I know it's weird to put a warning on a chapter when there was a fight and a death in the last chapter, but I think violence is kind of a given in stories like this. This chapter, however, is pretty much 14,000 words of Panem SUCKS, so head's up for . . . pretty much everything under the sun. PM me if you're worried about specific things and I'll let you know.


Julia August, 31, President of Panem

I sit at a boardroom table with District 5's Minister of Energy, District 4's Undersecretary of the Hydroelectricity Division, and District 12's mayor. Three men all older than me, all more experienced and even physically taller, and yet they all look seconds away from shitting their pants.

Of course, that could also just be due to the wall of armed soldiers standing at attention behind my chair. Mayor Jette in particular can't seem to stop flickering his pale, watery eyes past my seat, until I'm certain he's no longer paying any attention to the folder before him.

"All right." I clap my hands and am impressed when they all refrain from flinching. "You've read the docket. Is it doable?"

A moment of silence as they each evaluate the other. It's Minister Ohmar who has the courage to say, "By . . . tonight?"

"Of course," comes a tinny voice from the other end of the table. "It's imperative."

Jette does flinch at that, and ah, right, maybe it's not me they're scared of at all. Maybe it's the slightly pixelated face of my brother, broadcast to us live from the Gamemaker arena hub.

"Head Gamemaker August." The formal title rolls clumsily off my tongue—god, it feels so weird to use on Tavi—but some decorum must be observed. "Surely if we needed to, we could push the schedule back—"

"No. It's already been a day since Riri Kramer died. It has to be tonight."

I bite my tongue before I can point out that he just told the president no, because that might quickly dissolve into a family squabble I really don't need the districts seeing. Still, Tavi's gotten . . . confident, the longer these Games have gone on. A nice change at first to bring my quiet brother out of his shell, especially after Marius's death, but it's starting to go a bit far.

"We have the capacity," Ohmar says quickly. "Of course, we do. The plants can be made to work."

"But can they be manned?" I ask. "As far as I can remember, the reason the country isn't powered at all times is precisely because of a lack of trained workers."

"We've been running . . . extensive training programs, back in 5. I can assure you, we will have the people to operate."

"But you won't have the coal!" Jette glares at the man across from him. "This would take all our reserves, we'd be starting from scratch tomorrow. No one would have power."

"Not even the Capitol?"

"I . . ." And just like that, all the volume drops from his voice. "It's not . . . the coal is there, Madame President, but the time it takes to mine it . . ."

"What about the dam?" I look to the quietest man in the room; Undersecretary Irving hasn't yet looked up from his papers, one hand constantly playing with his tie. "How's construction coming?"

"It's, ah, coming, Madame President. We're still reinforcing patches, but I have it on, well, good authority that there's no security risk to doing that, ah . . . while the dam is in operation."

"If we could get our research division open, we could get back to investing in solar and wind as well," Ohmar says quickly. "And nuclear!"

"Now hold on!" I've never heard a grown man's voice crack, but I swear Jette's does just then. He's sweating too, glistening under the fluorescents that are softly flickering above—dear Panem, if we can't even get steady electricity to this building, how are we going to pull this off?

Jette launches into a desperate tirade on the necessity of coal, driven no doubt by the same fears that had District 12 so eager to join the rebellion in the first place: that the Capitol would soon move on without their industry and they would be left penniless in the dust. Or that, in a post-13 world, we would simply wipe them off the map and continue on our way.

Thirteen . . .

"Yes, thank you, Mayor." I raise a hand, and Jette wheezes to a stop. "No one is doubting your key role in this plan."

"And we can do it, Madame President. Perhaps if we . . . we could relax some of the, uh, older labour laws, the minimum mining age, for one . . ."

Something that sounds suspiciously like a scoff comes from Ohmar. Jette doesn't miss it.

"Something to say, Minister?"

"Just that I hope you don't intend to sacrifice your children's education for the sake of production capacity."

"How many in your plants are teenagers?"

"Only those for whom more school would not be useful, and besides, the plants themselves are learning opportunities—"

"You could argue the mines are too, for District Twelve," Irving says quietly. "In this new world, it is especially important our children receive proper training."

"And what new world is that, Undersecretary?" comes Octavian's crackling voice.

Video calls really don't do my brother favours. With our still-shit network, you lose the golden oranges in his brown eyes—they just look black. Any warmth in his expression is sapped out by the unforgiving camera as he stares straight out from the screen.

Irving inclines his head. "A world after the Dark Days, Head Gamemaker. A world in which those of all ages work towards the betterment of Panem."

As he makes eye contact with the screen, I get the strange feeling that some unspoken subject is being dealt with here that I'm not aware of. Not great for the president—I clear my throat and interject, "Thank you, gentlemen, but with all due respect, our debate on education and labour laws can wait for another time. We're here today to discuss our country's capacity for producing electricity. Can we do this?"

"Yes." Ohmar shuffles his papers back into a tidy stack. "Of course, Madame President."

"Wouldn't want to miss the show," Irving murmurs to him.

There's a few more formalities to wrap up—Jette keeps insisting we at least add a provision to the age laws for this week—and then I'm forced to send them on their way because I'm already four minutes late for my next meeting. On the other side of the parliamentary complex, of course.

Still, as I wave Irving out the door last, I can't stop myself from taking the time to turn to Octavian and say, "What the hell was that?"

"I assume they've all left?"

"Yes, they've left. I don't think they're so confident they can get it done, though."

"They will. Ohmar's got a lot riding on this. Two of his competitors are still in the game."

"I really don't think that matters."

"Of course it does." I don't know if there's a light on Octavian's desk or something reflecting off his screen, but there's a glint in his eye as his head bobs towards the camera. "You heard them. All they want to talk about is their children."

"So?" I'm in absolutely no mood for a lecture, so I continue before he can open his mouth, "I just don't see why. If you're trying to motivate the tributes, can't we just air the interviews in the arena?"

"Motivate them? They don't need motivation. There's eight of them left. None of them got there because they lack conviction."

"Then what's the point? You weren't even sure about the pre-arena interviews." You didn't want to humanise them. "Is this Gina's idea again?"

"No. It's all mine. And these aren't for the Capitol audiences. Didn't you see? How two men with no tributes spoke to one who had two?"

The camera falters then, freezing on Octavian's face: eyes wide, hands waving about, mouth frozen in what I'd almost call a smile. But his last sentence squeezes through the speakers.

"This is for the districts."


Kerri Durnham, 15, District 10

It's been two days. Two days since my sister was killed.

And already, we're being forced out of our house, onto dirt roads with all the other ranch families to reach the nearest war-torn village. Because the Peacekeepers say there's something to see tonight.

Even before the war, the only place you could usually watch TV in District 10 was the bars. Schools were "Capitol-funded," which meant they had shit-all for supplies, and the only set I ever saw in someone's house was the Franks' battered old dust-collector. Hadley showed us all half a cartoon on it once, before the electricity cut out.

She's already there when we reach The Lucky Horse, heading inside with two others I know by sight. Jace and Damien—Reese's other friends.

As Dad starts unhitching the horses, Hadley catches my eye and cocks an eyebrow. It's an expression she used to share with Reese, a secret code that I've now learned over the past month. Need backup?

I shake my head. In such a public forum, Dad's not going to try anything. Especially since we're at his favourite spot in the district.

Well, it was his favourite spot. He came here every night, until we were all forced to go two days ago. Since then, he's been drinking pretty much non-stop. Just at home.

I want to scream at him that he has no right to mourn Reese. But I know what his response will be. He's a powder keg, and his fuse is getting shorter and shorter. The explosion will hit, there's no question—but I'd like to keep it at bay for as long as I can.

The wagon's taken care of, and we all trail into the bar. I have to coax Jon through because he's already tearing up; thank god the other two are too young to have realised what they watched last time we were here. It was scary, yes, and they cried, but they couldn't quite put two and two together that Reese and the mean girl on screen were actually real. They still think she's coming home.

I don't even know how I'm gonna tell them.

