This was supposed to be a Christmas update, but ah well. Happy Boxing Day update, I suppose!

Warning 'cause what do you know, Vesper's in this chapter. Seriously though, this one gets a bit more mature than most. Heads up for rather explicit implications of prostitution/rape/general "Vesper's life sucks" stuff. If you'd prefer a summary of the chapter instead, just shoot me a PM.

So yeah, a belated Merry Christmas to everyone! If your holidays have been too cheery so far, here's a dose of death and despair for ya. Enjoy?


Vesper Prospero, 17, District 1

My father was right about me all along. I'm a fool; a stupid, stupid fool who must revel in his own pain. Why else would I allow myself to get my hopes up after everything that's happened? All it does is leave me more vulnerable to the crushing pain that's always sure to follow.

For the first time since I can remember, and definitely for the first time in this arena, I'd slept soundly. No nightmares, no new scars that had somehow made their way onto my skin—just blissful, long-desired nothingness. When I'd awoken, I'd found Reese, smiling, giving me a cheerful "Good morning! Er, afternoon, evening—you know what I mean", and welcoming me back to the world of the living with a small portion of scraps we'd saved from the feast coupled with some of our remaining supplies of dried goods. As good a breakfast as ever in this place, and the company made it ten times better.

Even when Tesla declared her plan to hunt for Samantha and Kale, the microscopic bubble of optimism in my heart wasn't popped. I almost panicked at their names, but Reese wrapped her arms around me, brushed her fingers through my hair, and whispered reassurances until I could breathe easy again. She held my hand as we walked, giving me the courage to take each new step.

As it turned out, "hunting" was not so much hunting as it was walking and talking while failing to find other tributes. Reese passed the time by sharing stories of her life on her family's ranch—not like the one from before, but happy ones. The time she first rode a horse, felt the wind rushing through her hair, and wished she could do nothing else for the rest of her life. The time she accidentally elbowed her ten-year-old crush in the face at a youth square-dance. The time her siblings tried to make a cake for her twelfth birthday, and wound up nearly burning down the kitchen instead. In turn, I'd slowly started to share about my life before the war. Buying my first telescope, taking cello lessons, winning the school-wide math contest three years in a row—for once, memories that didn't make me want to cry. After everything that had happened, I'd forgotten there'd been some good underneath the monumental piles of bad.

And maybe, I'd thought, just maybe, there's a little bit of good coming back.

Stupid, gullible, moronic fool. At least when I expected the bad, I could prepare myself for it.

Everything happens in the blink of an eye. Our latest conversation is interrupted by a muffled thump and a grunt of pain, like someone just got hit. Racing footsteps follow; in the intersection up ahead, a blurred figure sprints across our path.

Tesla looks at me with eyes like jade: cold and hard as stone. She only needs to utter a single word.

"Go."

And I'm gone. The nightmares may have, miraculously, backed off for today, but I still remember the horrific consequences of not listening to Tesla; I have the scrapes and bruises to prove it.

Scrapes and bruises that . . . shouldn't exist.

Tesla says that's not important.

. . . Reese says it is. Reese wants to help stop them from appearing.

No time to think about it now. I have to run to the intersection, catch the person trying to flee the scene—the girl, judging by the long black hair I saw whipping by.

Samantha.

NO. No—she, she has orange hair, like fire. Not her.

Still, I stumble at the thought, and wind up skidding rather clumsily into the junction of tunnels. Just in time to meet the eyes of the escaping tribute as she glances over her shoulder.

Tall, muscled, not covered in bandages—not Samantha.

But still a threat? Should I go after her?

Do I . . . h-have to?

The hilt of my sword, already in my grasp, slickens as my palms begin to sweat. I can't make my own decisions, but Tesla can, and already I hear her running up to my side. She'll tell me what to do.

She'll tell me to kill.

But I . . . I-I don't want—

"Leave her."

"W-What?"

I turn to stare at Tesla, who's entered the intersection, her eyes locked on the sprinting girl as she repeats, "Leave her."

I nearly collapse in relief.

"No point in chasing one when we've got another here."

My heart skips a beat. Tesla turns, motioning for me to follow, and I do, dreading the thought of what I might find.

It is another tribute. A boy this time, clutching his side as he staggers to his feet. Pale skin, short hair, grey eyes—not Kale. Not Kale.

I don't know if Tesla realises it, though. She's staring at him with the same callous expression she gets whenever she mentions Samantha and Kale. And looks at Reese. And is disappointed by me.

I can't remember the last time I saw her smile.

