Very sorry if the last chapter scared off anybody. You guys still here?

Also, review count hit another hundred mark so time for me to thank you all again! Really, you've all been wonderful, even through my long absences and questionable chapters. Thank you, guys!

Also, this chapter was written at varying points in varying moods, so heads up for some parts being super depressing and others like "Banter! Whoo!"


Kale Hackberry, 17, District 11

I still remember the day 11 fell.

For better or for worse, I wasn't there when it happened. The bombing crew I'd been dragged into had gotten word from a small, deeply underground group of rebels in Capitol-occupied 7 that they wanted to send a message by blowing up the newly-built Peacekeeper barracks, and Azolla had rushed us off to help.

We never made contact with the rebels. The night before we were supposed to meet up, we'd set up camp in a forest on the outskirts of 7, far from prying eyes. I was already trying to get to sleep when Azolla brought out her pocket radio to tune in for the nightly broadcast from the sole rebel station still broadcasting in Panem.

At first, all we got was static. Typical of Azolla's crappy, ancient radio, although it continued for much longer than normal.

Then the programmed message played, as we later found out it had been doing for the past three hours.

"To any rebels still listening, know that you have lost. On this day, Eleven has been beaten. Her defences have been surpassed, her soldiers killed, and her hives of anarchy destroyed."

We didn't believe it at first, even though parts of 11 had already fallen to the Peacekeepers. Our district's point of pride in the war was the absolute loyalty of its citizens. Informants in places like 4 and 5 had been the downfall of the rebels' war effort in those districts, but not one secret had been leaked from 11. I'd never been all that committed to the rebellion, and even I would never have dreamed of spilling anything to the Capitol. It would have gone against everything 11 stood for.

But then the broadcast continued, and the monotonous, robotic voice began to list the location of every rebel base in the district, followed by their method of eradication and the estimated number of rebel casualties.

"Golden Grove. Bombed. 2300 dead."

"Springwater Farmstead. Peacekeeper invasion. 840 dead."

"Boysenberry Vineyards. Swarms of tracker jackers. 1900 dead."

On and on the broadcast went. We listened in numb silence as the homes of people we'd heard of, people we knew, were listed one by one.

Finally, ours came.

"Elysian Fields. Bombed."

It was with a detached sort of horror that I'd thought, Isn't that ironic?

"5500 dead."

Some of the others on our team had gasped. Others had cried. Azolla herself had bowed her head, murmuring some sort of prayer or curse. I hadn't been able to tell. The only words that reached my ears were 5500 dead, playing over and over like a broken record.

Elysian Fields, a sprawling collection of old farms that (purposely) looked to have fallen into disrepair, had been one of 11's largest bases. An estimated 15 000 people operated out of it, with up to 6000 usually there at any given time. Many people had permanent homes in the residence quarter, including powerful commanders in the rebellion and the families who couldn't bear to be apart from them. Only a few days ago, I'd been accosted by a group of six-year-olds living in the base and demanding I join them in their game of hide and seek.

At the moment of the broadcast, all I could think about was the looks on their little faces when I told them to beat it. I hadn't even known them, yet there I was feeling so fucking guilty because I'd made what were likely their last days just a little bit worse.

We'd rushed back to 11 after that. Azolla had been in such a state—her husband and kids had lived in the Fields. They didn't make it—none of the bombers' families did. I was one of the luckiest damn fools in the district considering both Mom and Sorrel didn't live in the Fields and had managed to avoid all the other horrors of the invading Capitol forces.

It was my mother who told our little group what had happened. She'd done some work for Stone Valley Acres, the so-called "rock" of 11's rebellion and the location of our central military base. Thankfully she hadn't been there when the place went down; a Peacekeeper force of thousands descended upon the base like flies to a corpse, armed with every manner of lethal weapons and a wide array of non-lethal ones as well. Had to take the leaders alive to make proper examples of them, after all.

Among those leaders was one Alvis Collard. The Peacekeepers had tied him up on stage with his only daughter and his son-in-law, eager to make a grand spectacle of their deaths. And they did, apparently. It was mandatory viewing for all of 11, but my mother refused to talk about it.

She did, however, recount the boastful speech of our new Head Peacekeeper as he mocked the fallen rebel leader. "Your nephew says hello, by the way. Who'd've thunk it, huh? Who'd've thunk it would be Aemilius Lewellyn who'd bring the rebels down?"

Aemilius Lewellyn. The name tore through 11 like wildfire. It meant nothing to me, but thanks to the few surviving residents of Stone Valley Acres, pictures began to crop up around the district, passed from rebel to rebel along with one sentence.

This is the bastard we kill for justice.

I remember my mother getting her hands on one of the pictures and bringing it home to me. She made me memorise every little detail of the face inked on the page; we poured over it for hours.

A day later, we heard the news: Aemilius Lewellyn had been relocated to 5. Our chance at justice was lost, and yet I never entirely forgot that hastily drawn face. Strong jawline, heavy brow, straight nose, curly black hair framing a scowling face.

Now, the image has come to life a few feet in front of me.

He's not quite the same: his hair is short, a scar mars his right cheek, and the smooth bridge of his nose is crooked and covered in blood, much like the rest of his face. Still, I recognise him, just like I did at the chariots.

And just like then, I'm too angry to even fucking move.

That doesn't stop Sam from skipping up to her traitorous district partner and bending down to look him over. "Ick." She wrinkles her nose, eyeing his bloody mess of a side. "That looks nasty. Who'd you piss off this time?"

She reaches out a finger to poke him or do some other stupid Sam thing, and when he flinches away, I see it: the glimmer of a knife in his hand.