The Peacekeepers at the doors nod us along—the bar is packed, but of course there are six empty barstools right at the front. I don't know if they're the places of honour or punishment.

But Lead-Foot Lily offers drinks on the house, in a gesture of what I think she means to be solidarity, which is nice. Dad takes full advantage, which is less nice, and Mom goes for a water she proceeds not to touch, but each of us kids gets a shot glass of orange juice.

I can't imagine how much even a thimble of this stuff costs and offer Lily a quick grin of gratitude. It hurts, and at first I think it's just old bruises, but no, it's the muscles. I haven't smiled in over a month. With good reason, I think, and my lips immediately drop.

A door shuts at the back of the bar, and there's a click of the lock. The Peacekeepers are probably just keeping out any stragglers since the place is full to bursting now, but it still feels like they're doing it to trap us all in here. In case we try to run or something.

I very much want to run.

It's never good when they call us all here. Electricity's so shitty and our district's so large, we usually get updates on the Hunger Games via word of mouth. The only stuff they try to show us in real time is anything with our tributes, so most of our early bar excursions were all about the psychopathic Riley Byron. Torturing the 8 kid, the 11 girl, fighting the 7 kid and the little kids and just . . . nightmare fuel, all of it. But in some twisted way, it helped, because Reese completely faded into the background. Aside from the very beginning of the Games and some snatches of her with the rebels, we didn't see her at all. Which was stressful as all hell, but at least it meant she was alive and unhurt.

I cried openly when they finally showed her again with the 12 boy. And I couldn't breathe the entire time she fought Riley. I kept a newspaper article of her victory just so I could remind myself she won after my nightmares did everything to convince me otherwise.

How was that only five days ago?

Things went quiet after that, besides a brief scuffle between her new alliance and the 5 boy, which amounted to nothing anyways. When word finally got to us that the 8 boy had been killed, Jon crossed off another tally on the wall and we realised that twelve of the kids were gone. Horrifying, but . . . Reese was halfway there. It had taken eleven days for twelve to die, and maybe in eleven more, she'd finally be home.

Two days later, we were called back to The Lucky Horse. And we watched my sister die.

All around us now, the screens in the bar light up with the Capitol seal. The anthem plays, but instead of shots of each remaining tribute, the person on screen is a girl with light brown curls and a heart-shaped face.

The 4 girl. Selene Redstone.

They're showing a montage of the deaths. Every single one.

My hand immediately jumps to Jon's eyes, but shit, he's eleven, he doesn't need protection. Maisie does, only seven years old and staring wide-eyed at the screen as the bang! from Selene's explosion rings out. She's right next to Mom, Mom who's staring down at her water and dripping silent tears on the wooden counter and not doing anything to help.

Maisie starts to cry. One of the Peacekeepers shouts a curt "Eyes on the screen!" I want to move, but I'm terrified that will bring them and their batons—Dad's anger is mindless and easy to direct away from my siblings, but Peacekeepers are methodical and firmly believe in "equality for all offending parties."

It's Gino who moves. My nine-year-old brother, who looks scared out of his mind, but still does what Mom can't and whispers to Maisie until her sobs turn to hiccups. Lily helps, sliding her a second glass of juice right at the shot where Reese lops off that psychopath Riley's head. Thank you, I plead with my eyes, for the distraction.

A few hissed mutterings play out behind me as the recap moves on. I can't hear the words, but I know the tune. Those few selfish survivors of the war, those who capitulated easily to the Capitol and the idea of the Hunger Games. They didn't care who won, as long as they were from our district and brought the prize of food and money back to 10. And secretly, they thought Riley had a better chance. So they frowned on my sister for killing him, even though that's what he tried to do to her the whole fucking time, and they left graffiti on our walls when she died three places later. Like it was her fault.

On screen, the girl from One sobs. Reese goes to hug her. My chair screeches across the floorboards, but fuck it, I'm not letting Maisie watch this.

I grab her with one arm and crush her against my chest, ruffling Gino's hair with my other to distract him as well. I look him right in the eye, those golden brown eyes that are exactly like hers, and I determinedly don't watch the screen.

Jon does, though. I can see him over Gino's head.

Dad does too.

The Peacekeeper shouts again, and raps his baton against the metal door handle; I hurry back to my seat once the worst is over, giving my mother a solid elbow nudge as I go. It's useless; she doesn't even look at me.

And then the deaths have passed, and they jump to the kids still left in the arena. They're all sitting, resting in those horrible tunnels, even the 3 girl I hear they've been terrorizing with that . . . that mutt. If that thing shows up again, fuck the Peacekeepers, I'm carrying Maisie right out of here. We saw enough of those horrors in the war.

But it doesn't; nothing at all happens. The last shot is the girl from 1 settling down to sleep.

Tesla Sinclair.

All of a sudden, I want to throw up. And punch someone. And set this entire bar on fire. I think Jon's whispering to me, but I can't hear it over the sound of my heart beating out of my chest. Tesla fades away, and still my cheeks are getting hotter and hotter and—

Jon stops talking, and even I'm momentarily thrown for a loop as the next shot on screen is . . . buildings. Pale, coloured buildings long since stained brown, red tile roofs, a sludgy river winding alongside cobblestone streets. Not the style of the arena so far. So what . . .

I don't have time to even guess before Tesla Sinclair's face fills the screen again. But Tesla without the burns, with her black hair still long and clean and braided. Tesla with a tall, shaggy-haired boy who holds a brown-eyed girl even smaller than Maisie.

"So, my dears." There's a woman too, glittery and plump and pink, an obvious Capitolite against a backdrop of district dirt. "Please, introduce yourselves."

"Wirea. This is Archie and 'Lectra." The girl-who-is-not-Tesla swallows and stares firmly into the camera. "We're Tesla's siblings."

Oh.

"Indeed!" says the woman. I can barely hear it, still struck dumb by Tesla's—Wirea's—face. "And since your sister has fought so hard and so well in this competition, earning herself a spot in the pool of eight remaining tributes, we've decided to take a peek behind the curtain, so to speak. Let's see what's so motivating that Tesla Sinclair just has to get home!"

It's her family. They're showing us her family to . . . to what? Justify what she's done?

"Is that a question? I . . . oh, uh . . ." Wirea glances at the boy, Archie, who nods for her to continue. The girl in his arms is braiding a strand of hair—expertly, for a six-year-old. "Right, yeah, well, Tess has to come home. She just . . . look, we need her. I need her. I want her back."

"Even after all she's done?"

Wirea stares at the woman. "What? What . . . yeah. Obviously. I don't . . . look, I told her to do whatever she had to so she could come back. I told her. We lost our mom and our dad to this shitty war, we weren't going to lose her too." Her eyes return to us now, blazing directly out of the screen as if she's speaking directly to me. "My sister isn't a killer okay, but she's fucking smart. She found her own way to survive. And now she's doing what she has to. She doesn't have a choice. You think she should die and leave us behind? Leave Ellie without her favourite big sister? Ellie, where's Tesla right now?"

"In the Cap'tol," the little girl says, still braiding hair.

"You want her to come back?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Now. Or tomorrow." The girl, Electra—Ellie—has such a high, sing-song voice. "Now or tomorrow!"

"Yeah," Wirea says, as her brother puts his free hand on her shoulder. "So there."

And it just . . . keeps going. All the talk about Tesla. What she does for their family. The money she brings in. Her far superior cooking skills. Heck, who's going to help poor little Ellie with her homework?

A glass shatters. Dad, not even looking at his bloody fingers, just glaring right back up at the screen. His expression is so murderous, this is usually when we all start hiding the knives in the house, but right now I'm not even worried about him. I'm clutching the bar so hard I've lost all feeling in my fingers.

I used to be the nice one in our family. The outgoing one, friends with the whole class kind of thing—and, incidentally, I was only able to stay in school because Reese worked her ass off on the ranch for us. Endured Dad for us. Stepped up when Mom, too meek for anyone's good, slowly faded into the shadows. Reese was the strongest, kindest person I knew, and in the end she died because she trusted Tesla Sinclair to be a good person. And her siblings can stand there and say she deserves to come out alive? What about my sister? What did she deserve?