In front of us, the boy has managed to find his footing and is now eyeing the knife lying on the ground a few feet away. Tesla sucks in a sharp breath and snaps, "Vesper."

I flinch, but step forward, already knowing what's coming.

"Kill—"

"Wait!"

I jump at the new voice as Reese makes it into the intersection. Reese. I'd almost forgotten she was with us; it doesn't seem right, her being here while this horrible situation plays out. She's come to represent the only times I can escape everything that's happened, but now she's colliding with the moment when I have to . . .

"P-Please go," I whisper as she reaches my side. I know I have no right, absolutely no right to give her orders, but I-I can't have her here. Then all I'll think about when I see her is her expression when she watches me kill, and I'll never be able to stop seeing it again, over and over and over until . . .

"Vesper." There's a soft hand on mine, slowly prying my sword out of my grasp. I'm shaking too much to fight it. "It's all right," Reese continues gently. "Just breathe. You don't have to worry. And neither do you," she adds to the tribute trying and failing to maintain an angry glare in the face of three opponents. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Excuse me?"

There's a third hand now, plucking my sword out of Reese's grip and shoving it back into my own. Tesla glowers at our new ally, stepping right up to the shorter girl so she can tower above her as she hisses, "What do you think you're doing?"

Her tone is so venomous it has me cowering, but Reese manages to stand strong and face her.

"You said you wanted to hunt the ones who hurt you two. And I understand why you feel the need to do that," Reese begins, slow yet firm. "But you said it was Samantha and Kale, right? This boy's done nothing to you."

Sh-She's right.

Tesla turns her glare on the boy who returns it in equal force as she looks him up and down, taking in every inch of his appearance. After a moment, she says, "You're the Five boy."

He doesn't reply, but then, he doesn't need to. After Tesla says it, vague memories return from our time in the Capitol—this is the boy who made my heart pound every time I looked at him; he always seemed so angry.

"He's her district partner," Tesla says, and I feel her hand slam down none-too-gently on my shoulder. "It's close enough."

"Tesla, I know you're hurt, and I know you're scared." My district partner's grip on my shoulder tightens, but Reese continues before she can spit back a response, "But this isn't right. He's innocent."

Tesla's laugh is cold and humourless. "You do remember who this is, right? Aemilius Lewellyn? The reason the districts lost the war? He has hurt us, all of us. If the districts hadn't lost the war, we wouldn't have the Hunger Games. None of the kids in here would have died. Neither would the millions of war casualties."

"Tesla—"

"And your family wouldn't have lost everything." Tesla's turned on me now, twisting my shoulder until I'm forced to look at her. "Vesper, if the Capitol hadn't won the war, they wouldn't have killed your uncle and destroyed the Prospero reputation. You never would have had to sell yourself to get by. No one would have dared touch you. And your father wouldn't ever have laid a finger on you."

My eyes unfocus, staring past Tesla and into a reality I can barely imagine. A world without pain—was it really a possibility?

"You could have had everything, Vesper." Tesla's tone is quieter now, less abrasive and all the more captivating. "A university degree, a job, a place in the District One Symphony Orchestra."

Those . . . Those were my dreams, before they all turned to nightmares. I feel a tugging in my heart, a sudden, intense yearning I haven't felt in years; is this what it was like to have ambitions beyond living to see the next day?

"It all could have been yours, just like you always wanted." Tesla leans closer; her hand tightens on my shoulder once more. "But Aemilius Lewellyn took it from you. He ruined everything. Every time someone hurts you, it's his fault."

"Tesla, please, think about what you're saying." Reese's tone is desperate now, and quiet, like Tesla and I stand alone on an isolated plane far away from everyone else. "I know it's easy to blame others, but it's not right. Vesper, I'm so sorry for what happened for you, I am, but it's not this boy's fault."

Her words light the tiniest of sparks in my mind, clearing some of the fog I feel clogging my skull. Reese said she was sorry. She's done nothing to me, and still she's giving me an apology, something I can't remember ever receiving from anyone else. I know Tesla didn't say sorry when she slammed the flamethrower into my jaw.

That was an accident.

Cartier said the same thing the first time he hit me at work.

"Vesper." Tesla squeezes my shoulder. "I've gotten us this far, haven't I? We've played the game by the Capitol's rules, and that's the only reason we're still alive."

"Vesper." Reese is in my other ear, urgent voice mixing and mingling with Tesla's calm, certain one. "There's another way."

"It's kill or be killed—"

"We can change—"

"We'll die—"

"You don't have to do this—"

"Vesper, listen—"

"Vesper, please—"

I want to scream, slam my palms over my ears and tune both of them out. But even then, I'd hear them inside my head, playing tug-of-war with my brain.