It's the threat of danger that overrides the paralysing fury holding me in place. With a shout, I hurl the torch in my hand at Lewellyn's head, but my hands are still shaking too much for me to aim properly. Instead of slamming right into the bastard's face and melting it off then and there, the torch hits the wall way above his head.

Nevertheless, Lewellyn flinches away from the ensuing shower of sparks. In the time it takes him to recover, I've crossed the length of the room in three angry strides and kicked the knife out of his hand.

He grits his teeth and clutches his wrist. I have a sudden desire to do the same with my toe—damn, kicking someone with sandals is not smart—but my temper controls every cell in my body. The only thought in my head isn't for my wellbeing, or Sam's, it's for 11's. We've gone without justice for too long.

I've never really had any strong patriotic feelings for 11 or its people, but as I grab Lewellyn's tunic and raise him to my eye level, my heart swells with the cheers I can practically hear from the viewers back home. After all the shit in these Hunger Games, something good is finally going to happen. 11 will have its revenge for all its dead. And I'm the one who's been selected, by fate or gods or who-the-fuck-cares, to carry it out.

But before I can even think of executing the first of many punches to come, a hand appears, waving in front of my face.

I glance down to find Sam frowning as she squeezes herself in between me and her district partner.

"Dude. What the hell?"

Fuck it, I don't have time to play her stupid games. "Move, Sam."

"Don't you take that tone with me." She puts her hands on her hips. "There's no need for you to go all psycho. It's just my district partner."

"You know who this is."

"Of course. Aemilius Lewellyn. Formerly from Two, now from Five, and my district partner. A cocky, hostile ass, but with just enough intelligence to merit the arrogance. Intelligence I do believe he'd be willing to put to use in our fight against the Ones."

Lewellyn, who's remained frozen in my grasp, eyes flitting from me to Sam to possible escape routes around the room, flinches at that last word. Sam notices, turning on him with a smile.

"Ah, so it was the Ones. I figured. Out of everyone left, I'd bet only they or the Two girl were capable of giving you a wound like that, and from what I've deduced about her, I doubt Andromeda Eriae would let you walk away alive." Sam claps him on the shoulder. He cringes, but there's not much he can do to escape her when I'm still holding him in place. "So, whaddya say, partner? Shall we join forces to take down the—"

"No."

My tone is so deadly, it drains the little colour remaining from Lewellyn's face, even though he's still trying to maintain a half-assed glare. Even Sam swallows, her confidence wavering momentarily when she faces me again.

"Kale—"

"Shut up."

She huffs. "Well, that was rude."

"I'm not playing this game, Sam. You're not getting the chance to talk me out of this." I'm starting to shake again; my heartbeat pounds in my ears like the whole of 11 is beating a drum in my head. "No fucking joining forces. He dies. That's it."

"So you admit I could talk you out of this? I think that proves my point already, then. Clearly there's some part of you that doesn't want to—"

"Sam, stop."

"You once told me that we're always going to be someone's bad guy, no matter how right we think we are."

"Sam—"

"And I said you were different, because you didn't just see things from your point of view. That's what I thought at the time, at least. I thought you were a pretty good guy."

"Shut up!"

I throw Lewellyn to the side, barely caring that he collapses close to his discarded knife as I round on Sam. My fists are still formed; I swear, I'm two seconds away from punching her.

"You don't fucking get it," I growl, all the more angry because she looks so calm while I'm losing my shit. "This isn't like your stupid vendetta against the Ones! I'm not after this bastard because I'm jealous he's smarter than me."

That was intended to hurt, and it does; Sam's lips twitch momentarily into a frown.

"Aemilius Lewellyn is the reason we lost the war. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people died in Eleven because he stabbed us in the back. He knew people would die if he betrayed us, and he still fucking did it. Sure, I didn't lost anyone close to me because of it, but you know who did? Those people." I jab my finger furiously around the room at whatever hidden cameras I'm sure are present. "Those people watching this right now, without their moms or dad or kids or friends. The war took away everything they loved, and in return they got nothing but suffering. They deserve justice. They deserve this bastard's death. Am I fond of killing? All right, no, no I'm fucking not! But I'll suck it up and do it because the people of Eleven deserve no less."

I don't think I've ever spoken so many words at a time before; I'd be shocked if I could feel anything but the hot flood of anger.

Sam swallows again. Unable to hold my livid glare, she looks at the floor, then to her district partner still on the floor gasping and clutching his side a few feet away.

"If there is a fight," she says slowly; I don't remember the last time I heard Sam be this quiet, "Would you really hurt us, Del?"

At first, it doesn't look like he heard, too focused on his own injuries. But then his incredulous gazes rises to Sam, and he laughs—a nasty, disbelieving sound that's a little more than half-crazed.

"No, I'm just going to lie here and take it." His last snort turns into a whimper when he shifts, aggravating his wound. He tries to hide the weakness with a snarl as he continues, "If you want to fucking fight, then let's get on with it."

He glares at me. I glare at him. Sam sighs.

"All right," she says. Her eyes travel around the room, pointedly avoiding both me and Lewellyn. "This is as good a base as any, I suppose. I'll go scout around, make sure no one else is nearby, I guess. When I'm gone, you can make your choice."

I snort. "There's no choice to make."

"I think you'll find there is," she says, voice uncharacteristically soft. As she passes me, she presses something into my hand.