There's gonna be a beating tonight. The faded bruise across my cheek is already throbbing again. Hadley will come over and offer for us all to spend the night, and Mom will wordlessly pass the kids off to her, but I've got to get up at four tomorrow for the pigs, so I'll be going home with Dad. He might not even wait 'til we get to the ranch, at the rate he's drinking. He might just crack in the mouth of some alley. And he might just kill me.

But this time I'm not gonna cry, and I'm not gonna try to zone out and think of nothing like I do other times. I'm gonna be picturing myself in his place. And Tesla Sinclair in mine.


Percival "Percy" Kramer, 18, District 4

For thirty minutes, they let me out of my cell. Brought me into an office so bright and clean I felt like I was sullying the place just by standing there.

Mom was in that room. Dad. 'Wyn, Neif, Seton. We all cried to see each other again, until we realised there was one missing. The Peacekeepers made snide comments about Dyllon, implying he'd died in their care, but I never saw him when they carted us all away. He could have got out. He did.

4 really liked training its rebels young. "Less suspicious," they said. "Better spies." 'Wyn and I were too big, too old already, Neif had a bum leg that necessitated a cane, and Seton had absolutely no talent in any of the necessary skills, but Dyl and Riri were perfect. Helped a ton, so we were told. Dyl managed to make it back from an assignment in 5, but Riri couldn't get out of 6 before the borders closed.

And yet, she'd survived. God, I still remember watching the reapings on the big screen in the fish plant. Seton nearly cried, and even 'Wyn needed a steadying hand when we saw her volunteer. I didn't know whether to be ecstatic that my baby sister was alive, or horrified that I'd only found out because she'd just signed up for a death match.

Idiots that we were, we didn't realise how suspicious our reactions were to the Peacekeepers. They traced our histories soon after and showed up at our door. All of us arrested for insurrection against the Capitol.

I haven't seen the sun since.

Hadn't even seen my family, until yesterday when they dragged us up to that office. There was a camera set up and everything, and a woman with a skirt made of soap bubbles who I instantly recognised as Riri's escort.

On a TV behind her, Riri crept through a tunnel towards Andromeda Eriae.

The Capitol woman, Sparla, made us all stand in front of the camera, muttering something about "our reactions" and "some b-roll if we fuck up the interviews." But there was a moment where she did soften as she dusted powder on Mom's hollow cheeks, and she whispered, "Your daughter's almost reached the final eight. Congratulations."

She might as well have jinxed us. Because not ten minutes later, Riri was dead.

And they dragged us all away without a second thought. Down different halls, back to separate cells, Mom and Dad and Neif screaming, Seton crying, 'Wyn just totally blank-faced, which scared me more than anything. What has the Capitol been doing to my family? Why? The rebellion is over, they've won, that's it. They might have killed my baby brother, they did kill my baby sister—isn't that enough?

No. Apparently not. Because the next night, my interrogation ends early (I don't even know anything, they know that). And when they throw me back in my cell, there's only one goodbye kick instead of the usual three.

"Watch his face," one of them says. "They want 'em to see this."

The TV in my cell, high above and protected by grating, is on. Rare thing unless something's happening with our tributes, but they're both dead. What is this?

God, is it Dyllon?

No, but it is a boy—darker skin, black buzz cut. He's being interviewed, and shit, I know him. Sobek Eriae. Andromeda's brother.

I knew her, when she lived in 4. She was in my class. What are the odds, huh?

"Of course she'll come home." On screen, Sobek crosses his arms. I'm still lying on the ground, staring up at him in a daze. "She's a badass, she knows what she's doing."

"What did you think of her killing the Six girl?"

The Peacekeepers have left, but all of a sudden, I feel their boot back on my throat. Massive, suffocating, impossible to dislodge.

"The girl was a rebel." The interviewer, a hawkish looking man in a pitch-black suit, shoves the microphone closer to Sobek. "Aren't you proud of your sister for the kill?"

Sobek glares. But as his eyes narrow, one twitches. Hard to see against his skin, but it looks like the trace of a bruise.

"She was just protecting herself," he grits out. "Like we've always had to."

"Rebels killed your parents, did they not? Your siblings? Your four-year-old sister?"

". . . yeah."

"You must be so grateful Andromeda has had the opportunity to avenge them."

"I—"

"You know, I'm not supposed to say this, but in my circles, your sister is the favourite for victor. Wouldn't that be appropriate? The Capitol wins the war, and your sister, our devote supporter, wins these Games?" The man leans in. "You do want her to come home, right?"

"Yes."

"So aren't you grateful your sister killed that rebel, so she's one step closer to victory?"

It's like watching a car crash. No, it's like watching a mirror. A portal straight to three weeks ago, where on my third interrogation, only my third, I signed the Capitol's confession. They got me on camera blubbering about everything I did in the war and a whole host of things I didn't do. And they still haven't let me go.

But Sobek was supposed to be on the other side. Andromeda, definitely, is on the Capitol's side. Yet they're going after her brother with the exact same tone they used on me, and I know I'm not imagining those bruises on his face now.

So how . . . how do you even win? Was Riri doomed from the start—were we all? Even the people who helped the Capitol, they still got reaped. Andromeda, Aemilius Lewellyn. Our confessions, our compliance, our pain, is it ever going to be enough?

I'm crying now. The tears are running over the sides of my cheeks—I don't even have the energy to curl up on my side. On screen, Sobek looks as exhausted as I feel.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess I am."


Byron Walters, 12, District 9

Jeanette used to call me Ronnie.

I hated it. Hated it. Made me sound like a snivelling kid. If it was anyone else, I would have punched them. Even Lauren. Especially Lauren.

But Jeanette was a way better older sister, I guess because she wasn't much older. And I just . . . well, she's Jeanette. How could you hurt her?

How could you?

All I can think of now when I hear my name is that guy from 10. Riley. He tried to kill my sister—heck he's basically the reason she died. Some of the other factory kids like to squeal when the overseers say my name for rollcall, and then I punch them, and then they scream and call me Riley again, and then I keep punching, and . . . and I don't know how to stop. Dad tells me to, but he doesn't get it.

We put in a full day at the processing plant, but even by seven o'clock, the overseers don't let us leave. Instead, we're ushered into the cafeteria with our nightly rations while two Peacekeepers up front fiddle with the wall-mounted TV. From the muffled cursing, they don't sound like they're having much luck.

Dad and Lauren practically float over to them. I don't think they're even aware that they're attracted to technology like magnets. Apparently we used to live in 3, but we left right after I was born, so I don't remember it. That was back before they put up all the fences.

"We can help," Dad says. "I've designed systems like this."

One Peacekeepers looks like he's gonna grab his baton, and I'm almost off the bench when the other one just waves a hand and lets Dad go at it. He stops Lauren though as she steps up to help. Takes a long, hard look at her face.

"Shit," he says, and that's all he gets out before I'm shoving myself between them.

"Leave her alone!"

"Byron, stop," Lauren hisses, grabbing my shoulder.

"Don't call me that."

"That's your name, idiot, and that's a Peacekeeper—"

"Byron . . . Walters, yeah?" The Peacekeeper lets go of Lauren and glances at his companion, who also curses. "You," he continues to Lauren, "you, ah, look like your sister."

Lauren used to hate that. "Less freckles, better teeth," she'd always say. Now she just mutters, "Thanks."

"And you must be . . ." The Peacekeeper turns on Dad, who's frozen in the middle of connecting some wires. "Look, you're not allowed to leave the plant, but you can . . . we can clear an office, if you'd like. So you don't have to watch . . . whatever this'll be."

Everyone likes Dad here. Respects him too, even on the days he's shown up to work a little drunk. He's a genius with technology, and it's made everyone's lives easier at the factory. Apparently even the Peacekeepers.

For the first time, Dad seems to really register why they're fixing the TV—what we're going to be shown tonight. But he just shrugs.

"They've already killed my daughter, officer. What could be worse?"

