.

—-—-—

wrath

—-—-—

I'm just inside the doors to the main gym, gently stretching my hamstrings with the tip of my shoe along the entry wall, when Jasira dies.

It catches all of us off guard. If I'd known Jasira was even in a fight I'd have been out in the foyer with my eyes on the screen like the two of them who see it live, session be damned. Because we work around the Games, not the other way around. The actions and outcomes of the Games shape our training days.

That seems true today more than ever.

"No," he grumbles. I hear him through the doors, but it's not clear at first as to what he's referring to. "No. Monroe— watch your fucking back, how many times—"

Silence. Then a low scream, warped and digital and violent.

I don't even have time to take my foot off the wall.

"You're fucking kidding me." Akello's voice is void of emotion, but laced with stark disbelief. "You are actually—fuck!"

His shout is loud enough to draw the attention of most of the gym, the majority of the thirteens through sixteens who've arrived early for sessions. There's a collective hushing of conversation, playful chatter cutting off like a lifeline.

A cannon booms, distorted and distant.

"Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable." Beside me, a few of the fifteens push back into the foyer to see what's happened, but I keep my distance, knowing he doesn't need another reason to antagonize me. "She's with her allies. She's in no fucking danger. Turns away for a goddamn second—"

"Who got her?" This must come from one of the fifteens.

"Who do you think? The Ones, the fucking Ones, but it means fuck-all who got her, it's her fault for letting them fall behind her because she just had to be the one to finish off Seven. That's it!" He laughs, the sound empty and stoid. "That's it. Get the fuck in the gym, Vail. Games are over, aren't they? What the hell are you still watching for?"

Martina shuffles quickly into the gym and past me, hurrying to put her bag down.

"What happened?" I ask, hushed even as conversation starts to pick back up around us. "Did she…"

Her eyes are still pressed open, wide with shock. "Sorry. They—" She swallows. "Seven came out of nowhere. She stepped up to attack him and—Evianna put her sword through her."

"What?"

"That's all I saw."

But the others are flocking to her now, Cas and Pike and Elissa, and she can't evade the unwanted attention. "Who died?"

"Jas," she breathes, after a moment of hesitation.

"Jas?"

"How? Who—"

"One. Evianna."

"But there weren't even any signs of a breakup, they would have made us watch—"

"I know," she says, and I can't tell if she's still anxious or just exasperated at this point. "It happened so fast. They were hunting, Seven came out of nowhere—"

"Fucking Seven got her?"

"I literally just said One, Pike," Martina snaps. "Evianna put her sword in her back as soon as she stepped in front of her."

"Then what does Seven have to do with it?"

"She was going for Seven. That's why she stepped up."

"What the fuck?"

"Wait." Avari's here now, half out of breath, either from the rush to make it into the gym on time or due to sheer anticipation. "What happened?"

"Jas fucking died," says Pike. "Not even top eight."

Her jaw drops. "Just now?"

"Not two minutes ago."

"What? How?"

Martina has had enough. "If I have to repeat this one more fucking time, I'm going to put a sword through my esophagus. Ask Akello if you want to know so bad."

Slim chance. Akello's mood when he stalks into the gym makes his usual attitude seem warm and chipper by comparison. I don't even have time to worry that he might cancel our session based on what's just happened because he's barking at us to stop fucking gossiping and start the warmup.

"Jas?" Avari says to me as we start running.

I shake my head. "I don't— I don't know how."

We're careful to be silent as we circle past Akello, but evidently, the no-gossiping order only applies to us. Akello stands to the side as we finish our five laps around the gym, talking audibly into the device in his hand— the sort of hand-held phone only the higher-ups in the Atheneum are privy to. "What the fuck do we do with this?" he's saying. "Our strongest class of girls since Easton's and this is the placing we get."

There's something unintelligible, at least at my distance as we line up beside him, from the other speaker. Valerius, if I were to guess— he's in the Capitol nearly every year, and if there's one person Akello's bound to want to talk to at a time like this, it's him.

