A/N: A special thank you to empressakura655 for the kind words. You seem to be the only one. :( Oh well, on with the show...

Chapter VII: Until the End

I feel incredible!

My head is floating in the air above my body and I love it. Love it. Love it. It's like all my cares are gone away, and I can't even remember how I got here. Ha!

Smoking is kind of hard. It makes my throat and lungs hurt, and the coughing isn't fun. But that's gone now too. I feel very relaxed…and hungry. The nice man who brought me in here had someone bring me a sandwich, and wow, did it taste great!

I never thought I'd let myself do something like this. I usually think thinks like Canna and morphling are dangerous or unnecessary. I don't think I'd still ever do morphling. But this Canna stuff is wonderful. I don't feel lost in my mind anymore. Or, if I am still lost, I just don't care. This is such a freeing feeling.

There's a lady on the stage right now, reciting a poem. The words are a little familiar to me…can't quite place them, though. Not yet.

I think people here recognize me, but like me, they're too high to care much. I'm alone in a sea of strangers. Unlike the Capitol, here they just let me be. I like it. I had no idea anyone in no-nonsense District Three did stuff like this. I didn't know there were Canna Clubs here!

I've long since finished the Canna cigarette the guard gave me, but every few minutes, a server comes to my table and gives me another one, saying it's been paid for by someone in the room who recognizes me. I think one is enough for now, so all of the other ones I put in my pants pocket for another day. Even if these aren't allowed in Panem, I'm a Victor. I won't get in trouble.

I have no idea how much time has passed. The Canna Club reached full capacity some time ago, and now people are beginning to trickle out and go home to bed.

Maybe the Canna is fading from my body, because I suddenly get the feeling that going home right now will depress me. I decide to take one of the eight or nine cigarettes in my pocket. I put it in my mouth while I grab one of the wooden matches on the table. I inhale as I light the thing.

I cough and cough as I try to get the smoke to stay in my lungs. A server from earlier taught me how to hold the smoke in as long as I can before exhaling. This makes the floaty effect better. After a few seconds, I can't keep it in any more, and I blow it all out. I watch the smoky tendrils curl about me and rise up into the air.

The floating is back to being strong again as I keep inhaling, taking big gulps of water in between to try and soothe my throat. I feel incredibly relaxed.

"I really didn't think I'd find you here."

Oh, no.

I turn around in my chair.

Edison.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says, gritting his teeth. "Dad, Beetee, and I have been all around the city looking for you since dinnertime!"

I scowl. Why is he here?

"Go away," I mumble. "I hate you."

"Wiress, come on…"

"Leave me alone. I love it here."

Edison gives me an odd look.

"Were you in the morphling den?" he asks cautiously.

I shake my head. "Just here."

"And how many of those have you hit?"

"Hit?"

Edison rolls his eyes. "My goddamned baby sister is in a Canna Club," he murmurs, as if I can't hear. "How many of those have you smoked?"

"Two," I answer honestly. "Now can you go away?"

He thinks a moment. "I want to leave you here, believe me. But Dad, Mom, and Beetee will want me to take you out of here. You're only sixteen."

"Not until June," I say back. My jerk of a brother can't even remember my age or birthday.

"Close enough. Here, give me one," Edison demands. Before I can stop him, he takes my cigarette and inhales three times in quick succession. He is a lot better at keeping the smoke down than me. He hands it back to me and sits in the extra chair at my table.

"I'll let you finish it, but then we should get out of here. There's two Peacekeepers looking for you too. If they trace you here, they'll arrest everyone in the place."

I feel a wave of paranoia come over me, and it's somewhat sobering. Would I be arrested too? What happens if a Victor goes to prison? What would Beetee think? Would he be ashamed of me?

"Okay," I sigh, putting out the nib of Canna left in my hand out on the table, missing the ash tray by a good few inches. Judging from the condition of the table, I wasn't the first to do that. "But I still hate you."

On the way out the door, I realize the familiar poem the woman on stage is reading. It's Night Bird. My poem.

The light of late morning fills my room and wakes me. I feel fine, other than my throat being scratchy and dry. I roll my head to the side, and someone has left a tall glass of water by the bed. Probably Edison when he brought me home last night.

The events of last night are a fog to me. As I lay in bed, pieces of it come back. Running out of the building and getting lost in the Inner City. Stumbling onto the Canna Club and being given more free Canna than I knew what to do with. The light, pleasant high. Edison intruding on my evening out to bring me back before trouble happened. Everything in between is filler. Some of it I can't even remember in detail. I've heard that Canna has a mild amnesiac effect.

Without warning, a heavy, violent cough punches it's way up my throat. My body flings to an upright position in an effort to cope, and I attempt to reach the water on the table. I'm barely able to grab it, and in between breaths I swallow as much water as I can before another coughing spasm.