The screen fizzes to life, halfway through the interview of a sixteen-year-old guy. Sobek Eriae, says the text beneath his face.

"The families," Mom whispers as we retake our seats. "They're interviewing the families. Of the survivors."

Those are the first words she's said since Jeanette died. Even when Dad found her unconscious on the floor and yelled at her for what felt like hours, she didn't say a word. She's honestly looked like she's been half-asleep this whole time. But now her eyes are wide open, focused completely on the screen.

From somewhere down the long table, a flask is passed between workers until it reaches Dad. He doesn't even look at the guy handing it to him, just grabs it and takes a huge swig. The Peacekeepers definitely notice, but they don't say anything.

The Sobek kid finishes, and the man in the suit waves him off. He gives the camera a big smile, but his eyes don't shift at all.

"And now we move on to Chance Hensley. As we learned from his s-s-stuttered interview back in the Capitol, he has no family to speak of. This, however, was not true." Now the man's eyes are smiling. "While poor young Chance ran before we could come to his aide, the Peacekeepers thankfully did manage to save his young sister."

He walks the camera over to a girl with blonde pigtails and a lacy pink dress, holding the hand of a tall, dark-skinned woman in white. She's got no helmet on, but it's still obvious what she is, even before the man speaks."

"Peacekeeper Adrastia," he says, and the woman salutes. "And this is . . .?"

The woman, Adrastia, gently nudges the girl, who whispers, "Um, M-Melody? Melody Hensley?"

"How do you do, Melody?"

"Good-and-how-are-you?"

"She's very polite." The man beams. "Melody, how did you come to stay with Adrastia?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you live with her?"

"Oh, uh . . . Dad did bad things. Really bad things. And Chance left me, but 'Tia found me, and she saved me."

"Do you know what bad things your father did?"

"He killed five of 'Tia's friends."

"Do you know what 'killed' means?"

"Yeah."

"And Chance, do you know he's killed people?"

"Yeah." Melody's lip wobbles. "He killed a girl like me."

Like her? No, Jeanette wasn't like her. But it's uncanny how much she looks like Eileen. Same age, shorter hair but same colour. Big blue eyes, like Mom says she used to have before "adulthood sucked the colour out."

Mom's crying now. Gasping, ugly sobs that leave huge teardrops on the table, and she's rubbing her forearms a mile a minute. Dad's still deep in the flask, even as Eileen tugs on his shirt and asks what's wrong with Mom. Lauren is scratching something into the table and won't look up.

It's the Peacekeepers who come to us. One of them gently puts an arm around Mom and offers a hand to Eileen, leading them out through the double doors. The other leans close to Dad and says something—Mom's howls are still too loud to hear—before clapping him on the back and escorting him off as well. Lauren trails after him.

But I stay, watching Melody talk about her new life with Adrastia. How her parents used to support the Capitol, and then her dad went crazy and betrayed them. But the Peacekeepers took him out, and they saved her. They could have saved Chance too, if he'd let them. They could have stopped him from turning into a murderous psycho like his father.

Then Jeanette wouldn't be dead.

It's funny, I've been so focused on Riley, I've never even really thought about the boy who actually stabbed my sister.

One of the Peacekeepers comes back; he puts a hand over mind, which has formed a fist so tight it hurts. I want to punch something again, anything, even the Peacekeeper—and I nearly do, until he takes off his helmet.

He's got red hair. Like her.

"Hey, kid." And green eyes, not like Jeanette's at all, but the shape is almost the same, the way they crinkle at the corners. "How 'bout we get out of here?"

I've lived in three different districts, and a dozen different houses. My parents have lived in even more. Lauren said they were always on the move because Dad was from the Seam in District 12, where there were "problems," and no one ever hired him or trusted him because of it. Until the Capitol discovered him in 1, realised he was actually smart, and gave him a job back to 12 to revolutionise coal efficiency and turn the whole district around. But he never got the chance. The rebellion broke out while we were travelling through 9, and here we've been ever since.

I wanted to punch the rebels. But Jeanette said that wouldn't help. "Instead of hurting others, just help the ones you care about."

I won't be like Riley Byron. Or Chance Hensley.

"Kid?"

I tear my eyes away from Melody Hensley beaming up at her guardian and look to the Peacekeeper who stands above me. He's got the same parental look that Adrastia had.

"Can I ask you something? Sir," I tag on, straightening up on the bench.

"Sure."

"How do you become a Peacekeeper?


Terra Andrews, 12, District 3

I drag Gwen quickly into a shadowed alley as the skyscrapers surrounding us light up once again. It's like some kind of endless mirror: twenty-foot tall screens reflecting shots of this very same landscape.

"Look," Gwen murmurs softly. "It's our turn."

"It's their turn," I correct, as enormous faces fill the screen. Alice, Chip, and Aiden James.

How come they all escaped the Peacekeepers' mindless massacre, even though it was their daughter who started the rebellion on the subway?

"We've gotta keep moving," I hiss, dragging Gwen's attention away from the screen. Unfortunately, I happen to look up myself, just as a Capitol woman asks them to tell us about Adia.

"She's my big sister!" Aiden's little six-year-old voice booms strangely across the empty square. Honestly, I don't know who they're playing this for—it's not like 3's "technological hub" is a Capitol tourist destination anymore, and with the curfew and everything, no one's supposed to be out on the streets. I guess they want to make sure the homeless population still get their daily Hunger Games fill.

Thanks.

I take the lead in darting across the street, Gwen's worn-down shoes scuffing along the pavement behind me. The street is agonisingly wide, four lanes of no cover, and I don't breathe again until we're both tucked behind a dumpster.

I peek around the corner, but there's no movement anywhere. Still, I know I saw a squad car earlier. Best case, they ship us back to the camps with broken hands for disobeying the law. Worst case, if they find out who we are, that our brother was part of the rebel alliance the Capitol has been sadistically destroying on live TV . . .

Bolt wasn't a rebel. None of us were. Everyone thinks 3 spearheaded the rebellion along with 13, and sure, I guess some people did, but most of us were just trying to get by. We honestly didn't care who was in power. But that didn't stop the loudest, angriest voices from trying to represent us all, and now look where we are.

Gwen and I were on the subway, that "reaping" day. We left Bolt to hang out with Bonnie while we went to find our own friends, but we were still in the same car. We heard him play, and we heard an off-key voice singing along. At first it was funny because whoever was singing sounded pretty bad, but then we heard the words.

Then we saw the screens, showing off our murdered families.

And then the Peacekeepers came.

All I could think of in that second was getting me and Terra out. Bolt was on the other end of the train, and besides, he was older, he'd be fine.

I'd thought the same thing when Rob got lost outside in the winter.

And now both my older brothers are dead.

I don't think they even did the reaping, everything was so crazy. They just forced Adia and Bolt to go, because they were "instigators." But he wasn't—she was. She's the whole reason any of this happened.

They've showed footage of Bolt's death over and over since it happened. I'm not stupid; I know Tullia O'Doyle killed him. And I'm angry at her, sure, but I'm furious at Adia James. If it wasn't for her, Bolt wouldn't have been there in the first place. Our parents would still be alive.

Her own parents look near-skeletal, stammering nervously as they're asked what they think of Adia's "antics" in the arena. Honestly, they don't look like rebels—they don't even look like they're worried for Adia. But they know once she dies, they'll be killed as an example to the rest of us. The only reason the Capitol has waited so long was probably for these stupid interviews.

"Do you . . ." Gwen's eyes are once again glued up above, wide and watery in the neon light. "Do you think they'll hurt that little boy too?"

Honestly? Probably. It's the Capitol.

And I just can't find it in myself to care.

There's no one left who cares for us.

But we've got each other. So instead of crushing Gwen with the truth, I just take her hand and squeeze. She returns the gesture.

And together, we run deeper into the city.