"Absolutely," Akello says in response. "Because there is not a single girl in that class I'd trust to even crack top six. Flavia's too erratic. Cavara… not a chance."

Another grumbling reply. I walk my hands out, feeling a good stretch but no pinch, thankfully, coaxing warmth from the momentary tension in my shoulders, my hamstrings, my low back. Jasira can't be dead. She stood a better chance than that. It'd take more than a freak accident—

"—But then that throws off the entirety of that training plan. How do we make up everything Easton's supposed to teach her next year? Who's going to be running her extra sessions she's going to have to be doing on top of everything else?" There's a pause as he listens, then he scoffs. "It's not about fairness. It's about who our best shot is. Right now, if I'm selecting from those ten, I see nine top-tenners and maybe, if we're lucky, a top-six. I don't like taking that risk. I like nominating someone who's a clear finalist, a safe choice."

Lunges, now. I lean forward into my front quad and hip, relaxing as I remember I can trust my back. On my right, Avari is carefully stretching, but she's conscious of Akello's words, too, even over the din of other classes running their own exercises on the other side of the gym.

"See, I disagree entirely. That shit that just happened to Jasira would have happened to her on day one. I've spent the last two years trying to fix her and unless you pull some miracle with her, Cavara's just a downward spiral waiting to happen." He pauses, chatter coming in from the other end. "Yeah. Just an entire contingent of lost causes. If we're being honest, I just need one of those boys to pull through. It makes no difference to me which one of the girls dies in that arena next year."

A shiver runs through me. Avari tenses, too. "Is he serious?" she mouths.

"He's just frustrated…" I muse, attempting to justify his words. "He doesn't—"

"Caverley, shut your fucking mouth," Akello snaps. I don't dare turn, just put my head down as my face warms. "Valerius, I've got my session. We'll talk tonight."

Shut your fucking mouth. It reverberates in my head, a continuous string of echoes being volleyed between canyon cliffs. When our physical warm-up is complete, I'm still reeling, self-conscious and hesitant to place myself somewhere where Akello will find a reason to pick on me. I pair off with Khione, letting Cas and Avari partner, knowing Akello won't pay as much mind to Khione as Cas. Khione's movements are more awkward, more readily avoidable; I find the basic sparring almost mindless, therapeutic were it not for the guilt gnawing away at the back of my mind. Akello thinks I'm disruptive. He thinks I don't take this seriously. He thinks—

"Isunza." Khione freezes. "Switch with Arella. She needs an easier target."

Emory shuffles over to our mat as Khione takes her place across from Aziel. She looks me up and down, sizing up my threat to her. She hasn't seen me fight in weeks. But I've seen her struggle against Petra, against the girls that placed even lower than me.

He thinks I'm not good enough.

I grip my sword handle, my palms slick against the plastic material. But not from nerves— I'm feverish with frustration. Akello thinks so little of me and I'd think more of it now if he didn't feel the same way about Cavara, who's objectively a powerhouse— I've watched her sling knives from afar, throw herself at cadets fifty pounds heavier than her with a fearlessness I couldn't muster up if I tried. And I know her from the med room. She's tough. She's hungry. She wants this more than anything. If she's not good enough… who is?

Emory shifts between her feet. "So, are you ready—"

She takes my first swing right in the stomach. She skitters backwards but I keep approaching. She just blocks my second swing. My third cracks against her ribs and she buckles.

"Wait— restart," she says, breathing quickly. "Wasn't ready."

Be ready next time, I want to say. Instead I let her reset and slick her loose hairs back against her ponytail.

"Okay. Now," she says.

She still doesn't stop me. This time I jab sharply towards her chin and she recoils reflexively, desperate to protect her face. It's even easier this time to knock her down— one sharp stab towards her chest and she's effectively out of commission. Every time a theoretical killing blow is dealt, we're meant to reset. It's almost comical, then, how frequently Emory has to get to her feet again, progressively more fatigued and red in the face. Almost, except none of this is funny to me.

She doesn't deserve the assault Akello launches on her, either. That's as sobering as anything else.