I don't bother to look at it; my eyes are only for Aemilius Lewellyn. This is it. This is when 11 finally gets—

"Oh, and one more thing." Sam pops her head back around the doorway before I can so much as take a step. "A bit of extra info for the two idiots who think they know everything. Kale, Del didn't purposefully betray your district, he was captured and tortured for information—you never told me, but the walls in the Capitol are thin, and you scream in your sleep, did you know that?" she adds when her district partner turns his wide eyes on her. "And Del, just so you know a little more about the guy trying to pretend he's some hardened killer, Kale's a claustrophobic pyromaniac with a whole whack-load of unsolved issues, and he thinks you have a nice ass—you never said it, I saw the answer in your eyes," she finishes when I open my mouth to snap at her.

"Sam—Sam!"

But she's gone, head withdrawing back around the doorway as running footsteps begin to sound. By the time I make it into the hall, she's already passed through the door once blocked by stone and disappeared from view, leaving me alone in a room echoing with her last words.

No, not alone—Aemilius Lewellyn is still here. When I turn around, I find him on all fours, chest heaving, side dripping blood, hand stretching out for the knife on the floor.

Sam's words don't register over the surge of anger in my heart. After all that this bastard's done, all the people he's killed, he still wants more.

Well, fuck you, Aemilius Lewellyn.

My kick knocks the one hand keeping him upright out from under him, and his attempt to grab the knife stops when his head slams into the floor. I hear him groan, but my eyes are elsewhere, focused on the weapon now left abandoned.

It's in my hand before I can think. I can't think, not over the roar of fury in my ears. All I know is I have a knife, and I'm completely, utterly justified in slamming it into this bastard's heart. None of Sam's stupid lies can protect her district partner from the fate he deserves.

But then, right before I'm about to act, I catch sight of the back of Lewellyn's neck, and everything screeches to a halt.

Before 11 fell in its entirety, it was snatched away piece by piece by the invading Capitol forces. Every week, we'd hear an announcement that a certain field or hamlet was no longer safe to visit, and we'd watch with heavy hearts as beyond our new borders, farms that once helped our people were turned into camps to make them suffer. Sorrel volunteered with our local infirmary, and on the few occasions she'd drag me to work, I caught glimpses of these marks on her patients: letters or numbers, sometimes simple images, all burned into the skin.

Brands. As though we were nothing more than cattle to the Capitol.

Lewellyn . . . Lewellyn has one too.

I drop the knife without realising, falling to my knees beside Lewellyn to see better, because there's no way, no way this can be real. He's the bastard who betrayed us. He's a monster.

But with his hair now cut short, the scarred and discoloured M on the back of his neck is all too clear to see.

No . . .

My fingers rise to his skin. At the moment of contact, he gasps and jerks away, but I still felt the raised skin of the scar. It's not a figment of my imagination. It's—

"W-What the hell are you doing?" Lewellyn is breathing hard, one hand clasped around his side, the other in front of him like his shaking fingers are all the defence he needs. His expression is taut with pain, yet still there's a flash of anger in his eyes. "If you're going to fight, then fight."

"Where did you get that mark?"

"What?" He frowns, shakes his head, and resumes glowering. "Stop wasting my fucking time. You want me dead, right? So pick up the goddamn knife and—"

"The mark. The fucking brand on the back of your neck." I sound angry, seem angry as I grab Lewellyn's tunic again to drag him towards me, but inside, I feel only cold, hollow, and desperate. "Tell me that's not what I think it is. Tell me it's some stupid thing you did to yourself."

Lewellyn's eyes go wide at the mention of the mark, or maybe because I've grabbed him again, but still he struggles to maintain his glare.

"It's none of your fucking business."

"So it wasn't from Mausoleum?"

The moment I say it, his face goes dead white. It's a word with enough power to make anyone from 11 shiver, but Lewellyn starts shaking and doesn't stop.

There may have been too many prison camps to name by the end of the war, but everyone knew Mausoleum, and everyone had heard at least one horror story about what went on behind its walls. They were the ones who first started the branding. It was their victims who, if they even made it to Sorrel's infirmary, rarely lasted the night.

I feel like I'm going to throw up. The anger in my stomach has burned away, leaving a hot, roiling nausea that's ten times worse.

"Sam was telling the truth," I whisper.

No confirmation comes from Lewellyn, who I doubt can hear me over the sound of his rapid, frantic gasps, but that's more than enough to tell me my ally was right. The monster I once saw is gone, replaced by a shaking boy with his eyes closed and his teeth gritted like he's doing his best to fight off an inevitable meltdown.

Lewellyn's eyes fly open when my fist slams into the ground. The pain hits immediately, but I don't care if I broke every one of my fingers, I need to do it again and again and again because . . . because . . .

"Fuck!" I'm on my feet, pounding the wall with the base of my fist. "Fuck. Of course she was telling the truth, when has she ever done anything else?"

I round on Lewellyn, feeling every bit as hysterical as he looks. In all my life, I've never blown up like this, but congrats, Gamemakers, you and your fucking arena have skyrocketed me past my limit.

"So that's it, huh?" I continue to the boy watching me in shock. "That's the story. The big monster of Eleven, the traitor we've all been taught to hate, is some fucking prisoner of war. Gave up information because the Capitol tortured you, is that it?"

Lewellyn's fists clench. His voice comes a bit too loud when he says, "No! I . . . I did it because I wanted to! I hated the rebels, I wanted revenge, I—"

"Oh please, you don't even believe that."

"Fine!" he yells, sounding a lot less malicious and a lot more pathetic than I'd like. "I was weak! Is that what you want to hear? I was weak, I was a coward, I let them get to me, and I gave them everything they needed because I didn't want to get hurt again."