I feel a gentle hand touch my back, startling me. The coughing subsides, and I turn my head around.

Mom is sitting next to me, a concerned look on her face. "Any phlegm?"

I thought it was Edison or Beetee watching after me. I'm surprised to see her. I shake my head. "Dry cough."

"Good," Mom replies. "I was going to send for a Healer if it was anything worse. Any other symptoms?"

"No," I wheeze, taking another sip of water. Truthfully, other than the symptoms in my respiratory system, I feel fine, at least physically.

"Canna is more potent than anything our ancestors used," Mom tells me. "Still, it could have been worse. You worried Daddy and Beetee pretty badly, though."

I figure as much. "Are they angry?"

Mom shakes her head. "Relieved you're safe. I would go up and have a word with Beetee when you're feeling up to it, however."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Mom takes the empty glass from my hands. "You don't need to apologize. None of us can really tell how the others are coping with…everything. And you're probably far from the first Victor to turn to self-medication. I just don't want you to take to a more serious place."

"Like morphling?"

Mom shrugs. "Yes, but I meant running off alone when you're upset. Going missing. Possibly even giving up entirely."

Giving up entirely. Suicide.

There have been suspected suicides from past Victors. Of course, the Capitol spins these stories to make a Victor's premature death sound like an accident of sorts. Career Victors love their lot, so when a suicide occurs, it's usually a Victor from an outlier District. The only other District Three Victor died this way, at least that's what most of us believe. The official story was that they electrocuted themselves working on an experiment.

Have I wanted to die since winning the Games? I don't think I have. There have been many times I've felt trapped and lonely, as if there's no escape from the nightmares. When I think of how quickly my world has changed, it takes my breath away.

"When did I get back?"

"Almost dawn," Mom answers. "It's nearly noon right now."

"I suppose I shouldn't ever smoke that stuff again?"

Mom gives me a blank look. "I recommend talking to Beetee. He's up in his inventing room right now, working on something. I think he's been waiting for you."

"Hello."

My voice is barely above a whisper, so Beetee doesn't hear me. He has his back to me anyway, and he's focused on cauterizing something. I see no reason to rush him. He might get irritated with me, if he isn't already.

Beetee's inventing room is in the same place on his floor that my library is on mine. Instead of a chaise and relaxed lighting, there are tables piled high with papers and scraps of invention all over. The place has no organization to speak of. There is one shelf that follows along the three walls opposite the door, stacked with tech books, science guides, and other tomes. I don't read Beetee's books, though I imagine he'd let me if I asked him. Maybe I will someday, but as long as I have a near-unlimited supply of my own, there's no reason to invade his private spaces.

This is the first time I've ever been apprehensive about talking to Beetee. Mom did say he wasn't upset with me, but I still feel hesitation holding fast to my core.

At first, I think I should wait until he turns around and sees me, but after about five minutes it occurs to me that Beetee may be too engrossed in his work that he may not even look up or take a break for several hours.

"Beetee?" I call, louder this time.

He finally pauses. He has to know it's me, but he takes a second to turn around.

Beetee is a gentleman at heart, at least I think so. He always asks before touching or hugging me beyond holding my hand or putting an arm around my shoulders. So it takes me by surprise when he drops the coil he's holding and walks up to me, scooping me into his arms without warning. I can feel his chin on my shoulder. There's a security to his tight embrace. I wrap my arms around him in return.

At least he isn't upset with me.

"Thank heavens you're safe," he whispers into my ear before releasing his grip of me. He takes both of my hands in his. "What happened? Did I do something to make you-?"

I quickly shake my head. "I was already upset, and not with you."

He doesn't know about Edison's violent words? How he wishes I had died instead of killed, even if it wasn't on purpose?

"You could've been hurt…I don't know what I would have done if you were," Beetee continued. "I went out looking with your father and brother, and when Edison came back holding you up like a scarecrow—"

"—no one drugged me. I did it myself," I admit. Beetee nods.

"I thought so."

I wait a moment, gesturing for him to continue.

"What else do you want me to say? That I don't approve?" he suggests.

"You do approve?"

Beetee shrugs. "I couldn't say off-hand, to be honest."

Before we continue the conversation, Beetee makes tea for us, which we sip in the living room quietly for a moment before I tell Beetee about Edison, the Canna bar, and how much I want this whole thing to go away.

"It's an extremely complicated situation, Wire. True, Edison has no idea what it's like being in the Games, but that doesn't de-legitimize his feelings," he reasons.

"So I was wrong?"

"Not at all," he continues. "Edison is on the same level as we are, in a way. He's just taking it to a very negative place. We're trying to make the best of an inescapable nightmare, but he's choosing to take it for what it is—a nightmare."

