die, not in such a brutal manner. But that's the point of the Hunger Games, right? That the Districts have to be punished for the rebellion?"

"It's a bit harder to watch them, isn't it? Once you see them as people?"

"Do you?" she asked. I saw many things. I saw Cora, waving from the chariots. Standing on the balcony, upset. Telling me she liked gold- she liked me in gold. Twirling before her interview. Telling me what she wanted to come home to. My answer was clear. Because after Cora, I saw Ronan, who laughed at dinner and hadn't hurt Cora. And all the tributes who had entered that arena with them. Who all must've had someone they wanted to come back to, and someone who wanted them to come home.

"I do."

Portia stared at me, not unkindly. "Can I show you my work?" she asked, an abrupt change of subject. I agreed, and she handed me her own sketchbook from the depths of her purse. I had just begun to examine it when she started speaking again. "I like the way you think. I haven't really shown anyone my designs outside of classes or work. But I think you just trusted me with something very honest, and I want to do the same."

Her sketches were lovely. Everything had been drawn with a careful, steady hand. Some were, perhaps, a bit cautious and traditional in their trends. But others, especially later drawings, showed great promise. She saw beauty in ordinary things and turned them into her ideas, channeled her inspirations into clothing. There was influence from the city and from nature, designs inspired by something as simple as a color or as complex as the skyline. They were beautiful, and I told her so.

What had been planned as a short rendezvous became a long conversation, exchanges of ideas on everything from work to inspirations to the Games themselves. Portia still had a year left in her studies, but her talent was undeniable. It was easy to get lost in the discussion, and she felt less like a stranger and more like a friend. The Games felt far away- until my phone rang. Once, I ignored it. They called again, and when I answered, it was Annette on the other end of the line.

"Where are you?" she demanded. "Get up to the apartment as soon as you can." Her usually even voice was urgent.

"I'm out for coffee. I'm only a few minutes away, what's wrong?" I asked.

"It's Cora. Hurry."

Cora

"I'm just concerned, that's all," Iris told me. "It's been three days since one of us was eliminated. That's usually when the Gamemakers intervene. Something is bound to happen soon."

She was right. The odds were up, and the audience would be hungry for entertainment. I tried to ignore the creeping anxiety that permeated the air. "It'll be okay. We have an advantage, because we have each other. It would be two against one, and the odds are in our favor."

"Unless it's the Career pack," Iris added.

"It won't be. We'll be smarter than that," I promised. "Look, we've made it this far! There's only eleven of us left. The girl from 1, Sloan and Flint from 2, the boy from 3, me and Ronan, Ursula from 7…"

"The boy from 8, Dolly from 10, Leonine from 11, and me," she finished.

"We can do this." I took her hand, and she gave me a faint smile. Since forming our alliance, we'd spent nearly all of our time together. I had learned so much about her, and about the District where she came from. Iris was the oldest of three sisters. Her father worked in the mines, as nearly every man in District 12 did. Her mother had been too sick to work for the last few years. Iris was guarded, but she was so smart, and though she was careful with her heart, it was kind. She knew a lot about plants and leaves, and taught me which ones were useful and which were edible. I taught her how to fish in the stream that wound through the forest. Iris told me about the poverty that she had known, the months of aching hunger, and the fear that there would be nobody to help her sisters if she didn't return. In turn, I told her about my brother, about the way I watched a stranger die onscreen, never to see Tyde as he really was, never to hear him come home again.

"It's terrible, what the Games take," Iris had declared. "It's not just life that's lost in the arena. To kill someone else? To watch someone be killed? Knowning that everyone here just wants to go home? You lose yourself. You have to, if you want to survive." Iris tried not to think too much about Ford, her partner, who hadn't lasted long at all. He had been brutally beaten by the boy from 11, but thinking about Ford, about his family, it hit too close to home for her. She couldn't let herself feel anything, or she was afraid she would break.

"I don't want to do that. Lose myself. I'm so afraid of that," I had admitted. Iris was afraid of feeling too much, and I was afraid of not feeling anything at all. But we had held each other's hands, shared the meals that we made, and the one that Finnick sent. The bread had tasted like salt, a welcome reminder of home.

Now, we made our way through the trees together, our steps as quiet on the mossy ground. Our hope was to reach the sandy portion of the arena, opposite the Cornucopia, and head up the mountain. It seemed unlikely that other tributes would go there, with its seeming lack of resources, but it would've given us a clear view of the arena and an opportunity to see threats coming, before they saw us.

We paused to rest, and to eat. Iris kept fidgeting, glancing at the ground with her forehead knit together in worry. "What are you going to do, when you get home?" I asked Iris.

She looked over her shoulder at me, an eyebrow raised. "What?"

"When you get home. What will you do?"

"Don't you mean if?"