I can tell it's coming the instant he looks over. I shouldn't be watching for him, but he's always on my radar, a constant threat; self-preservation requires I know where he is at all times. My blade, dull as it is, pierces against her throat. There's no cut, but she gasps with the shock.

"It's like you legitimately want to fucking die, Arella."

She gnaws at her lip, drawing a gentle fingertip along her throat and examining it for blood.

"You're not bleeding. Quit being a fucking pussy." Akello steps closer, arms crossed. His eyes are on me, though, as Emory shakes out the tension in her hands. I feel him like a searing breath on my back, a constant, suffocating sensation.

I resent the fear that grips me at his mere presence. I hate how weak I feel. Not just because of him. But because Jasira was here once, in my very position. In the end, she was weak, too.

Tears prickle in the creases of my eyes. I let Emory take the first strike, only to parry her easily. I'm out of practice but she's too slow, too exaggerated with her movements. I block her again, her blade jarring against mine and leaving her off-balance. My next shot catches air as she dodges backwards and I pursue, forcing her further, further back—

"You're actually letting Caverley push you around?"

"I made a mistake—"

"Fix it. Reset."

I glance at his nose, keeping away from his eyes. "But I—"

"Reset."

I bite my tongue and backtrack, allowing Emory the space to regroup. How many times do I have to repeat this for him to see that I'm worth something? But again, I give her the advantage, refuse to strike until she tries first. And again, she makes the same, predictable mistake.

"Again."

And again, I beat Emory, even as tears, grief and frustration and helplessness in liquid manifestation, swell in my vision. I don't need clear eyes to best her, just basic attention to technique, contextual signs, knowledge that Emory will make the same mistake again and again and it will never, ever be my skill that defeats her, only her poor judgment, in Akello's eyes.

"Go again."

"Akello—"

"I don't want to fucking hear it, Caverley."

I know. I know he just wants her to correct her repeated mistake. But underneath that is a refusal to let me see any success. My victory is as much of a loss to Akello as it is to Emory.

"We're not switching drills until you beat her, Arella."

Is it toughness, stubbornness, or foolishness that lends itself to my refusal to simply give up, to let Emory beat me with a single shot so Akello will go away? Even when Emory shifts her strategy, I don't shut down, even as tears soften my cheeks, sobs catch in my throat, and I choke out strained breaths amidst every burning motion. My legs strain with fatigue as we repeat, repeat, repeat, Akello all but screaming at Emory until, finally, he can't take it.

"Give me your weapon. For fuck's sake."

Panting, sweat trickling down from her forehead, Emory offers Akello her sword.

"Not you. Caverley."

I can't afford to question him. I'm not allowed. Any moment of hesitation is insubordination and I reach my sword to him, allowing him to tear it from my grasp. I stand before Emory, entirely defenseless but for fists formed by fingers that are too frail, wrists that are stiff but still fragile, hands that are entirely bare.

Fear rushes through me before it's overwhelmed by the sharp sting of stark humiliation.

Akello's order was simple, but the undertone is evident: I don't deserve to be able to defend myself against Emory. He'd rather see me fail than see Emory beat me by her own merit, even if it is just a simple sparring drill. This was never supposed to be competitive. But for Akello, it had to be.

Emory swings. I catch the brunt of her force with my palms. Even dulled, the contact stings on impact and I curl my hands reflexively. She swings and knocks my hand back, again, again. This is five, ten minutes of embarrassment expressing itself in retaliating strikes and I feel my skin bruising, blow by blow. She swings for my skull and I raise my elbows, desperate to protect my face. With my hands up, she aims a crack into my diaphragm.

I fold as if crumbling. I gasp for air, but breathing is suddenly impossible.

Emory's next strike hits the same place and I groan, a low, unconscious, animalistic sound that swells out from the point of contact and forces itself between my lips.

Again. Again. She doesn't stop until I'm on the ground, curled around myself.

"What the fuck was that?"

I can't breathe. I still can't breathe.