"And the morphling…"

"…there are at least fifteen Victors I know of who self-medicate with morphling or alcohol," Beetee adds. "It's actually astounding how you were able to fight off the temptation to use it."

"But I took Canna instead. In fact…" I pull out the several cigarettes I had kept from last night.

Beetee's lips twist as he thinks of what to reply with.

"I'll be honest, I wouldn't use it myself, but I have my own reasons. I'm not your father, Wire. My opinion really doesn't matter here. I would only ask a favor if you wanted to continue to use it."

"And what is that?"

Beetee looks me in the eye. "Don't use it alone. Let me know when you want to and I'll watch out for you. I'm afraid if you have a bad experience and you are by yourself, you might come to harm."

"I liked how it felt," I confess. "I actually forgot for a minute who I am and where I am."

"Think of it this way: how do you heal a broken leg? Pretend it doesn't exist and take painkillers? Or actively work on fixing it with help?"

Beetee has a way with metaphors. He should be the poet, not me.

"I see," I mumble.

"I will support you no matter what decision you make, but if you want to take this up as a coping mechanism, I want to protect you from any adverse effects," Beetee insists.

"Beetee, we're close, aren't we?"

He smiles warmly and takes my hand. "I've never been closer to anyone."

"And we're in this together until the end, right?"

"Always."

"What if the end is…when we die?" I ask, unsure of where this is coming from. In this moment, I feel safe coming out with everything. I scooch over and lean my head on his. I can feel his hand softly stroking my hair as I vent. "The Tour is over, but summer will be here soon. We have to go back. And we have to go back every year."

"Not necessarily," Beetee counters. "If a District has more than two Victors, the most recent winners go to Mentor the Tributes. This year, if we produce another winner, you won't have to go back if you don't want to."

I know how unlikely this is. The only Districts to ever produce back-to-back Victors are Two and Four. Even One hasn't accomplished this yet, so how could a non-Career District do it?

"But going back this year is unavoidable, especially for you, I'm afraid," Beetee reminds me.

Indeed. The previous year's Victor always gets a lot of attention and interviews going into the new Games. It's like passing a torch. I will also be given a place of honor on the Presidential stage during the Tribute's parade, the last time I will wear the Victory diadem.

"Beetee, how can I survive? I can't even speak in public, and they won't let you onto Dionysius Flickerman's show to be my voice this time."

Beetee looks from me to the Canna on the table, and then back to me.

"You know, maybe we can use these after all," he muses.

"How? If I smoke these before going out there I'll just sound like a fool," I say, sadly.

He shakes his head. "My specialty is inventing technology, but I have dabbled in chemistry as well on occasion. I know some basics. If I can find a way to extract some of the ingredients in Canna that relaxes the mind without altering it's function, maybe we could make a tincture that will help you."

"How?"

"Chemistry is a fascinating field," Beetee says, taking one of the Canna cigarettes in his hand and fiddling with it. "Two gases can come together to make a liquid. Two poisons can combine to make a medicine. Put the most flammable materials into a mixture and it becomes stable enough to eat. Extracting one element from a molecule turns that molecule into an entirely different thing, with different properties. If I do some research with these, I may be able to find a way to make something safer that can still be useful to us."

I ask, "Do you know much about it?"

"I can research the parts I don't know. I am familiar with some of the history behind it. In the Americana Era they fought over the right to use it. They knew it had medicinal properties and identified the compounds that gave it the characteristics it had. Some places kept it illegal. Others sold it like bottles of wine. When America fell apart, most places had made it legal, and those who survived the downfall of America used it to the point of near-extinction to cope with the fear of the unknown futures they had. That's when they made Canna. Canna is a half-plant, half-synthetic combination that retains most of its original effects...only amplified by several times. The plant it derives from was relatively harmless when used. A user would feel what you felt, only less so. Now, with the added and altered compounds, it's become a bit more dangerous, as well as habit-forming…but I would still consider it less hazardous than morphling and alcohol."

"I'll help you in any way I can," I say, feeling a smile cross my face. I don't know much about chemistry, but with Beetee's encouragement I'll do anything. Maybe this is a way to get my words back! Get me to the way I used to be, where I wasn't afraid to talk to people.

"We'll work together, Wire. This is our time."

I look at Beetee, and all I see is warm affection on his face. Something in me stirs, and it occurs to me that in that moment I am so thankful for him that I want to kiss him.

But before I can do more than begin to lean in to Beetee's face, a furious knock at the door interrupts the moment.

"I'll get it," he offers, getting up and going to the door. Whatever is going on must be serious, because the knocking doesn't let up. I get to my feet and follow Beetee to the door.

Beetee opens the door. "Dr. Ohmstead? What is it?"

Daddy is in the doorway. He looks at me. His face is drained of any color.

"Edison is being taken to the hospital. He's overdosed on morphling."