"Positive thinking, Iris," I said. When she was nervous, talking distracted her from whatever was weighing on her mind, and I was happy for a distraction as well.

Iris thought over this for minute. "I would hug my sisters. And then I'd go back to my house, and just sit in front of the fireplace, by myself, until everything felt right again," she concluded.

"I'd like to meet your sisters." I had never had a sister, though Halle often felt like one. My own house felt too empty, too quiet, with only one child in it. How empty did it feel, with me in the arena? That was a question I tried to avoid asking myself.

"We couldn't both go home, Cora." That truth was something else I tried to forget. Iris felt like a friend. She had a tough exterior, but she had helped me and trusted me. She had saved us both from a nest of spiders the size of dinner plates. I wanted to think of her as a friend, as a normal friend that I could share stories and life with. Someone I had years to get to know. But it was only temporary. Our alliance would have to end at some point. Either one of us would be killed, or we would break it off in order to avoid being the only two left and having to kill the other. If it ever came down to that, I knew who I would want to leave the arena. If it came down to breaking my promise to Cinna, or the promise I had made with myself on the train, it would be Cinna that I would have to let down.

"What would- what will you do?" Iris asked, playing along.

"I would want to see my parents, and my friends. Swim in the ocean again, just to feel how big it was. I don't know if I'd ever quite feel free enough again." Any maybe, maybe I would have the chance to understand just what I felt for my friend in the Capitol.

"I hope you get to do that," Iris said softly. She didn't meet my eyes, but reached for my hand.

"I want the same for you," I replied.

We continued on, the cover of the trees getting sparser as we went. We were close to the place where forest became sand, and the stream was becoming wider with the trail. Did the sand lead to a lake? The air didn't carry the scent of salt signifying an ocean. Iris stopped suddenly, holding her hand up.

"Cora," she whispered. "Did you hear that?"

I tried to listen closer, my whole body on edge. "Hear what?"

Iris didn't have time to answer though, as Flint burst through the undergrowth before us. I turned to run, but he grabbed the strap of my backpack, pulling me back towards him. He was so much taller than me, taller than Iris, and there was such force even in his hand.

I struggled to break free, panic pulsing through my head, unable to think, unable to focus. There was a thud, and a loosening of his grip. I jerked away to see Iris, who stood with a rock in hand. She had hit Flint in the face, but it wasn't enough to hurt him. I grabbed for the rod in my bag, then tossed it away, as he lunged at Iris.

I aimed for his temples, putting as much strength into the rod as I could muster. It seemed to vibrate with the impact, but still Flint stood steady, resilient as his name.

"Quite the team here, haven't we?" he snarled. "Live together, die together. What's the difference?" He came back my way, and the rod met each of his punches. It was easy to fall back into the familiar form, and I felt a sense of calm coming back to me, slowing my heart enough for me concentrate. I could hold Flint off this way, but I didn't think I would be able to stop him long enough to escape. Not for Iris and I both, at least.

"Run, Iris!" I choked out. Fists on metal, again and again, faster and faster. How long would the hollow rod last? I could try to push the button, let out the hook, but that seemed too risky. What if it entangled us both, or what if the hook stuck to me instead? What if it snared him in the wrong place, took an eye or worse? I wanted to live. I didn't want to kill him. I didn't want him to kill me. Promises, panic. Flint's punch finally found my stomach, knocking the breath from my lungs. His other arm took hold of my shoulder, locking on tightly, his fingers pressed into jacket like a clamp.

"Cora, look out!" Iris cried. There was a glint of metal as Flint reached in the depths of his pocket for what must've been a knife, and then a twitch of movements as he stumbled backwards. Iris had her hands locked around his neck, her legs around his waist, and squeezed his throat tight. I broke free once more, as Flint's attention was diverted again.

This time though, he had the knife, and it met her hand. Iris screamed and fell behind him, and he towered over her, while I caught my breath finally. My ally was in trouble. My friend was in trouble. How could I protect her without killing him? Could I knock him out with a stone? Iris hadn't been able to. There was little time to think as Flint's knife made contact with her stomach. The sound was horrible, second only to Iris's scream of pain. Frantic, I ran at Flint, who shoved me back to the ground with little effort. That sound, the contact of knife and flesh, again and again and again. Iris, crying. Myself, useless while my friend was hurting. He was going to kill her if I didn't kill him. I grabbed for a stone, ready to attack, but then I caught view of his eyes, and hesitated for just a heartbeat. Blue-gray, like Tyde's.