He's definitely crying now. I didn't think this could get any harder to watch, but it just keeps spiralling.

"It was my fault. Happy now? My fault because I couldn't stand up to them. So the war, the deaths in Eleven, the deaths everywhere, these Hunger Games—all on me. All my fucking fault. So just . . . just kill me already. Because then everything will be fine, right? If I'm to blame for every single bad thing in Panem, then after I die, it'll all go back to sunshine and rainbows, won't it? So do it. Then I can't fuck up anymore."

He's not even joking. He's just sitting there, jaw locked, tears streaming down his bloodstained cheeks, like he really expects me to do it.

I still can't move, but now it's more than pity for this mess of a kid that stays my hand. It's recognition.

I helped bomb the president's train. I helped in the attempted murder of Julia August and her three brothers. But we fucked up, wound up killing the only one Azolla said had any sort of heart.

I'm no idiot. I know that's what led to the Hunger Games. It's a thought I've been trying to ignore, but every time I heard a cannon go off, I couldn't help thinking, that's one more dead. One more because of me.

It's like I'm in front of a mirror, staring into eyes just as guilt-ridden as mine.

So whisper, "I'm not going to kill you, Aemilius Lewellyn."

Of the many reactions I expected, a horrified gasp was not one of them. Neither was Lewellyn lunging for his knife.

Instinct kicks in, and I dive towards him just as he gets the weapon in his grasp. Kneeling on the ground, I'm in no position to kick or block the blow; the only thing I can do is grab the knife blade and hopefully keep it from plunging into my chest.

One second later I realise how stupid that reflex was and brace myself for the pain sure to follow as my hand is sliced to pieces.

Only, it's not. When I look down, I realise I've grabbed the handle. Which means the blade wasn't pointed in my direction.

My eyes find Lewellyn's, half-crazed with pain and panic. He's shaking, hand still gripping the knife held a few inches from his chest. The only thing stopping it from moving is my hand on top of his.

We stare at each other, unmoving, until I murmur, "Is this what you want?"

He lets out the saddest half-laugh, half-whimper I've ever heard. "I j-just . . . I don't want this again." His free hand trembles as he gestures violently to his body. Through the rips and tears in his tunic, I can see hints of ugly scars.

"That's not what I . . ." I pull away from him, taking the knife with me and getting to my feet so I can back away a few paces more. "When I said I wasn't going to kill you, I didn't mean . . . Look, I'm just, I'm going to leave."

"W-What?"

I've already turned away, striding hurriedly towards the door because I can't deal with this anymore. The situation is too . . . I don't even fucking know. All I do know is somewhere along the line, the devil of 11 turned into a scared, hurt kid, and I became the bad guy. So I'm just going to nope right out of here. That's the best thing I can do, right?

My hand is on the doorknob when Lewellyn shouts, "So you're leaving me here to what, bleed out? Great, really great!" His voice cracks, words fainter and breathier than before. "At least you could leave the knife!"

I freeze in the doorway. Slowly, my gaze travels to the blade in my hand.

Well . . . I could leave it. That's not killing—Lewellyn would be free to do whatever the hell he wanted with it. I mean, I know what he wants to do, but that's . . . that's not my fault. And it would clean up this whole mess, nice and simple, without me having to fret over the fact that everything 11 taught me might be wrong.

This is the choice Sam was talking about, right? Kill Lewellyn, or leave him alone and let him do . . . whatever.

Sam. I'd almost completely forgotten about her.

She . . . She gave me something before she left, didn't she?

I turn back towards the room, eyes skimming over the glaring, paling Aemilius Lewellyn to land on a bundle of white cloth sitting nearby. I must have dropped it in the fight, not bothering to even see what it was, but now I know. That's the makeshift pouch I've made Sam carry around, holding the half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, the needle, and whatever leftover thread and bandages we still have. It's not much, but I maintained that it was better than nothing if she pulled her stitches out or one of us got injured again.

Is that why she left it with me? In case her district partner hurt me in the fight? Or . . .

. . . No. No fucking way.

Refusing to kill the guy who sold out our district is one thing. Even if he didn't do it willingly, I'm sure people watching back home are still mad, but they'd understand.

Helping him, on the other hand, is inexcusable. If I somehow miraculously made it back to 11, everyone there would tear me to pieces.

Except Sorrel, I suppose. She'd be delighted. But then, she was the one who volunteered to help treat a wounded Capitol soldier when he was found and brought in to the infirmary. Small wonder the place was burned down a few days later. I told her she was fucking lucky to have escaped with her life.

And she told me she'd do it again without hesitation. "A person's a person, Kale. Sometimes they get a little off-track, but that just means you need to be all the more ready to help them."

I wonder if she's remembering our conversation as she watches me, because she's definitely glued to a TV somewhere in 11; I can feel her eyes on me, and I know what she expects me to do. It's the same thing Sam wanted me to do when she left me the medical supplies. Knew I was going to do because she thinks she's so fucking smart

. . . Damn her. Damn Sorrel. Damn everything and everyone to hell, because I'll need some company when I get there for doing this.

"I'm sorry, Eleven," I whisper, because I know how much this is going to hurt the survivors of the war. It's another betrayal for them.

"W-What are you doing?" Aemilius Lewellyn tries to scooch backwards as I approach, but his side is paining him too much to get far. "What, what are you—no, no, no!"

He freaks out the moment I grab his arm, thrashing wildly and aggravating all of his injuries. Fuck, he's going to bleed out if he keeps this up.

"Hey. Hey! Relax, okay? I'm just going to bandage . . ."