"I'm talking to you."

I force my head up. Akello stands directly above me. Emory retreats, breathing heavily, out of my periphery, her form cloudy through the tears in my eyes.

I can't speak. I try forcing air into my lungs but the most I can manage is a feeble wheezing. I can't even muster the strength to fight back against the sobbing that bubbles now within my chest.

"Answer me."

I open my mouth. No sound, just another choking gasp as I try, impossibly, to cry and breathe at the same time.

"Get up. Get the fuck up." He digs his nails into my wrist as he yanks me up and to my feet. I buckle, still fighting for breath. "Stand up!"

I whimper as he forces me upright. He doesn't let go of me.

"Fourteens!" he bellows. His voice booms in my ear, in my head. "Weapons away and get started on takedowns with your ranking partner. With me," he says, lower now.

Akello pulls me sideways and across the gym. I don't dare lift my head until we're out of the others' sights, in the stairwell up towards the administrative part of the building. His feet clatter on the stairs and echo across the concrete walls until we come into the deserted upper hall, moving quickly past offices I've never seen. He pushes me forwards towards one door and unlocks it with a clattering of keys.

He shoves the door open. "In. Let's go."

I stumble inside and he finally lets go of my wrist. I force air back into my chest, my head swimming with the effort of being pushed forwards on empty lungs. The lights flicker on to reveal a tight, minimalist office. When the door shuts behind us, I feel trapped.

There's a chair at the front of his desk. But I don't dare sit, not unless he gives me the go-ahead. My position is precarious as is.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't kick you out right here and now."

…Not that precarious.

My mouth tastes rubbery and dry. If I've finally recovered my breath, it's frozen in my chest now. "…What?"

"Obviously, I can remove you from this academy at any point I want. Why not now?"

It feels like time freezes, my entire past and future hanging in the balance of this single, static moment. Tears burn in my eyes, fresh and violent. "What did I do?"

"If you don't know, that's exactly the problem. You can't— you don't get it, Caverley. You're a liability. Frankly, you're wasting my time and my energy. I said it last month and nothing has changed. You're—" He shakes his head. "You gave up. You let Emory beat you into the floor—"

"I couldn't breathe—"

"Let me speak!"

A sob crumbles in the back of my throat.

"You let Emory beat you into the floor, acted entirely defenseless when you should have stayed on the offensive, used your hands against her. She's not good enough to be that overpowering. Even with a weapon."

You set me up to lose… and it's still my fault.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. It's all I can say.

"You're not built for this, Caverley. You work decently hard but you're just barely on that top-twenty cutoff. Even if I had room in my schedule to give you extra help, which I don't have, that's not going to be enough. You need a whole mentality shift. Nobody can teach that. It has to be innate."

"What mentality shift?"

"You need to want to kill," he says. "More than anything, you need to be hungry for blood. Unafraid of consequence. Prepared to murder with no hesitation. I don't see you ever being that way."

"I can—"

"You are not built that way," he continues. "You treat training like a hobby. This is not a fucking hobby. This is my livelihood, our entire culture. I have no doubt you admire it, but I don't believe you embody it."

But this isn't just a hobby to me, even if he can't see it.

I need to be here. I need this more than I've ever needed anything.

"I will," I plead. "Please. I'll do anything. I want this. I want to fight for Two. It means everything to me to be able to train here, to learn. It's— it's all I have."

That realization strikes the second the words leave my tongue. This is everything to me not simply due to choice, but because I don't have anything else I'm passionate towards. Who am I without it?

"I need another chance," I whisper.

"I can't afford to take any more chances," he says. "Not after this year. Not after what just happened with Jasira— I can't waste any more energy on lost causes." Am I really a lost cause? "But—" He folds his hands together, fingers tightly interwoven in front of him. In his own office, in his own seat at his own desk, he has all the power, and he knows it. "I only have to deal with you for one more day. Then you're Kova's problem. So I—I'm inclined to be benevolent, just this once… provided one condition."