Ceria Prospero, 13, District 1

Of course they don't tell us 'til closing that we're being kept late. Games showing, apparently. I told them we've got a TV at home, can't we just watch it there? But they didn't listen—typical—and I doubt Mother had much more luck at her office, plus they're probably holding Viz too in that hollow department store they're calling a "school." Which means Father will be all alone for the evening. I'm supposed to pick up his meds on the way home too, but they'll be closed by the time we're let out. So he'll be pissed, in pain, and fresh off of hearing whatever fun new developments there are in the Capitol's murder games. And guess who gets to diffuse that situation.

As soon as we're ushered into the break room, I grab a chair and drag it all the way to the back corner. Millicent Wechler announces loudly that she wants "front row seats", looking my way the whole time she says it because she's a bitch, but one of the Peacekeepers slaps her on the back of the head, so I'm happy.

It's almost all kids, here in the . . . well, factory's a strong word, I guess. It used to be a factory, but whatever they once made, it's definitely not happening here anymore. Huge walls of machinery, conveyor belts and spinning wheels all loom in the shadows like the ghosts of industry past. Now we all just sit in the middle of the concrete floor, picking tiny jewels out of necklaces and bracelets the salvagers find. They say they don't steal them, but I've seen a couple of pieces with rust-coloured stains. I keep my mouth shut though. Who cares what they're funding with the cash, so long as they're paying me and they're hiring kids under fourteen. Even post-war, not many are keen to flaunt the Capitol's labour laws.

And most of the ones that did, Vesper already tried. Either they turned him away because of the Prospero name, or they kept him on because of it. Dead ends for me, since I don't want anyone getting the same ideas they had when they saw him.

The deep scar across my cheek prickles painfully. I rub it furiously until it stops, but fuck, my heart's still skipping a beat at the thought.

All of us. Clustered in my parents' room. Father splayed on the bed, Mother perched primly beside him, Viz and I on the ground, backs against the footboard. It's barely four in the morning, but that didn't stop the loud, cheerful ditty playing on the TV that announces a mandatory screening. These new sets even turn on automatically, but ours didn't need to—Father's watching it all the time. I don't know how Mother sleeps.

On screen, the rebel alliance is chased by some horrible mutt. The 8 boy dies. Eaten. Of course they show us the whole thing. Mother covers her mouth and heads for the hall. "It's mandatory," Father barks after her, but there's no bite in his words. He doesn't really care if the news isn't about Vesper. In fact, I'd say he's almost happy. With the 8 boy gone, that's twelve down, eleven to go.

Except even after he's digested, the trill that indicates the end of a mandatory viewing doesn't come. Instead the cameras switch.

To Vesper's alliance.

And that's when I learn, on live TV, that my older brother was whoring himself out for our family.

I can't see Father. But I can feel the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. Viz does too, I can tell, even though I don't think he totally understands. Fuck, I hope he doesn't; he's eleven.

The door creaks open, and Mother slips back in, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Did you know?" comes Father's deadly whisper.

"What?" she asks, glancing at the screen, but too late—the screen flashes with the graphic that dictates the viewing's no longer mandatory before it refocuses on the girl from 2.

"Did you know."

"Dear, I don't—"

Their bedside lamp shatters against the wall by her head. She barely has time to flinch before Father's on her, rage driving him past the pain. His hands are around her throat, shaking furiously.

"Did you FUCKING know? What my own goddamn son was doing? A Prospero, getting fucked by the scum of this district?"

If he kills her, that's it. Her income is six times more than I'll ever make until I'm old enough. Mother knows it—that was why she made Vesper take the beatings. It was a cold and ruthless calculation of survival: one child sacrificed so she could safeguard the other two.

A lesson she explained to me the moment after we said our goodbyes to Vesper.

So I shove Viz into the closet, like she would want, and then I get far closer to Father than I ever would dare, and I scream.

"And who made him do it, huh? Who drove him to that? You wanted money so bad, you forced him into the fucking murder games, how is this any worse? He did it to provide for you!"

Oh, that gets his attention. He turns on me now, face nearly purple, veins popping out of his neck. But he doesn't just look angry—there's a sick desperation twisting his features that chills me to my core.

"You won't," he says, and he scoops up a piece of shattered glass. "Not you. Not my daughter too."

Puberty still has its grips on me, and with our squalid living conditions, I'm as greasy and pimply a teen as you'll ever find in 1. Not exactly a looker, but now to top it off, I've got a jagged scar carving its way down my cheek, over my lips, and right to my chin. Like a giant Do Not Cross banner. I guess Father wanted to make sure I'd never look appealing to anyone.

Actually, fuck it—I don't know what he wanted in that moment, and I don't care. I'll live with him for Viz's sake, at least for now, because if Vesper managed a year of post-war Father than I can too. But I'm under no obligation to understand him. He doesn't fucking deserve that.

I've only been half-paying attention to the fact that they're screening interviews with the remaining tributes' families, but I notice when they get to District 5. If only because the people they show are so fucking . . . colourful. The girl's red-cheeked and peppy, the mother has a cascading mane of orange curls, and the father's even put on a bowtie for the occasion. They stand in front of a bright mural of a powerplant beaming light onto a vibrant city. I thought all the colour in the world had been sucked out of Panem by the war, but 5's sure trying its best to ignore that.

"Sammy's really smart," the girl is prattling on. A little textbox of information gives her name as Natalie Hoffman and her age as fifteen—fifteen, how the fuck is this walking smile older than me? "Like, really, really smart. I mean, you've seen that, obviously, but I bet she's got a hundred plans we haven't even seen yet. And yeah, I'm super upset her ally left, Kale seemed super cool and they were such good friends, y'know? But Sammy's got tons of friends here too, like Shelby, and Marcus, who she totally has a crush on—shit, I mean, shoot, I'm not supposed to say that—"

"And even after what she's done?" a very irritated Capitol man cuts loudly in. "You still support her?"

Natalie thankfully shuts up at that, but her father puts a hand on her shoulder. Not grabbing her, not squeezing her painfully to make her listen. It's protective. He's protecting her.

"We happily fulfilled our duty to the Capitol before this war. It tears us apart to see what the country has been reduced to since this uprising." His voice is mellow and even and so warm I catch myself hanging on to his every word. "District Five was one of the last districts to participate in the war, and only due to the strong-arming of District Three. We of course understand the Capitol's need to recuperate for those losses we caused—but we strongly believe some are more at fault than others. My daughter is simply supporting the cause for reconciliation."

"So you stand by her?"

"I always have. And I always will."

In the back of the break room, I start to cry.

I fucking hate myself for it, because Millicent Wechler will see it, and she'll use it against me when she beats me up after work, and then I'll be even later in getting home, and I'll have to confront Father empty handed with fresh bruises and fuck. What did Samantha and Natalie Hoffman have to do to get born into that family? Everything Samantha did to our tributes, the pain she caused, the deaths her actions led to, and she still gets to live like that?

Oh, look. It's the same question other kids asked themselves back when the Prosperos were the richest family of assholes in 1.

. . . fucking Panem.


Cordelia Ronisch, 41, District 7

It's like all the light has left our home.

Perhaps that's why Trent and I have spent so little time there in this last week (god, has it only been a week?). His days at the lumberyards are long, especially since they're judged by quota rather than hours worked. He and the other outer-district refugees are often there well into the night, working by floodlights, and honestly, I think he puts in extra effort beyond that. Doesn't come home until he's so exhausted he can't even think.

Not that it bothers me—I usually pull overnighters at the hospital, catching a few hours when I can in a corner with an old pillow beneath my arm, waking to find its case damp and my cheeks itching. But at least I can sleep here, because at home, it's too deafeningly quiet.

Caragh was never talkative—took after me there. But she filled every room she entered with warmth. I can still picture her sitting out on our tiny porch back in 4, overlooking the ocean, reading a book and breathing softly in time with the waves. Or singing under her breath as she scrubbed the dinner dishes. Or her tiny, high-pitched sneezes that always came in threes. It's ridiculous to be proud of your child for something as small as that, but I was. I sneezed like my grandfather, but Caragh was charming and gentle like she was in every aspect of life.

I don't think I ever told her that, outright. Or if I did, it wasn't enough. Never enough.