I'm cut off by a sob when Lewellyn sees me pull a strip of cloth out of the little bundle. He goes limp, but I'm not sure it's because I successfully reassured him; his whole body is trembling like a leaf, tears still squeezing through his tightly shut eyes. The arm I'm not holding rises, and I tense for a hit, but none comes; he just aligns his wrists, pressing them close together like it's a reflex.

Like someone who might have spent a bit too much time getting tied up and kicked around.

"Hey. Look, it's, um . . ." Crap. What did Sorrel do in situations like this?

As gently as I can, I take his other wrist and put it back by his side. He sucks in a sharp breath at that, but at least his eyes open so I can show him what I'm doing.

"Just a bandage, all right?" I say, picking the strip of cloth back up. "Your wrists looks sprained from when . . . I, um, kicked you. Sorry."

He stares at me blankly. "W-What?"

"Look, just . . . hold still, okay?"

He actually does, I think more out of shock than anything else. Possibly also because the blood loss is getting to him—that side really needs to be dealt with, but I have a feeling a bit more trust needs to be gained before I can dive in there needle first. He's got a nasty-looking bruise on his forehead; let's start with that first.

"I'm going to need you to look at my finger."

"Why?"

"It's a test for a concussion. Now—"

"I've been h-here before, you know." There are definite signs of blood loss creeping up on him now; I can hear it in his shallow breathing, and the confusion in his tone, like he's not sure if this is the past or the present. "Good cop, b-bad cop. Never seen it done with one person before, but . . . w-whatever works, right?"

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, all right? Sam said you're a smart guy, so think. What do I possibly have to gain from this?"

"Then why . . . why . . .?"

"I honestly don't have a fucking clue. So would you rather shut up and be helped, or keep asking until I rethink this whole thing?"

I don't get a response. Whether it's because he believes me or he just doesn't have the strength to form more words, I don't know, and I don't frankly care. If he's losing lucidity, I need to act fast.

I manage to get him to follow my finger as I move it around, which means his vision's working all right. No major concussion from the blow to the head, then. Not that minor ones aren't a bitch too, but at least he doesn't have brain damage.

Whether or not he's going to die on me is still in question, though. Honestly, it'd be easier if he did.

But despite that, I can't stop myself from trying my hardest. Not much I can do about his broken nose besides realign it myself and hope it stays that way. The act of shoving it back into place is a pain I've unfortunately experienced before, but Lewellyn barely whimpers. Definitely on the edge of unconsciousness.

I take a deep breath and take a look at his side. Knife wounds are decidedly not my forte, but if something important was ruptured, he'd be dead by now, right? I hope so, because all I can really do is try to sterilise it and sew it up the same way I did Sam's.

The screaming comes when I start the stitches. With his eyes closed and his breathing pattern somewhat regular, I was hoping he'd be unconscious enough not to feel anything, but of course this is just my fucking luck. He doesn't move much, at least—just shrieks and moans and generally makes me feel like I'm killing the guy, which is not the confidence booster I need. I wind up stuffing a leftover strip of cloth in his mouth, partly to make sure he doesn't bite his own tongue off, and partly for my own reprieve.

It only makes the crying worse, though, and his muscles all tense like he's expecting to be hit at any second, which is going to make digging a needle repeatedly into his skin all the more painful. Too late, I realise this has probably been done to him before, minus the intention of putting him back together.

Here he is, the devil of 11, the bastard who lost us the war, completely at my mercy, and I'm whispering "it's okay" over and over as I try to patch him up.

What the hell has my life turned into?


Adia James, 15, District 3

I can't believe we used to call ourselves the rebels. Can't believe we used to think we were brave and strong and good.

I can't believe I used to think those things about myself. Now look at me. Left Katerina to die. Abandoned Bolt when he needed me. Sent Reese away to fight Riley on her own. And now I let Magnus sacrifice himself for our alliance when I should have been the first one to step up.

I had the thought the moment we got behind the door, that the rest of us could all survive if only one of us stayed behind to distract the monster. I'm considered stupid in 3, but that doesn't mean I'm not smart. I can think on my feet, proved by the fact that I thought of Magnus's plan before he even stepped forward. Yet I did nothing.

It's the subway all over again. I was the one responsible for our little display of defiance on reaping day, but when the Peacekeepers invaded the train, I ran like a coward. Adia James: all bark and no bite. The only thing I can ever do is run.

Which is what all of us have been doing for what feels like a whole day. At some point, our panicked sprint faded into a worried jog, which has in turn become a stumbling walk, but throughout it all, we never stopped. Forcing ourselves to put one foot in front of the other gives us something to do, something to focus on other than the fact that we willingly sacrificed an ally to a Capitol monster so we could survive.

It wasn't like Katerina, who we knew we couldn't save. It wasn't like Volt, who we couldn't stop, or Bolt, who I couldn't have switched places with. Magnus could just as easily have been alive right now if I'd had the courage to step up. But he isn't, because I was weak.

And with that admission to myself, I let everything go. When we reach the next intersection, my knees buckle and I collapse to the ground instead of following Riri down the next tunnel. Because who care, right? If I've already admitted I'm weak, then I don't need to continue pretending I can keep pace with her.

"I need to rest," I stammer out between choked gasps, laying back onto the floor so I can stare up at the ceiling and not see the faces of my allies. Look who's the one slowing us down now.

I wonder if they think it should have been me instead of Magnus. Who needs bratty, bossy Adia around, the self-righteous rebel who cuts and runs when things get tough?

Maybe they'll just leave me behind.

I wonder if I'd prefer that.