Do it.

Don't.

I-I can't decide. I shouldn't. I'm not supposed to make decisions, I'm supposed to follow orders. "First thing to know about the upper class is always respect your superiors," my father taught me from a young age. "You're not fit to scrape dirt off my shoe—know your fucking place," the people at work pounded into my head every day. I'm only here to please.

Do it.

Don't.

But they want two different things. How can I make them both happy?

DO IT.

DON'T.

I c-can't!

If left to my own devices, who knows what could have happened. I'd have had a meltdown, most likely. Or, worse, I could have become so hysterical I might have hurt one of the girls.

I'll never know. Because while I whip my head between Tesla and Reese, trying to figure out who I should follow, my eyes land on a third figure—Aemilius Lewellyn, my maybe victim, maybe not.

He's lunging for his discarded knife. The blade is stained by blood, blood that I know isn't mine, but all I can picture is that knife in Jasper Piryte's hands, pressing against my throat, breaking the first few layers of skin. Suddenly, Reese and Tesla's voices disappear; the only one I hear is his, low, gruff, growling in my ear, "Shut up, you piece of shit. No more crying, no more talk about fucking pay. You think you deserve any more than this?"

His voice turns into white noise, and my mind goes on autopilot.

I take two sprinted steps forward and leap straight into Aemilius. He's taller and slightly more built than I am, but his side is still paining him, and that's the weak point I strike. First with my whole body to take him to the ground, then again with my fists, one punch, then another, because I know, I know how much it hurts to get hit in the kidney after the spot's already bruised.

Only then do I realise my sword is gone. Reese must have taken it back, or else Tesla did while they were talking; it doesn't matter, I know how to cause pain without a weapon, know because I've endured it.

"Man, they make you rich fuckers like porcelain dolls, don't they? Pretty little nose—"

One punch changes that.

"Glass bones—"

A hit to the jaw.

"You people break so easily."

Both hands on his arm, my arm, because it was me in this situation, my hand yanked up my back, my shoulder tearing, my throat going hoarse from screaming.

Only that's not how it plays out this time. The boy underneath me grabs his own fist with his free hand and yanks his arm out of my grip. I don't understand, still lost in the memory, until a foot flies out and smashes into my face.

My own nose is bleeding now, pulsing waves of hot pain in time with the blood dripping steadily across my lips. But it helps to hurt; it drags me back into the present and reminds me it's not a memory playing out before me, but a very real fight I'm suddenly on the losing end of.

Aemilius rears back for another kick, but on the ground as we are, the blow is weak enough that I can take the hit and catch his foot. Without a second thought, I wrench it violently to the right, hoping to hear something tear. Instead, Aemilius manages to kick my elbow with his other foot, and the jarring hit gives him enough time to form a fist and send me back to the ground with a punch to my solar plexus. He may be more muscled, but I've clearly been better fed over the past week, cancelling out his advantage when I find he's light enough to shove off of me. He hits the wall of the tunnel with a groan and then I'm back on top; too soon he recovers, thrusts two fingers into my Adam's apple and throws me to the side while I'm coughing and gasping.

Back and forth we go, exchanging blows and fighting for power, neither of us gaining any significant ground. My father had me training for these Games as soon as he heard about the prize money, but every bit of knowledge he beat into my head goes out the window when Aemilius's blows dredge up old memories I can't shake. Every time I look at him, I see a different attacker; the only thing stopping me from curling up into a ball and sobbing is pure survival instinct.

Aemilius himself seems just as trained as me, anticipating and blocking my hits before reciprocating with harder ones. Still, something's holding him back from getting the upper hand. Every time we roll into one of the tunnel walls, he loses concentration, eyes flying to the stone around us as though he'd forgotten just how small the tunnel space is. Like me, he can brush off most blows like he's dealt with them before, but any contact I make longer than a split-second punch or kick has him breathing hard and fighting more wildly, but with less technique.

Not that I'm grabbing him much; I'm too focused on avoiding and delivering punches. But the moment he gets me under him again and raises his fist to deliver a jaw-shattering blow, hands appear around his wrist, taking advantage of his flinching to tug him off-balance.

Reese. Despite the narrowness of the tunnels, she's tried to worm her way into our fight all while avoiding the thrashing limbs and rolling bodies. The possibility of her getting hit, even accidentally, is high, but she doesn't seem to care. She's more concerned with helping me.

Helping me. I almost can't believe it. But confusion mingles in and amongst the awe and utter gratitude—if she wants to help, why isn't she using my sword which she's got shoved in her belt?