I thought I'd have more time.

The hospital erupts in a panic as Peacekeepers enter, wheeling in a TV and a generator. I say "hospital" to be supremely generous—it's just one of the massive work tents they set up at the lumber camps far up the mountains. We've tried our best to partition it, with racks of sheets to hide the more serious patients, but it's a far cry from the facilities I had in 4, both before the war and even in our makeshift office on the boats for refugees.

"What is this?" I march past rows of cots towards the Peacekeepers as patients' cries rise above me. Some are here for work accidents or lingering war wounds, but many have suffered quite recently at the Capitol's hand. Apparently prison infrastructure has suffered just as much as hospitals, because there's nowhere to keep those who step out of line (and no public fund to feed them anyhow), so almost all punishments are beatings of some form or another. And to think, when we first got the news that the war was over, I thought we might finally have time to catch our breaths.

Caragh had smiled when I'd said that, in her soft, small way. "Maybe one day they won't need us at all."

It was a sad smile, I've realised now. Terrible that it took seeing her on television to realise just how sad she was. My baby girl.

I should have told her that she'd always be needed.

The Peacekeeper who addresses me sounds barely older than Caragh, and she's a good foot shorter than me as I stop in front her. "President's orders. There's a mandatory screening."

"The last thing my patients need is more stress."

"I don't know what to tell you, ma'am." Her arms sweep up to the ceiling, as if the explanation is there. "It's mandatory."

I give her a stern glare—and then I nearly sob, because it's the same look I gave Caragh when she was three and I found her drawing on the walls and why, why did I waste any time ever being mad at her?

The frantic screams of the nearest patient are the only thing that keep me from collapsing then and there; I march over to the bed, not surprised to find it occupied by Fester Ackley. Arrested for stealing food from the Peacekeepers' stores. If they'd caught him in the act it would have just been him suffering, but he'd already fed it to his four children by the time they kicked down his door. Such an offence would have gotten him shot in the old Panem, but they can't afford to drop capable workers now. So it's whippings, and a short-term leave they hope will result in a more obedient employee. But the weather's been too hot, and we're understaffed, undersupplied, and in far over our heads. Patients don't always make it.

Fester's youngest son didn't.

I slide the strung-up bedsheet across his cot, blocking the Peacekeepers and their television from his view. The woman just sighs.

"Everyone's supposed to watch it. If the captain shows up, he'll get mad."

Let him. I'll tell him it's my duty as a nurse to protect my patients. I'll tell him to fuck off.

I slip past the sheets into the tiny cubbyhole I've made for Fester. He's subsided into sobs now, still weakly swearing at the Peacekeepers, but he's so wracked with pain he's barely lucid. The sores on his back are bleeding through the bandages again; he lies on his stomach, still staring out at the shadows beyond the sheets.

". . . bastards . . . evil bastards . . ."

"I know," I say, brushing his sweaty hair back. I wish I had more to offer: painkillers, bandages. His son, alive again.

". . . they killed him . . ."

"I know," I repeat, because it's all we can say. Here in 7, there's no shortage of helplessness, but also no shortage of empathy. Can't throw a stone without finding a parent just like you.

About twenty minutes later, Gama Tron steps quietly through the curtain to my side.

She came to see us the moment that Caragh . . . that her death was broadcast. The mandatory screening hadn't even ended, it still looked like another fight might break out between Riri Kramer and . . . Aemilius Lewellyn. But there was Gama, already at our door, breaking curfew and everything. She didn't even knock. Just walked right in and gave us both a hug.

If I'd been in complete control of my senses, I think I would have turned her away. Who did this stranger think she was, to enter my home, to touch me in such a familiar way? But then I placed her face, and I let myself fall apart into her shoulder. Trent had already broken down on her other side.

The Trons supported us completely in those first days; I suppose it's a District 5 custom to be loud and bold and intimate. In moments when the grief wasn't completely overwhelming, I'd felt ashamed for not comforting them about Volt, but Gama and Ray waved me off when I voiced my sympathy. "He won't be forgotten. We won't let them ever forget him."

And then they told us about 7's underground rebel movement.

Trent and I stopped speaking to them after that. We didn't need anymore trouble than we'd already brought upon ourselves, brought upon Caragh, who was chosen for these Games, for what . . . because we'd helped evacuate civilians in 4? If that was all it took to get our daughter killed, then I didn't want anything more to do with the rebels.

"What else do you have to lose?" I'd thought, but I'd shaken that away at the time.

Now, though, I let Gama stay and keep her silent vigil while I kneel by Fester's bedside and stroke his hair until he sleeps. Outside, I can still hear the TV; they're on District 5. From the sounds of it, it's a five-year-old boy being interviewed, and he "just wants Uncle Del back."

I harbour no resentment towards Aemilius Lewellyn for his role in the war, whatever the rebels may say of him—for Panem's sake, he's seventeen. And I . . . try not to resent him for Caragh. There was no malice in what he did; it couldn't have been clearer that it was the Capitol that drove them both to fight.

But still I think if I could just trade him for her . . . and then I listen to that tiny voice from outside, and my whole throat locks up.

"Are you here for someone?" I ask Gama out of the blue, maybe a bit too gruffly, but my voice is thick from unshed tears.

"Bolt and Jolt."

Her children. When I'd first heard their names, I'd almost laughed right along with the Capitol audience during Volt Tron's interview. But then he shut Domitius Afer down with a curt, "Yeah, that's how they force the slum families to name their kids in Five. Funny, right? Literally just labelling ourselves as what we can give the Capitol."

I'd . . . never considered it that way. In the years before the war, there was a trend to give children names relating to the ocean back in 4, but I had thought it was just a passing fad, or part of a new pseudo-religion after all others were banned. I hadn't realised the potential connotations. Volt from 5, Bolt from 3, Kale from 11 . . .

"Sorry." I shake my head, realising I'm being insensitive; if Gama's here for her children, that's not good. "Did something happen to them?"

"Whippings. Jolt's asleep but stable. Bolt's in the operating tent."

"Oh, Gama, I'm so—"

"No apologies. It's not your fault."

It's brusque, but I don't think she intends it that way. I'm slowly learning the quirks and tics of those from other districts. God knows people from 7 have their fair share.

"If you want to be with him, I could talk to the doctors, see—"

"No," she cuts me off again, but this time, there's a catch in her voice. She's a large woman, tall and broad-shouldered and proud, but when I look up from Fester's bedside, I'm surprised to find her shaking. She chuckles softly at my expression.

"Is it selfish," she whispers, "that if he . . . if he dies, I don't want to see it happen? See that life just drain right out of him? It's terrible, but I'd rather just hear about it."

I understand. Watching a person simply . . . stop working is alarming. Your first one as a nurse fills you with this abstract, world-upending horror, this terrified sort of it's that easy? But you get better at compartmentalising after that.

But not after Caragh. And I didn't even see that exact moment happen, because Aemilius Lewellyn hid her from view as he just kept stabbing.

Outside, they wrap up the little boy's interview with another plaintive, "I just want him home." And all right, maybe I am resentful when I think, I wanted her home too.

They didn't even mention Caragh. All this talk about bringing this boy home and they didn't even mention who he murdered. And I understand why, because apparently the only family he has is this young child—no parents even to leave abandoned—but still. They couldn't mention her? Not once?

I think I'm shaking now too, because Gama puts a hand on my shoulder. With the other, she gives me a picture.

"This is why they're here," she murmurs. "Bolt and Jolt. Idiots. I told them we have to be more careful. But they said it couldn't wait. That we have to remember. Even if the Peacekeepers have already painted over it, we all know it's there."

The picture she gives me is of the mayor's house. The building itself you can't actually see; he's got a ten-foot-tall wall blocking it off. A Capitol sympathiser warding off trouble.

Spray-painted across the bricks for everyone to see is a pair of murals. Volt's face, and Caragh's.