Before I can come to a conclusion, however, Tully sinks down on the floor next to me. She hasn't spoken a word since the cannon fired, barring the occasional sob and moan. Her face is a mess, wet with tear tracks that shimmer beneath bloodshot eyes not focusing on anything. Guess it was too much to hope her short-lived stint as an actual, capable leader would last.

Arc comes over to join us, knees wobbling just like mine were, but he stops himself before he sits down. Something on the wall of the intersection has caught his attention; I crane my neck to spot a series of weird dots and slashes carved into the stone.

"What do you think that is?" I ask, making him jump. I let out a breathless, humourless laugh. "Some other kind of trap?"

"I-I don't know," he says, turning his back to the wall and leaning against it. Slowly, he slides to the floor. "Riri?"

"Well, I certainly hope it isn't another trap," she says, assuming a cross-legged position on the ground, though she doesn't come any closer to us. Probably trying to hide the traces of panic still a little evident on her face in her pale face and warier-than-normal expression.

It was weird to see her freak out, I admit, but at the same time, I get it. For all her mysteriousness and her spy skills and whatever, she's still a kid. Younger than me, as I found out during some conversation about our birthdays that Arc started. The blow of having our calmest ally lose her cool was softened by the fact that she's not a part of that wise, know-all age group that encompasses everyone older than me.

It's Tully I can't handle. Tully, who I liked the moment I saw the glare she gave her escort during the reapings recap. Tully, who became my friend in the Capitol and my sort-of role model. Tully, who was fiery, strong, passionate, and beautiful, the picture perfect image of the rebellious woman I wanted to grow up to be, if I ever got the chance. There may have only been a two-year gap between us, but seemed infinitesimally larger to my eyes.

Now I see the truth. Being seventeen doesn't magically make you braver or wiser, and neither does having a boyfriend or any of the other mature things that make people appear to be more adult-like. Tully's just as broken as the rest of us, and that terrifies me, because who's supposed to lead us now? Riri? Arc? Me?

None of us are qualified. Yet there's no one better.

This alliance is doomed, I realise as I roll onto my side, eyes closing. Doomed but dragging on because none of us are willing to confront that fact. Not even me—I'm a coward, remember? I just want to sleep, and wake up to find it all over.


Aemilius "Del" Lewellyn, 17, District 5

I drift around somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, dancing on the line dividing the two; sometimes I lose myself for a length of time I can't remember, other times I feel like I'm hovering on the edge of waking up. I never do, though, even though it seems like a simple task to open my eyes. I just don't want to.

I can't remember the last time I felt this calm about anything. Especially in this arena, my sporadic naps have been short, often interrupted by me jerking awake at the slightest noise. But now, I feel strangely relaxed, even as I hear the sound of a metal door creaking open. Maybe I'm dying. Or maybe I just don't care anymore.

"I see you made your decision."

"If you say I told you so, I swear . . ."

The voices sound distant, muddled, like I'm hearing them from underwater. It's not a bad thing though, or at least I don't have the strength to be worried about it, so I let the words wash over me, floating through my head like a distorted lullaby.

"Technically it's less of an 'I told you so' and more of a 'I knew this was going to happen, but I didn't say it 'cause you'd get mad, but I'm still a genius anyway' kind of thing."

"Sam. Just stop."

". . . Sorry."

"Really?"

"Sort of. Trying to learn empathy, remember? You said that was a good thing."

"Maybe you shouldn't. Makes everything too fucking complicated."

"So you regret your choice?"

"I didn't say that."

The silence draws out. I think I'm slipping back into the sleepier side of things, but one of the voices draws me back.

"Being the good guy's got to be hard. I sure as hell couldn't do it—I'd never know what the right decision is. But you are a good guy, Kale. Don't forget that."

Kale. Another name, like Sam. I feel like I should know them, but it's like my brain's trying to keep me from doing so, trying to maintain the peace that comes with blissful ignorance.

Kale . . .

Kale.

Kale Hackberry from District 11.

. . . Shit.

All at once, the smokescreen of peace is gone. I'm groaning back into consciousness, subjected to the full force of agony from my injured, dehydrated, malnourished body. Pain rips at my side like at any moment I might fall to pieces.

"Hey, look who's waking up!"

My eyes fly open at the words that now sound much closer. My vision blurs into focus, giving me a full view of Samantha's wild red hair and beaming smile.

"'Sup, Sleeping Beauty. Have a good rest?"

I try to jerk away, but there's a wall behind my head, cutting off my exit. This isn't right; Samantha's not supposed to be here, I'm not supposed to be here, I—

"Sam. Space."

The rough, deep voice has Sam pouting, but she does scoot backwards, allowing me a view of the other person in the room.

I think my heart's going to beat out of my chest. Kale Hackberry, the one person I'd been trying to avoid at all cost. This can't be happening.

"W-What . . .?" I struggle to rise even slightly off the ground, but pain from my side sends me gasping back to where I lie.

"Take it easy," Kale says, his hand hovering over my shoulder. "I don't need you undoing all my work."

His work? I flinch at the thought of what that might entail, craning my head so I can see . . .

Bandages. Wound around my side and wrist, the latter of which is propped up on Kale's knee. I snatch it away immediately, ignoring the ache that comes with it.

"What's going on?"

"Uh oh, memory loss. Maybe he did get hit harder than you thought."

"Because you're always super alert when you first wake up. Have some damn patience." Kale rolls his eyes before turning on me. "Take a breath and try to calm down. We're not going to hurt you, remember?"

Seeing them in the doorway. Sam leaving. The fight with Kale. Mausoleum. The knife. Him leaving. Coming back. Trying to . . . help?