I don't have time to figure out an answer. Aemilius uses Reese's grip on him against her, yanking down so she's unsteady and wrapping his free hand around her ankle. In one swift tug, he's pulled her off her feet; with a cry, Reese slips backwards, head slamming hard against the wall of the tunnel behind her. She slumps to the ground, eyes open but unfocused, expression dazed as she clutches weakly at the back of her head.

When Soren hurt Tesla, I got so mad it scares me to think back on it. Reese told me that wasn't good—it's all right to be scared for others, but anger can control you, make you do horrible things. Our fathers let anger rule them, and we couldn't let that happen to us too. We weren't monsters.

So I try to ignore the fury bubbling up inside of me at the sight of the girl who's been nothing but kind collapsed and injured against the wall. I'm not a monster—not a monster.

But Aemilius Lewellyn is rearing back to hurt Reese again, and I can't let that happen.

I grab his wrist with both hands and drag him towards me instead, expecting him to fight back but not expecting the elbow that slams into my stomach. I gasp, sputtering and gagging like I'm going to throw up while Aemilius whirls around to face me, now positioned on top of my torso thanks to me pulling him into that exact spot.

Not good. No, no, not good, it's Jasper all over again and he's going to—

No. It's not him. Focus, Vesper. Deep breaths.

I open my mouth to take one, only to find that I can't. The path to my lungs has been cut off by Aemilius's hands around my throat.

My mind goes white with panic, limbs thrashing wildly without doing any damage. I can't think enough to make them work; all I see is Jasper Piryte, squeezing and squeezing until I thought my neck would snap. I wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but I couldn't, I couldn't, I just laid there and endured the pain and then—

Oh god. I can see it, playing out before my eyes, even after I'd done so much to forget. It won't go away, and now I'm reliving it, except it's even worse. He didn't want me to pass out, but now the hold on my throat is tighter, my lungs are burning, and black stars are exploding across my vision. I'm crying, I think, chest convulsing with breathless sobs because that's the only thing I can ever manage to do. Cry and take it.

Except this time, I'm also going to die.

"No!"

The scream is loud enough for my panic-stricken mind to hear, even if I can't make sense of it. My natural instinct is to cringe away, but no pain follows the shout, not like usual. Instead, the existing pain . . . disappears.

At first, I can't believe it. My neck is aching like it's still caught in a vise, but when my next sobbing gasp comes, a rush of air flows down my battered throat and into my dying lungs. I choke on the unexpected breath, coughing and wheezing, then gulping down air as fast as I can. Every inhalation hurts, but I can't stop; until, with a start, I remember I'm still in the middle of a fight.

A hoarse shriek tears itself from my ragged throat as my eyes fly to the place my attacker used to be. He's still there, snarling and swearing, but his flailing attacks have been rendered useless; another pair of arms slides under his shoulders and up to the back of his neck, trapping him in a full nelson. He won't be hurting anyone anytime soon.

I'm still half-stuck in a memory, and all at once, one detail from the past blossoms, overwhelming everything else. I remember the hurt, the nausea, the humiliation, but underneath all those layers of pain and panic, one thought lingered in my mind.

I wanted to kill Jasper Piryte. I didn't just want him dead, I wanted to be the one to kill him, to feel the thrust of a knife beneath my palms as I drove it into his heart, to smell blood that isn't mine washing over my hands, to know I had finally made myself safe.

I still see Jasper Piryte before me. And when I drop my hands from my tender throat, my fingers brush against the discarded knife I find by my knee, placed there as if by fate.

I don't think. I don't feel. I don't even see. All I know is the rubbery touch of a hilt, and then the warm, sticky tsunami of blood.

A myriad of screams flood the air, creating a disturbing harmony. My cry of rage, fear, and every other emotion I've repressed blends with a high-pitched, terrified shriek and a deeper howl of agony that grows louder as I pull the knife out of its fleshy sheath.

I can't see anything besides the blood, pouring from a deep tear just above the hipbone, a fresh wave bubbling to the surface with each dying heartbeat. Dying, not dead. I'm not safe yet, not until the job is done.

My hand rises, knife poised to strike again.

"Vesper, STOP!"

I never thought I'd hear this gentle voice raised to a yell—certainly not one directed at myself. It makes me freeze, and yet I still have trouble placing an identity to the shouter until the haze of red clears from my vision and my eyes refocus once more.

Reese. It's Reese in front of me, tears streaming down her face, hands out in a gesture of peace or defence, I can't tell. Curled up at her side is a bloody, shaking boy, face screwed up in a mask of absolute pain as his hands try in vain to cover the deep, jagged tear in his side.