Caragh, illustrated in reds and oranges and golds just like the colours of her beautiful interview dress, the one I cried when I saw because I couldn't even tell her how gorgeous she looked. But she doesn't have the makeup or the fancy hair—it's just my girl, my sweet, sweet girl with her thick eyebrows and her pointed chin, and they even did her freckles.

Between her and Volt are painted five words.

WE WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN

I collapse into Gama, like I first did when she came to our house, and I sob, and I sob, and I sob.

But afterwards, I compose myself. And I ask her if she still meets with the rebels.

Because she's right. I can't let Caragh be forgotten.


Sabrina Shay, 15, District 8

Magnus's room is exactly how I remember it. Books sorted alphabetically by author. Pencils in a neat line on his desk. That lame green bedspread with the cartoon frogs. I told him it was for kids, and he said his mother would cry if she had to throw it away.

"Good," I'd said. "She should."

"Come with me," I'd said. "The rebels can still win."

But they couldn't. Our parents saw to that. And Magnus still stuck by his.

I slide the window shut behind me—still unlocked, like he always left it—and head immediately for the door. No sense lingering here any longer than I must. Don't look at that drawing I did for him that's taped to the wall, don't look at the suits in the closet from the formal evenings we were dragged to, don't look at that stupid frog bedspread

I'm out the door in a heartbeat, sliding it softly shut behind me. My nose is running too, which is just great, because my sleeves are dirty enough without wiping more snot on them.

Maybe I could take one of his shirts.

I bet it still smells like him.

Focus, Sabrina. You're here for one thing. Food.

My father's locked his house down like the president's own manor, but I knew Magnus always left his window open. I knew when he'd be gone for his private tutoring sessions too, after the war pretty much obliterated the idea of school in 8. So I've been stealthily keeping myself alive off of their fridge since I ran away. Even when Magnus . . . left, I continued.

It's never occurred to me until now that he almost definitely knew what I was doing. And I never thanked him. Didn't even go to say goodbye.

I didn't even see his death. Had to overhear it in passing while I was begging on the sidewalk.

Come on. Food. Don't think about anything else.

". . . be all right . . ."

Shit. I freeze at the top of the curling staircase. The Chases are workaholics, they shouldn't be home so soon.

. . . but that wasn't Magnus's father. That was mine.

Every hair on the back of my neck is standing on end, but curiosity forces me to slink slowly down the steps. Just a peek. Just to see.

It's been so long.

I crouch behind the curling banister, and yes, sure enough on the couch below, there is Jacquard Shay.

But not just him: Magnus's parents are there, and Mr. Saye, and Mrs. Lampas, and all of District 8's ex-diplomats. The ones who found out 13 was building nukes. Who took that information to the Capitol and told them to strike first.

Aemilius Lewellyn has family here in 8, but none of the old rebels have ever given them trouble. We know he only fucked 11 over, when the war was lost anyways. But these ten people here, they're responsible for the annihilation of 13. The beginning of the end. A genocide.

They're gathered on a circle of sofas and armchairs, watching the television above a crackling fire. More Hunger Games crap no doubt, except this looks like an interview. An elderly man, a set of parents, and an older boy handsome enough to be in a Capitol commercial.

"They're all alive." That's Magnus's mother, pouring herself a large glass of red wine. "That's nice. I thought the way their daughter was acting, they'd have killed them all long ago."

"They were probably needed for this event." Mr. Chase, moustache as huge as ever, adds another log to the fire.

"Wonder what happened to the families of all Tullia's dead allies?"

"We'll find out soon enough," my father says, and gestures for Mrs. Chase to fill him up a glass.

My father never drinks. Ever. It's a "law," like all the other stupid rules he tried to force on me. So why now? And what's he talking about, we'll find out soon enough? Is he expecting Tullia O'Doyle to die next?

It's childish to admit I was jealous when I heard she and Magnus had kissed in the arena. My relationship with Magnus was so short, and more than a little desperate considering the war going on. Our first kiss was during a bomb drill, which is just about the most unromantic setting you can get. I think we were both just worried we'd die without experiencing, well . . . anything.

We were thirteen and fifteen then. The last year of the war. Barely five months later, our parents sold out 13 and I ran away.

Right now, I'm tempted to run all over again. I should, no question. I don't know what my father would do if he caught me here, but it would be awkward at best and horrifying at worst.

Yet my growling stomach roots me to the steps. For four days I avoided this house after Magnus . . . well, I held out for as long as I could before hunger forced me here. Damn my shitty, spoiled upbringing for making me so soft.

None of the adults are looking my way though, and the large kitchen island should give me cover. Okay. You can do this.

I wince at every creak of the steps, but thankfully the TV's loud enough to mask it. I catch snatches of "we love her" and "hope that she comes home," and eventually realise it is in fact the O'Doyles on screen. The guy labelled as her brother, Apollo, looks right into the camera as he says, "Tully's the bravest girl I know. If anyone can pull through this, she can."

Brave. And yet she left Magnus to die. Some rebel leader.

I scamper from the last step to the kitchen, a heart-stopping three-second dash out in the open. But there's no sounds of pursuit, no exclamations of surprise; when I peep over the counter again, they're all exactly where I left them.

"Tully always reminded me a lot of Sabrina." I'm stunned to recognise Miss Harris, my old piano teacher from ten years ago when that was still a thing we even cared about. "How's she doing, Jack?"

And my father, he just shrugs, wearily, like the world is against him. "On the streets. I've had no contact with her. Told her to get out of my house and never come back."

That wasn't it. Not in those words.

"If you're going to side with them, you stupid rebel whore, then I never want to see you ever again, you hear me? You are not my daughter—you are NOT A SHAY!"

I duck back behind the counter, and there goes my goddamn nose again, running like a tap. Especially when I hear the murmurs of agreement coming from the couch.

"What about you, Delores?" Mrs. Chase asks. "Your boys were only twelve."

"They ran too, for a while. Came back though, so I had to, ah, employ Jack's methods."

"Dottie never did." Mr. Dimity, my father's oldest friend, takes a huge, wet gulp of wine. "Come back, I mean. And she's . . . god, what she's doing . . ."

I knew Dottie Dimity—all the kids of rich parents had to "network". She took a stand just like I did. All of us who ran though, we couldn't make street life work together, got on each others' nerves too quickly. Some went crying back, some joined community homes, some just disappeared. Dottie, however, can always be found on the same nighttime street corner, now with a very different name and a very tiny skirt.

And as the parents go around, mentioning where their kids are, she doesn't even seem like the worst off. I hadn't realised how lucky I'd been—and they know. All these adults know exactly what their kids are doing, but they still pushed them out. We chose to run when we discovered what they'd done, but they kept us away.

The urge to get up and scream is overpowering. I force the acidic anger down and crack the fridge open, shoving an apple immediately my mouth. Food. There, see? Distract yourself.

"So, they're all gone," Mrs. Chase says after the roundtable of betrayal finishes. "Good. That's . . ."

She dissolves into sobs. Like, actual, honest to god tears.

I peep back over the counter, arms now laden with fruit and cheese. I've . . . never seen an adult cry.

My father pats her leg. "You did everything you could."

"I should have scared him off . . ."

"We had no way of knowing," Mr. Chase says. "We thought, if we'd just complied . . ."

A voice I can't place murmurs, "Ain't that the truth."

They subside into silence. Even the TV seems to get quieter. I can risk running for the stairs yet. Next time someone talks—

"We don't have to sit here," Mrs. Lampas says, and bam, I'm racing back to the safety of the steps. I catch my breath behind the balustrade as she finishes, "We could at least make it a little harder for them."

"We could fight," Miss Harris says, earning a few chuckles.

"Or run," Mr. Dimity adds.

My father shakes his head. "Where to? The Capitol is everywhere."

"Thirteen?"

I've almost reached the second floor—almost safe—when that word stops me cold.

Thirteen . . . what?

"No," Mrs. Chase says, daintily dabbing at her eyes. "We can't afford to draw the Capitol's ire. Not there. Just look at the lengths they're going through to keep it quiet."

Keep what quiet? The iron rails are cold between my fists as I stare down at their heads, all bobbing in agreement. What do you mean—?