And you were crying like a child. A sobbing, pitiful mess on the floor revealing every weakness you have. Telling him you gave in. You're a coward. You're so scared of getting hurt. You whimpered and moaned and wept all in front of this boy who hates you. How pathetic.

Whatever blood is left in my body goes straight to my cheeks. My eyes find the floor, wishing the Gamemakers could make it swallow me up. Any trap of theirs is probably preferable to this.

"Ooh, look at that blush. Wonder what that's all about."

"Shut up, Sam. Hey," Kale continues, to me, I assume, because is softer than talking to Sam, and oh god, he doesn't hate me anymore, he pities me. I'm officially more wretched than the 1 boy. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I snap, like being angry now is going to save any of my dignity. "Now what do you want with me?"

"Look, I told you, we don't want any—"

"B-Bullshit." Damn it, I can't even stop stuttering. "No reason for you to do this otherwise."

I'm not going to call it helping. Otherwise, idiot that I am, I might start getting my hopes up, and I can't afford that. No, people like me don't get help. It's only a lie that makes the following pain worse.

"Well, I suppose if you must have a logical reason . . ." Sam's sigh is overdramatic, as is her expression of thought. "I guess, if I have to, I can supply you with one. But remember, it's not about what I want, it's about what we want," Sam says, clapping a hand on both mine and Kale's shoulders. "And what we want is to get rid of the biggest threats to our continued existence. Namely, the Ones."

"Who's ever wanted that other than you?" Kale grumbles.

"Del, for one. It was Vesper who did this to you, wasn't it?"

A surge of pain hits my side at the thought. Through gritted teeth I manage, "Him and the Ten girl."

"What? The Ten girl," Sam repeats, frowning. "Reese . . . Durnham, was it? What's she doing with the Ones?"

"Holding Vespers reins, for once." After trapping me in that full nelson, I wanted nothing more than to kill her, but I can't deny she's the only reason Vesper didn't finish me off.

"What do you mean, holding Vesper's reins?" Sam leans closer, eyes shining with anticipation. "Tell us everything."

So I do. In the back of my mind, instinct is telling me not to share information, but . . . damn it, I've exhausted and in pain, and I just don't have the strength to argue with Sam on this.

Besides, this is what I do, isn't it? Tell everyone whatever they want to hear, do whatever they want me to do, like a puppet on a string.

"So he listens to her," Sam says slowly after I finish the part where Reese yelled stop and Vesper did. "And what's Tesla think of Reese and Vesper?"

"Definitely not a fan. After Reese got Vesper to put down the knife, she wouldn't stop shouting his name, trying to get him to listen to her. Didn't even notice me leaving, or taking her backpack."

Something I'd almost forgotten I'd done until I saw it out loud. Right. That happened.

Sam is staring down at me, mouth hanging open. "You did what?"

"I took her backpack. I think . . . yeah." I shift my head, only just realising I'm lying on something a bit comfier than hard stone. "Is this is here?"

"We thought it was yours," Sam says, still watching me with a disbelieving, dumbstruck expression on her face, like she was just presented with a pot of gold and she's worried it's too good to be true.

"Well, it's mine now, I suppose."

"Ours, you mean. We are an alliance, after all."

"Are we?"

"You don't like it, you can get up and leave."

"Very funny." I grimace, lifting my head and wriggling backwards to rest against the wall while Sam grabs the backpack out from under me.

"You looked in it?" she asks, holding it like a baby in her arms.

"Bit busy trying not to bleed out. Why didn't you look in it earlier?" I ask Kale.

"Bit busy trying to keep you from bleeding out."

"Right." I look down at my side, the bandages stained red but successfully keeping most of my blood in place. "I suppose I should say—"

"Let's open this bitch!"

Well, that works too.

Sam tears open the first pouch of the backpack, giggling delightedly as she snatches out the first thing she grabs.

"Ooh, first aid kit! And ooh, painkillers!"

She pulls a bottle from the small box, taps four pills into her palm, and downs them dry. Kale rolls his eyes, snatching the bottle from her and passing it to me.

"I really don't—"

"You really do. Trust me, I'm the closest thing you've got to a doctor."

Sam, meanwhile, is emptying the rest of the backpack's contents. First she pulls out a half-full water bottle, then, while that's being passed around, a map of the old arena. The biggest prize, however, comes next: a bag of dried jerky and two granola bars. I ate at the feast and even my heart leaps upon seeing the food, but Kale and Sam practically go berserk. From the sounds of it, they haven't had a full meal since they were in here.

Rations are immediately divided by Sam, and for a bit, we all sit in silence, broken by the occasional moan of delight from Kale or Sam. The food doesn't last long, but it does wonders for raising their spirits; both of them turn their gazes back on the pack with a glint in their eyes that wasn't present before.

"Anything else?" Kale asks longingly as Sam unzips the last pocket.

"Hmm . . . few spare crossbow bolts, and . . . hang on, what's this?"

She pulls out a tiny vial mostly obscured by a medical label taped around the side. I can't read it from here, but Sam stares at it for a long while, her face unusually serious.

"Sam?" Kale nudges her shoulder. "What is it?"

"Lysergic acid diethylamide."

"What—?"

"LSD," she clarifies. "Like, the drug."

Kale's hand freezes in the act of reaching out for the vial. "Um . . . what?"

"It's a drug," Sam says, slowly twisting the vial around in her hand. Through the glass I see a distorted reflection of her growing smile. "Little Miss Genius is a druggie."

"No way." Kale shakes his head. "Sam, have you ever seen a drug addict?"