I-It's not Jasper Piryte. It's a seventeen-year-old boy I could have found in my classes back home.

Tesla said he's bad. Besides, he hurt you.

The knife trembles in my grasp, but it doesn't drop.

"Vesper, please." It's Reese talking again, stammering out words I only half understand. "We were going to change, remember? We weren't going to hurt people anymore."

When I frown, I feel dried blood from my nose crack on my face. "But he . . . h-he hurt me." There are tears pricking the corners of my eyes, and I don't know why. "I have to . . . otherwise, I-I won't be safe. I'll keep getting h-h-hurt."

"No. Vesper, there's another way. I'm here, I'll protect you, just—"

"You can't!"

No one expects the outburst, least of all me, but the more I think about it, the more I realise it's true. Reese couldn't stop my father, or the people at work, or Jasper Piryte, or any of them; I was the only one who was ever there, and I did nothing. Now look at me. I can't take it anymore—it needs to stop, by whatever means necessary.

I open my mouth to scream all this at Reese, but the look in her eyes stops me. It's the same one I'd see in the window of the bus or the mirror in the breakroom, anytime I knew I'd soon be meeting someone who was going to hurt me.

Reese is scared. Of me.

The horrific realisation dawns on me. "I-I am a monster."

Just like my father.

Everything that's built up inside of me—the rage, the hate, the violence—comes crashing down in an instant. The knife falls, my shoulders slump, and my head buries itself in my hands, tears pouring like waterfalls through the cracks in my fingers.

I hurt someone. Not like Soren and Stanley, where I was so beside myself I hardly realised what I was doing; I hurt someone, and I wanted to. Even now, knowing it's Aemilius Lewellyn and not Jasper Piryte before me, there's still a part of my mind urging me to pick up the knife and finish the job.

It'll get you and Tesla closer to the finish. And admit it, you liked it. Hurting people, for a change. You can't wait to do it again.

Oh god, what's h-happened to me?

My sobs are so forceful, it feels like I'm tearing apart; I wish I would, to save the world from whatever monster hides in my brain. Violent thoughts have flitted through my head before, but now it's like that's all that's there, like someone scooped out everything else and replaced it with a single panic- and rage-fuelled desire to kill. I can't control it. I hurt the 5 boy. I scared Reese.

Reese, whose arms are wrapping around me, who's telling me it's going to be okay as though I didn't just try to kill someone. I don't deserve her, not at all, but I can't bring myself to pull away because I'm selfish, a selfish, violent monster.

"Shhh. It's going to be all right."

"I'm sorry," I choke out between sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I-I . . ."

"It's okay. You still made the right choice. You're changing, Vesper. You're not going to be your father."

Right now, I don't feel like there's any bigger lie she could tell me. But I keep clinging to her, listening to her words because no matter how terrible I feel, no matter how terrible I am, I-I can't stop wanting to hear someone say I'll be all right. Even if it's a lie, even if I am an irredeemable monster, I just want to hear it from the girl who believes in me.

And she understands. So she waits, holding me in her arms, listening to me sob and apologise over and over because she knows what I need, and she actually wants to help me.


Tesla Sinclair, 17, District 1

"Vesper," I snap, then louder, "Vesper!"

He doesn't hear me. Neither of them do. They're kneeling on the ground and hugging again, like they're two magnets that just can't stay apart. I thought it was a bad sign when they first cried together over Riley's corpse, and now my fears are confirmed. Far too late—the damage is done.

Inside my chest, my heartbeat quickens; by my side, my fingers twitch like they just dropped a leash they once held so tight.

I'm losing him. I'm losing my weapon. I'm losing everything.

"Vesper," I try again, infusing as much vehemence as I can manage into my tone.

Not even a flinch.

I have eyes only for the ally currently slipping away from me, and as such, I don't notice Aemilius Lewellyn until he lurches into my side, smearing blood across my tunic. No one had realised he'd even stood up, and no one had cared. I don't flinch at the contact, don't even consider going after him when he staggers away and off down the hall; with that wound, I doubt he'll make it far, and anyways, this battle is no longer about us against him. He's inconsequential.

The only boy that matters is the one before me. The one who I'd conditioned to see me as his only ally, who couldn't help tensing even when I touched him, who is now throwing his arms around the 10 girl at every opportunity. As though she was the one who spent weeks mapping him out, sifting through his thoughts and memories, learning exactly what strings to pull so he'd listen to whatever she said.