Like my brother who had killed in the arena. Like my brother who had been killed in the arena. Who I still mourned, who I still missed, who I still had loved and believed the best of. What was the difference? Did they kill for sport or to survive? Could one life be weighed against another? Another shriek from Iris brought reality hurtling back, but that split second was enough for Flint to land another blow, cutting off her cries. Satisfied, Flint moved to finish off our alliance, his knife ready for a new target. Iris still writhed on the ground. His blade in the air, I closed my eyes and prepared for the blow. His knife met my arm, but my cry was drowned out by another. Flint collapsed to the ground, silent, and over him stood Ronan, a bloodied spear in his hand.

I was frozen by the shock of the stab and the sudden appearance. I couldn't fit it all together in my mind, couldn't process it. Ronan stared down at me.

"Cora, you have to go. The others will be here soon," he ordered. I couldn't move. A few yards away, Iris had gone quiet as well. What had I done?

Iris was dead because of me. Because I couldn't kill Flint. Wasn't I as responsible for her death as he was? Because I hadn't saved her. I was supposed to protect her. My ally, my friend. Her parents, her sisters would feel her loss, knowing that I hadn't helped her. How was that any different? It was my fault she was gone. She had been killed because I wouldn't kill.

"Cora," Ronan repated. "Cora, you need to go now. Run towards the swamp, run as fast as you can." He grabbed my backpack and tossed it at me. "Come on, go!"

"I… I… Ro…" I had no words. Ronan took action instead. He hoisted me up, his hand around my arm. He found my eyes, and there was so much strength in them.

"I don't want to see you die. So stay alive. And go, Coral." The nickname. The smallest connection. "Go!"

"Thank you," I said, and I took off before tears could blur my vision.

Cinna

I rushed into the apartment, where the rest of the team sat waiting. Finnick had his head in his hands, and Julietta was wringing hers. Someone was screaming

"What's happening?" I asked, falling onto the couch.

"Cora," Annette replied. "And the boy from 2." On screen, he turned away from someone- Iris, the girl from 12. Cora's ally. She was crying, her jacket stained red.

Oh no. No. I couldn't breathe. Cora. The cameras panned out, and there she was, lying on the forest floor, unarmed. Terror was plain on her face. This couldn't be it. She had come this far, made it into the second week of the Games. It was in that moment that I realized how much I wanted her to survive. How much I wanted her. I had felt that closeness, that creeping emotion lingering since she spoke so candidly to me on the balcony. But never had it been so clear to me, and never had I allowed myself to consider how I would feel if she died in the arena.

Flint raised his knife- Julietta winced, and Finnick held his breath, and time seemed to slow as the apartment went silent- and as he brought it down, a spear met his side. He gasped, falling as it was pulled back out.

"Cora," a voice on the television said. All of us sat straight at attention. "You have to go. The others will be here soon." It was Ronan. It was Ronan who had saved her, and though he stood now in a position to kill her, to leave her for his allies to attack, he was helping her. I took back any doubts I had about his character. He had proven himself in that moment. If Ronan won, I would thank him. I would thank him for giving Cora a little more time, for allowing her to escape to safety. There from the couch, I sent my gratitude his way. In the arena, Ronan looked over the body of the girl, who had stopped moving. Three fingers were pressed to her lips. Deciding that she had nothing worth taking, he ran off in the opposite direction Cora had gone, to catch up with the other Careers, and divert them off course.

"They're both okay," Finnick said, a sigh of relief escaping him. "Thank goodness. Whatever bond those two have, it's enough. Ronan did good. He did good there." He shook his head. "You never know who you can trust in there. It's so easy to get lost, and you start to think everyone is your enemy. Even the people you know."

"He's good with a spear, that's for sure," Julietta observed. Then, laying a hand on Finnick's arm, "You must've trained him well. Strong and a good sport."

By then, the cameras found Cora. She was alone, huddled in a thicket and covered by their leaves, shaking in the dirt. The boom of the cannon rang out and for a brief second she was still. Then another cannon. We watched as she broke down. Her whole body wracked with sobs, and her hand was clamped over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound as tears poured down her face. Eventually, she buried her head between her knees, rocking back and forth.

I wanted to go to her, I wanted to hold her and keep her from crying. But did I even understand her pain? Did I have a right to comfort her? I glanced at Finnick, who watched with obvious empathy. His lips were pressed as tightly as his fist. Whatever Cora felt, Finnick would understand far more than I ever could. Whatever his spare time and stream of companions was, there was no question that he'd been hurt deeply before. And it was still there, on his face. He carried it with him, masked by his nonchalance and flirting.

The scene before us changed, to the boy from District 3 who was skirting the edges of the Cornucopia with a strange bundle of wires, as the Careers were making their way back.

A wave of horror passed over me. Cora could've been killed. She was in danger, and she could've been killed, and I hadn't been there. I had been out to coffee while she was fighting for her life in the arena. What if Ronan hadn't been there? One fear, over and over. I stared at the television, consumed by a sudden onslaught of guilt. I could have lost her.