"Of course not. I live in a nice neighbourhood."

"Well, I don't. And trust me, they don't look like Tesla Sinclair."

"He's right." I've seen the slums of 11 as well. "Take it from someone who just had an up-close-and-personal encounter with Tesla—she doesn't exhibit any of the physical signs. Trembling, sleeplessness, excessive sweating, dilated pupils . . . oh."

"What?" Sam asks.

"You know who does exhibit those symptoms?"

"Vesper," Kale says slowly. "I remember from the Circus. But he . . . he didn't look like that before."

"I should think not," Sam says. "He was number one on my Hottest Male Tribute list."

"Why would he start using in the arena, then?" Kale runs a hand through his dreadlocks, using the other to massage his temple. "Jeez, I mean this stuff is nuts. Performance enhancers would be one thing, but all this stuff does is make you crazy."

"What if that's the point?"

Both Kale and I look at her. She meets my gaze first and says, "You're thinking the same, aren't you?"

"Depends what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking why would Tesla be carrying the drugs if Vesper is taking them?"

"She was the only one with a backpack. Maybe she's keeping them safe for him."

"And why would Reese and Vesper make the injured person carry the heavy pack? Come on, Del, you know what's going on here."

"Well, I don't," Kale interrupts, crossing his arms and glaring at the two of us. "So kindly fill me in, please."

"All right. Tesla's drugging Vesper," Sam says, showing him the bottle. "She's using this to give him live-action nightmares, manipulating the hallucinations so Vesper sees exactly what she wants him to see. Likely that would be the other tributes hurting him, which would build his grudges against the others and disorientate him enough to that whenever he saw another person, he'd attack automatically for fear of things playing out like his hallucinations." Sam glances at me. "Did I miss anything?"

"I'm not sure—your smile's putting me off."

"Oh come on, Del, you have to admit, this is brilliant!"

"Sam," Kale growls, and I have to stop myself from flinching—only a few hours ago that tone was directed at me. "This is not brilliant. This is . . . fuck, if you're right, this is disgusting."

"So don't you see? We're completely justified in taking her down! And better yet, we don't even have to lift a finger to do it."

"You've got a plan already." I have to admit, no matter how silly or insane or morally dubious Sam is, she's, dare I say, moderately intelligent.

"Hell yes I've got a plan already. Hold on to your horses, boys. This is about to get wild."


Riri Kramer, 15, District 6

Adia fell asleep a few hours ago. Tully is so dead to the world, she might as well have been sleeping all this time. Regardless, her eyes fell shut a few minutes ago and haven't opened since. So it's just Arc and I awake now.

"You should rest too," Arc says as soon as he notices Tully. "I think it's my turn to stay up on watch anyways. Get some sleep."

"Sure," I say, with no intention of lying down. I watch him pace around, jiggling from foot to foot like he can't sit still; he's been like this ever since he got his breath back. Walking this way and that, always parallel to the wall, always with one hand, I think subconsciously, trailing along the dots and grooves carved into its surface.

"What do you suppose they are?" I ask, nodding to the wall.

Arc flinches. "Um, no idea."

"They seem to make you nervous."

"Well, um . . . anything that stands out in this place can't be good, right?"

"I suppose."

He glances at me. "Do . . . Do you know what they mean?"

"Not at all." I lie down and roll over, facing away from him. "Good night."

"Oh. Um, good night."

He still sounds wary, uncertain, but there's a hint of relief in his voice. It shouldn't be there.

Because I do know what those dots and dashes mean.

It was the best kept secret of the rebels that we broke the code. We couldn't ever let the Capitol know, which meant allowing them to go through with a number of their devastating attacks, but it did help us prevent dozens of small disasters during the war. I figured it did little good in the end, yet now it looks like the knowledge is coming back to help me.

The message is brief, but it's easy enough to figure out the meaning behind it: Arc Malvina, if you're on the side of the Capitol, kill your allies and come find me at the place where we were first thrown into the maze. Judging from Arc's nervousness, he was also able to decipher the message. Interesting—wonder where he picked that up.

Not that it matters. Whoever did this is either highly overestimating Arc, or knows exactly what they're doing. Do I believe this snivelling fourteen-yea-old will suddenly turn into an action war hero in the name of the Capitol? No.

But do I believe this fourteen-year-old who survived in war-torn 4 for two years, whose parents taught him to do anything to keep himself safe, whose got a sister alone back home waiting for him, would make decisions based on whatever would get him out of this arena alive?

No, says my heart, thinking of all the times we'd talked and he'd laughed and I'd maybe started to consider him a friend.

Perhaps, says my brain, because if I was in his situation, wouldn't I do the same?

It'd be the easiest thing in the world to do. This alliance is a ball and chain, growing heavier with every passing day. Wait 'til we're all asleep, slit our throats, then leave to join the much more capable person who carved this message into the wall.

Saying it so simply like that, I . . . I'm almost tempted. But I'm trying not to be that person anymore. Adia, strangely enough, was right about one thing: my slate won't get wiped clean just because I get to go home. And no matter what I had to do in the war, no matter how often Soren said 6 had rubbed off on me, I'm not the kind of person who kills their allies. I'm not a ruthless, backstabbing murderer. I'm a girl from 4.

I look at the tattoo on my hand to prove it, staring so hard it's like I'm trying to burn the image of 4's crest onto my retinas. In the background, I can hear Arc's nervous breathing as he continues pacing from one side of the intersection to the other.

I wouldn't kill my allies. But Arc . . . well, we'll see.

Whatever he decides, I'll be ready for it.