But no, Reese Durnham didn't have to do that. She appears out of nowhere, this girl with enough skill to take down Riley Byron, she cries, she delivers this half-assed sob story, she cries more, and suddenly Vesper is putty in her hands. How could she have managed it? Weeks of planning, manipulating Vesper, drugging him, wrestling with my morals, and she destroys it all in less than an hour.

Worse, she does it all with that stupid, teary smile on her face, like Vesper's breaking her pure little heart with joy every time he so much as breathes normally. I mean, is it the dust in these tunnels making her eyes water or something? Because I swear I've never seen them dry.

That used to be you, tearing up every time Vesper seemed to be getting better. Sure, it was because you were destroying him from the inside out, but at least back then you seemed to ca—

—miss the big picture, that's what. I shake my head, forcing myself to remember what this is all about, what this has always been about: getting back to my siblings. I could afford to be weak earlier in the Games, but now I'm painfully aware of the twisted pyromaniacs dead-set on ending me. Respecting Vesper's reluctance to kill is no longer an option.

"Vesper. Listen to me."

"It's all right."

There's something about the way Reese speaks that makes me want to punch her in the face every time she opens her mouth; is it that annoying hint of a District 10 twang in her accent, or her way-too-calm-for-the-Hunger-Games tone, or the overwhelming dose of sweetness that makes me want to puke?

Or maybe it's that stupid, lopsided smile she always wears, like she's just seen the worst in the world but is still trying to grin and bear it because isn't she just perfect? When she raises her head from Vesper's shoulder, I get a full view of the complete package, tear-stained cheeks and trembling lips included.

Ugh.

"He just needs to let it out," she continues, as if she knows exactly what's going on in his head. "That was a . . . really close call." Her eyes go to the ground, irritating smile morphing into the even worse frown of guilt. "It's my fault, really. I should have intervened sooner, should have done something . . ."

She peters out slowly, like she's expecting me to contradict her. And why would I do that, when it's entirely her fault for intervening at all. If she'd just stayed on the sidelines, nothing would have stood in Vesper's way to kill Aemilius. I'd already made sure to kick the knife over to him; it would have been done in seconds, and I'd have been one tribute closer to getting home. Sure, considering how much blood is pouring out of that wound, I still might be, but that's not the point. Aemilius's death won't matter if I lose Vesper before he kills the others standing in my way.

"Vesper," I repeat, completely ignoring Reese. "Vesper, why didn't you—?"

"I don't think he's really up for conversation," Reese interrupts like she's that important. "But if you want to talk to me—"

"Don't start with that again."

"Tesla, I understand you're angry, but venting through your words is good. Better than . . ."

"What? Wanting to kill another person standing between me and home?"

Reese doesn't flinch at my biting tone—just keeps patting Vesper protectively on the back, like she owns him. "These Games are making us think killing each other is okay. It's understandable you've started thinking this way. But if you look inside yourself, you'll realise it's wrong. Listen to your heart, Tesla. What does it tell you?"

I don't know, but my brain is telling me it's a good thing I lost my crossbow at the Circus Maximus, or I'd shoot Reese here and now. Who does she think she is, spewing this "look inside yourself" crap? "Listen to your heart"—give me a break. Oh, and the whole "it's understandable you've started thinking this way" basically translates to "I understand you're too weak to resist the Capitol's brainwashing because not every human is as perfect as myself."

I'm actually shaking with anger. Thousands of furious retorts are itching beneath my skin, aching to be let out, but I'm all too aware of Vesper still kneeling right in front of Reese. Hysterical he may be, but if he were to hear anything too venomous come from me, it might be the last shove he needs off the cliff of my control and into Reese Durnham's waiting arms.

There's one other thought holding me back from releasing the full extent of my wrath onto Reese. This situation just seems too . . . familiar. I feel like I'm back in the hospital after Mom's death, my brother sitting in a chair at my side and urging me to talk with him instead of ignoring the trauma.

Archie, actually, has far too much in common with Reese. Overly nice, irritatingly compassionate, unceasingly helpful. If they'd gotten to know each other, odds are they'd have been two peas in a pod. So why do I love my brother to bits and hate Reese with all my heart? When did I turn into a snarky, judgemental bitch?

Probably sometime around nearly burning to death, comes my brain's acerbic response.

Still, even while trying to remain emotionless and uncaring, I can't help but feel a twinge of . . . what? Loss for my old self? Embarrassment for the way I've been acting? Sadness at the realisation I'll never again be the girl I was before Samantha Hoffman tried to burn me to a crisp

No, you will be. It's just the pain making you act this way. Pain would set anyone on edge.

Except I'm not in pain right now.

. . . I'm not in pain right now.