The doorbell cuts, loud and crystal clear, over the quiet interviews.

My father stands. "Shall I?"

"Please," Mrs. Chase says as her husband hugs her close. The others finish off their wine.

I watch my father leave. One last glimpse of the top of his dark brown curls. When other kids teased me for not looking like him, or anyone I knew, he used to point to his head and say, "See? We have the same hair." He grew it to his chest when I was five, just for me. Now it's short, shot through with grey.

And then he's disappeared. Presumably answering the door, for I hear it swing open, and the sharp click of Peacekeeper boots snapping together.

"Mr. Shay." The voice, a muffled woman's, doesn't sound surprised to find him answering the Chases' door. "You're all here?"

"We are."

"Good."

And then there's a pop.

And something heavy falling.

And the Peacekeeper advances into the room with her silenced gun aloft.

Whatwhatwhatwhat—

FOCUS.

I run. Not quiet, not with the way I'm breathing, but the pops are loud enough downstairs I don't think anyone hears. Gunfire, that's gunfire—

Magnus's room. The window. Thank god it looks out on the back of the house. I've got one leg out the window before . . .

I stop to think. About all that I heard.

. . . shit.

I dart back into the hall. Whip open the other door, and yes, there, on the end table beside his parents' bed, is someone's phone.

I don't even consider why I grabbed it until I'm down the drainpipe, out of the yard, and a good six blocks away. In a wet back alley, I catch my breath. And I cry. And I wish that Magnus was here.

Then I rub my nose on my sleeve, stagger to my feet, and keep moving. The phone slips snugly into my belt where my long shift covers it. I don't know if it's even worth anything.

But if it is, I'm going to find out.


Octavian August, 31, Head Gamemaker

The O'Doyle interviews seem to last forever. The wait is agonising; I'm so focused on the seconds ticking past, I don't even notice what they're saying, though I can hear Regina chuckling somewhere behind me, no doubt delighting in watching a rebel family brought so low. And I'm with her, I am. But there's one I care about more.

And then we're on to Kale Hackberry.

We've already been given the establishing shots of District 11 with Eltanin Yuca's interview for Aemilius Lewellyn, so they don't bother with it this time. Instead we're right back in the same studio, but with different subjects before the grey backdrop.

Sorrel Bryant is one. Sixteen, parents were civilians killed in the Golden Grove bombings, though what civilians were doing that close to a rebel base is an interesting question. She works at an infirmary, apparently passed off enough her skills to Hackberry to make him relatively competent at first aid, though how their friendship came to be I'm not yet sure.

Does he care about her?

How much would it hurt him to lose her?

And then there's the other woman on screen: Rye Hackberry. Young, for a mother. Sixteen and pregnant, husband died four years later, and Rye joined up with an underground rebel movement soon after. Often left her child with a neighbour, a decrepit old man named Silo Fenton. A viperous report from Ms. Hackberry a few years later tried to get Fenton charged for child abuse and neglect. As though she hadn't been the one to willingly hand him her son.

Isn't that just like the rebels? Fire the gun and then complain about the bodies.

I have Ms. Hackberry's report against Fenton open before me now. Neglect, malnutrition, physical abuse. A few incidents of her son being locked in a wardrobe for several hours on end. Extreme psychological impact.

Hello claustrophobia. Hello pyromania.

The District 5 escort spoke with young Eltanin as best he could via a video feed to 11. Now, however, there is a physical interviewer: a towering man in a helmet and full Peacekeeper uniform. His questions hit like gunfire, fast and explosive, giving Ms. Hackberry no time to think.

"Your son caused the death of two tributes in the arena, how do you feel about this?"

"He wasn't the one who stabbed them—"

"Did you know Vesper Prospero's uncle was a prominent rebel leader?"

"No—"

"Did you know Tesla Sinclair's parents were members of the rebellion?"

"I—"

"Do you think, considering your son's actions, he may be changing sides? Taking out rebels? Forsaking Eleven?"

There's a savage satisfaction in watching a woman cold and hard slowly start to crack. We've hit the turning point here, as seen before in many other interviews. The moment where each district member must decide whether to stick to their rebel ideals or to lie on television to protect their children in the arena. Thus far, everyone has given in. But I know Ms. Hackberry will be different.

"Of course not," she says, and I can practically hear her teeth grinding. "My son was raised to know exactly who the enemy is."

She doesn't come outright and insult the Capitol, but the glare she shoots at her interviewer leaves no room for interpretation. It doesn't matter though—she's left herself wide open for attack.

"Ms. Hackberry, did you know your son was gay?"

The sudden shift throws off whatever scraps of scornful confidence Ms. Hackberry had managed to assemble. "I don't see how that's—"

"Did you know—"

"Yes, but—"

"Did it upset you?"

Her lip twitches humourlessly. "We do have larger problems to concern ourselves with in Eleven."

"Is Eleven concerned that your son appears to have fallen for Aemilius Lewellyn?"

He was leading her along like a fish chasing a worm, and she didn't even realise it until she bit. Ms. Hackberry chokes on her next retort, her cheeks taking on a beetroot hue. "He has not—"

"He saved the boy's life. Been quite chummy with him. Quite tender."

"My son left that alliance—"

"'I get you.' That's what your son said to Lewellyn. Do you think he understands why the rebel bases were given up? Why they had to be destroyed?"

"No—"

"Why do you defend the rebels?"

"Because—"

"Does your son despise you because you abandoned him for the rebels? Because you allowed him to be physically abused? Because you turned a blind eye to his suffering in order to further a cause doomed to fail? Or was it on purpose? Did you fear his pyromania? What triggered that development? Were you afraid of the monster your son was becoming?"

And there it goes. All the dirty laundry we've unearthed, that I've been pouring over since Kale Hackberry was reaped, it all comes rushing out. His mother doesn't stand a chance. It's verbal whiplash—one question, Kale comes across as a Capitol supporter, the next he's a fire-happy sadist, the next he's an idiot who fell in love with a traitor. Ms. Hackberry never gets a second to breathe, and I'm holding my breath right along with her, leaning closer and closer as she spirals down.

I barely notice when Regina brushes my shoulder. "Enjoying the show?" she whispers, lips close to my ear.

On screen, Sorrel Bryant is crying. Ms. Hackberry's eyes are wet, but she clenches her jaw and stares firmly at some point above the camera.

"Ms. Hackberry, do you regret your son's role in the murder of President August's brother?"

She and I clench our fists as one. Marius, I think, as she says, "No."

"Do you regret that it has led to the Hunger Games? Do you regret all the pain and suffering it has caused all the other children? Do you regret all the broken families it has left behind?"

Say it, hisses a venomous voice in my head, but I know that she won't. She'll divert the blame. Like the rebels always do.

"These Games are the Capitol's doing," she says, and she has the gall to look like she believes it. "No one else's."

"So you would not have stopped the bombing, if you could?"

"No."

"Then, Ms. Hackberry, on behalf of all those broken families watching this, I want you to know that your son and every rebel like him will get exactly what they deserve."

I can feel Regina's smirk right next to my ear as the screen cuts abruptly to black. "Aaaaaand scene."

"No," I say. "It's not over yet."

"Of course." When I turn to look at her, I see she is indeed smirking. In her hands, she holds a long, black cloak. "Ready for your starring role?"

Behind her are the screens that follow all the tributes. Kale Hackberry's face fills one of them. Sleeping, almost peaceful. After everything he's done.

I take the cloak from Regina as the interviewer's words reverberate through my head, louder and louder and louder, until it's a roar.

WHAT. THEY. DESERVE.


Welp, I did not mean for that to be as much of a downer as it was. It got away from me a bit too, three cheers for the longest chapter of this story yet (and hopefully the only one to surpass 10,000 words, to be fair I had 9 POVs to shove in here). Next chapter, we're back to our tributes!

Oh, and purely for fun, not at all impacting the story, there's a poll on my profile, because they're a joy and I like seeing people's opinions :) Hope everyone's doing okay in this crazy world right now, stay safe and keep healthy!