My stomach drops. He could make any offer and I'd probably be desperate enough to take it: laps around the building until I puke, another beating at the hands of any one of my classmates— the possibilities are endless. Fear seeps down into my toes and fingertips, icy and electric.

"We lost both our kids this year, Caverley. Not only that, but before final eight. That's absolutely unacceptable. I don't care about odds, because we're above that, see? But at this rate, One will be taking a victor from us two years in a row. I need a victor next year. I need a victor."

I can only nod.

"Here's the deal. Ready? We get a victor next year, you stick around. Our kids both die, you're gone."

I never expected it to be so out of my control, though. My jaw goes slack.

"If we get a winner next year," he repeats, "then maybe I can afford to take on another charity case. But only if we get a victor."

"Akello—"

"Or would you rather I got rid of you now? Sent you packing now?"

"No," I say quickly. "No, of course not—"

"That's what I thought." He watches me, his eyes cold and narrowed. "So there's your chance. Keep training. Just hope those guys have their heads screwed on straight. Because none of those girls have it in them, and that's certain."

I stand, stunned, for another minute before I realize he has nothing more to say.

"Thank you," I muster, even if I don't feel as gracious as I should.

He hardly acknowledges it, regardless. "Back downstairs, then. And don't make me regret it."

I all but run from the room, keeping as far ahead of Akello as I can as we descend back downstairs and towards the gym. All the while, my eyes sting with tears I'm still fighting back.

Stop fucking crying, I order myself. He did you a favor.

Then why do I feel so helpless, as I line back up with Emory to continue the drills they've been practicing in our absence? I get to stay. I get to keep working. Isn't that all I want?

No, I let myself realize when we finally break to get water. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve before Cas or Avari can see, even though they've been watching me questioningly since I've come back. Because as much as I love the work, the challenge, the mental and physical strain day in and day out… there's meant to be a purpose for it.

I don't do this for friends, for exercise, for whatever purpose Dad would rather see me here for— keeping me out of trouble, essentially. I'm here because I want to represent Two in the Hunger Games. And now that possibility rides entirely on whichever two individuals we select next year to fight against the rest of the country.

It's better than nothing, I assure myself.

But is it? Are we really as hopeless next year as Akello seems to think? If he's right about Cavara… then maybe we are.

In that case, I'm hanging on by the most fragile of threads.

"What did he say?" Cas says, his voice hushed so Akello won't pick it up amongst the background noise of the gym.

I just shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it."

I don't know how to handle the news, though. I can't tell Cas or Avari or Khione, anyone who's safely getting into fifteens without the pressure of external factors or the wrath of Akello hanging over them. For the remaining ninety minutes, I feel completely at the mercy of my emotions, but the workouts offer no release. I need help, I keep thinking, as I jab spears at a rotating array of partners. I need help. I need help. I need help.

I'm out of the gym as soon as our session lets out. I'd typically go to the locker room before getting ice, but I don't want any of the others to see me for any longer than they have to, let alone try to ask what happened. Because sooner or later, I'll crack.

As bad as holding on hurts, telling them the truth of what Akello said to me is far worse.

"Let me guess—" Rhodes says, as I enter the nearly-empty training room. "The usual?"

I'm not in the mood, but he doesn't deserve my bad mood. "Please. On the rocks."

"You know, the more you make that joke, the funnier it gets," Cavara says. "Also, if there's any chance this time you're actually offering alcohol, she's underage and I deserve it more anyways."

"I wish," he says. "We're actually all out. Literally all we have are the rocks."

"I'll take anything I can get," I say.

I lay out on the bench as he rests the ice on my lower back and fold my arms under my head, turning away in case I start to cry again. But while my eyes still burn and my head drums with a dull, empty headache, I have no more tears to give.

At least, until Cavara leaves, saying her goodbye with a tickle of the bottom of my foot as she goes by. Then it's just me, Rhodes, and Aspra again. In their presence, my sorrow overwhelms me. My shoulders shudder as I try to choke back my tears, but sobs shake my body.