Oh god.

Taking the pain killers in our first aid kit helped, but they could never completely erase the agony of my burns, especially when I had to keep moving about. The worst pain was in my shoulders, frail skin screaming underneath the straps the pack I carried. Both Reese and Vesper often offered to take the burden from me, but each time, I gritted my teeth and refused—couldn't have them accidentally finding the one sponsor gift I've kept hidden from them both. If either of them, but Vesper especially, found the bottle of drugs, my entire plan—and my life—would come crashing down to meet a violent end. So I endured the pain, shuffling the pack from one side to the other as often as I could to try and give at least one shoulder a few minutes of relief at a time.

Now, both shoulders feel at ease. There's no tugging weight on either of them. And when I look to my left side, where I had the pack so carefully positioned before the fight, all I find is my tunic stained with blood that is not my own.

Aemilius Lewellyn. When he bumped into me, he must have . . . oh god . . .

"He's got my backpack!"

Reese, who'd resumed comforting Vesper in my silence, looks back at me when I shout, brow raised. Finally, Vesper reacts too, turning towards me, eyes widened in a mixture of confusion and fear. His face is still a blotchy map of tear tracks, but I feel no sympathy as I glare down at him.

"You let him get away! With my backpack! You—"

I break off with a frustrated scream, hands threading through my hair and pulling until strands begin to tear.

"Tesla." Reese is standing now, trying to comfort me because of course she is. "Tesla, it's all right. Vesper still has his, we've got enough food to last for another little while, we—"

"Shut up!"

I want to keep screaming at her, to let her know just how important my backpack is, but I can't. They don't know about the drug. They don't realise if I don't get it back, the game is over. Reese has been slowly prying Vesper out of my grip, but the moment she wasn't looking, I still had the chance to slip Vesper some water that would have him screaming to be back with me. I could have even turned him against her with the force of his hallucinations and nightmares.

"We have to go after him," I start babbling, already turning to face the rest of the hall. Aemilius is long gone, but there's a clear trail of blood indicating the path he chose. My heart leaps in my chest; maybe all isn't lost.

Reese shouts my name as I take off running, but I ignore her, ignore her question I just catch as she asks Vesper about what's so important about my backpack.

"Her d-diary," he stammers in response. I almost laugh—if only it was that trivial.

The blood trail turns a corner, and so do I, not even thinking about what I'll do if I catch up to Aemilius. I noticed the knife was gone from where Vesper dropped it; odds are the 5 boy snatched it, which makes him injured but armed, and still I don't care. If I have to tackle him to the ground to get my backpack back, I'll do it.

In that moment, I swear if I had to kill him, I'd do it.

But I don't get the chance. His blood leads to a door down the hall, its handle stained crimson, and with a shout of triumph, I fling it open, only to find myself facing a solid wall.

"No." I bang my fist on the stone, then again, harder and harder, faster and faster, "No, no, no, no, no!"

This is the Gamemakers' doing. It has to be; they want this. It's just like when they led me to the Circus, only I was too stupid to realise it at the time. They're not helping me anymore; they're tugging me along like a puppet on strings, just like I've been doing with Vesper, only I had a purpose. The Gamemakers just want to watch me suffer. They followed my lead at the start, gave Vesper a low training score like I asked, lowered his self-worth, sent me the drugs so I could have complete control, and now they're destroying everything they've built.

Have to build the villains up first, give them what they need so they can truly be evil. After all, what's the fun in watching a show with no bad guy?

But now it's time for them to get their comeuppance. First take Riley out, the nastiest threat. And then, after him, who's the next most vile tribute left in the arena?

I collapse against the wall, sobbing and screaming, still hitting it with my fists. This is how Reese and Vesper find me, unhinged and pathetic, but I don't care.

In the span of fifteen minutes, I've lost everything. And very soon, I'm going to lose my life as well.


Samantha Marie Hoffman, 17, District 5

Good news is, I'm feeling better.

Bad news is, our alliance is suffering for it.

Since I'm up and walking/stumbling along, Kale seems to have decided I don't need his sympathy anymore. For my part, I'm no longer overwhelmed by the pain that prevented my sass from escaping. Plus there's the gnawing hunger and our anger at missing the feast food to fan the flames of discord.

We've been bickering. A lot.

"Fucking hell, could you walk any slower?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you almost get sliced in half?"

"No, but I did sew you back together. God knows why."

"Probably because you couldn't get by without me."

"You wanna bet?"

"Yeah!"

We lapsed into sullen silence after that. I think we were both afraid if we kept talking, we'd eventually have to back up our words with actions and leave each other. No matter how much we argue, I don't think either of us are ready for that. We're snarky, dysfunctional, and probably slightly crazy, but we're still a team.

What we need is a distraction, or a goal—something. Before our plan to take down the Ones, we were just like this; same with after the fact, when Kale started to doubt who the bad guys really were. Since then, we've been wandering around aimlessly, nothing to do except get in each other's faces.

Jeez, I can't believe I'm saying this, but we almost need another lion to get us back together.

Well, you know what they say about making wishes and being careful. No sooner have we gone through a door and entered another tunnel, still silently sending glares at each other, than we hear it.

Gasps. Grunts. Faint grumbling that I'm pretty sure isn't anything nice.

It's coming from the open door down the hall.

Both Kale and I have the same immediate reaction: turn around and run back the way we came.

Except the doorway we just went through is now blocked by stone. Great. Thanks, Gamemakers.

Kale's eyes flicker to me, no traces of anger left in his gaze. He looks nervous, an expression I'm sure I'm mirroring times ten, but I grab his hand and squeeze nonetheless. I mean, it's okay, right? Riley Byron's dead, so it can't be him down the hall, which significantly lowers the threat level. The only other real danger is the pair from 1, but all I hear is a male voice, so unless Vesper's alone, we're good. We're gonna be okay.

I don't really believe it until I catch sight of the blood leading to the door; unless our mystery tribute was bathing in the blood of his victims, that's his and he's injured. A simple nod communicates this to Kale, who relaxes slightly, though his expression is still hard. Wounded or not, if the guy is armed, we might still be at a disadvantage.

I frown at my fist, wondering if it would hurt my victim or me more if I tried to punch them. My arm ached for hours after I threw that spear at the Circus, muscles unused to the wild speed at which I was moving. Safe to say I'm not going to be much use in a fight.

Kale gets that, which is why he motions for me to stand behind him while he reaches up the wall and slides a torch out of the nearest bracket.

I don't know what he's going to do with it, but I don't miss the flicker in his eyes that isn't entirely due to the reflection of the flames. It's as good a weapon as any in his hands, I guess.

Cautiously, we begin to creep towards the open door, Kale in front getting ready for a fight, me taking up the rear and trying to think up anything that might help him. I should at the least be able to put an identity to our mystery tribute—there are so few of us left, after all—but I can't seem to make my brain think straight. There's not enough air getting to my head; my breaths are coming too fast, too shallow.

I hate to admit it, but I . . . I'm scared. The fiasco at the Circus only proved that even when I make plans, they can still go belly-up. An unanticipated fight I haven't had the chance to analyse for strategy? That's stepping way out of my comfort zone.

But I trust Kale, crazy, rough-and-tumble guy that he is. So when he motions for me to stay put, I do. He looks towards the open doorway and takes a deep breath, one that I mimic, knowing what he's about to do. My fingers are digging so hard into my palms they're piercing the skin, but it's okay, it's okay, Kale's got this.

He exhales, gripping his torch tight, and suddenly he's leaping in front of the doorway, torch held back as if he's going to chuck it like a knife. The fire dances wildly beside his head, but it remains where it is as Kale freezes. His eyes widen, like whatever he sees, he definitely wasn't expecting.

But then, something clicks in his head, and his eyes narrow into the deadliest glare I've ever seen him wear. It's not even directed at me, and I'm still cringing at the sight. The only thing holding him back from attacking is the fact that he's so angry he's shaking too much to throw the torch properly.

I've never seen him like this. Kale is the epitome of unflappable; he took on a lion without batting an eye, and he faced the One boy without getting so much as a scratch. Hell, he didn't even look this upset when he learned of his district partner's death. The only time I've seen him anything like this is way back at the chariot rides when . . .

Oh. Oh.

I hop over to Kale's side and peer through the doorway, just to make sure. But I'm right. Of course I'm right. Idiot, how could I not have guessed sooner? With Riley and the 8 boy out of the picture, there are only five boys left in the arena. One's with me, two of the others wouldn't be caught alone, and the fourth is a twelve-year-old with a voice as high as mine. There's only one guy who could be our mystery tribute; I can't believe it took me staring him in the face to realise it.

The door opens into a small room with no other exits, just a blank wall opposite us, and a disturbingly large puddle of blood. Sitting in this is our mystery tribute, head down, breathing ragged, though he looks up when I peep around the corner as if he can sense my presence.

My eyes meet the steely grey gaze I'd become so familiar with in the Capitol, and I can't help but break into a wide smile, quite the contrast from Kale's maintained death glare.

"Why hello, district partner."