It'd be easier if they ignored me. That much, for better or for worse, I'm used to. But they don't.

"Scout," Rhodes says. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Doesn't— doesn't matter."

"If it bothers you, of course it matters."

I turn my head the other way, facing him now. Aspra's watching, too, and I'm suddenly so much more embarrassed. At least it's only the two of them. "I…"

I don't want to tell them, though. It's my burden to bear. As hopeless as I feel, I want to handle it on my own.

But I can't. Not two hours after the fact and I'm already crumbling. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I— I'm not doing well." A half-lie is still better than nothing. "I'm… I'm ranked really low in my class. Akello says I don't have a chance, but I need this, I need this— I need to be here." My voice isn't just cracking, it's shattering. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just— I need help."

"What kind?" Rhodes asks. Aspra remains silent, ever-attentive; her eyes pierce mine, but without that same coldness I've come to expect from Nell, Akello, anyone who looks me hard in the eyes.

I take a deep breath, my lungs still tight and tense. "With training. Akello said I needed more training. And— this is so out of the blue, I'm sorry, but I know you work with the twelves and I think you said you weren't super busy and you're the only person I've asked but I know you know how training works. You've been through this before. And I know you don't know me. But I— I just thought I'd ask."

I already regret it the second the words leave my lips, but they're impossible to stop.

Rhodes looks thoughtful. "You want me to help train you?"

"Yes," I say. Even though I know he won't, that he's too busy, or worse, he also sees that I'm worthless, just like Akello has always said. You hear the same words enough times, you have no chance but to believe them. He frowns and I know to backtrack quickly. "But I understand if you can't."

"No, I'm—I'm flattered," he says. "Actually. I—" He shakes his head, seeming…. surprised? "Obviously we need to talk about what it entails and everything, but… yeah."

"Wait, really?"

"Yes," he says.

I pause, not quite believing it, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Really?"

"Yes." He smiles. "Anything in particular you're wanting to work on?"

I give a soft scoff. "Um. Everything."

"I think you already give me too much credit," he says. "But—yes. Okay. How about we meet next week—Tuesday, maybe? After your session? And we can figure out a time and a sort of plan and— and go from there. Does that work?"

Tears swell in my eyes again. I try to clear my throat, but I'm still congested. "Yeah. Yes."

"Then we're doing this," he says.

And just because I'm pathetic, I sob again. "Thank you," I say. "Thank you."

"Hey, don't thank me yet. I'm actually brutal. Get ready for actual hell."

"Rhodes."

"Oh, done pretending to ignore us again, Aspra?"

She turns away, but I see her crack a smile. "Hush."

He raises his eyebrows at me, a smirk creeping across his lips. "And that's how I know she loves me."

"Of course, I do," she says.

His jaw actually drops, his eyes widening at me. "Did she just—"

"Don't ruin it."

"Yes, ma'am." He composes himself. "No, we'll figure out a good routine. And seriously… don't worry about it. I'm excited."

"Take that ice off," Aspra says from her desk. "You forgot the timer again, Rhodes."

"Oh, shit."

He extracts the ice from my back, and as I feel warmth return to my low back, the sadness that gripped me so tightly just a half-hour ago still has me in its clutches. But it's looser now. I'm still at the mercy of Akello and Valerius and whoever they select to represent us, but I'm in control of my skill.

I can be better. And I know how I'll get there.

I just hope it's enough.

I should have known my relief wouldn't last.

I should have realized it the instant I heard the TV on when I came home. But I kept my hopes up anyway.

That's what I get, I guess.

A glimpse at the screen shows me all I need to know. Evianna, plunging her blade into Jasira's back. Jasira, screaming, falling. Evianna draws her blade out and sends it sharply into the back of her neck.

That's when Jasira dies. It's that quick.

"You're late," my father says.

Like you know what time I normally get home. Mom definitely tattled. "I was getting treatment."

"For two hours?"

Not entirely. I hid in the training room as long as Aspra would allow me to, then once I knew the locker room was empty, I cried my stupid face off until I knew I wouldn't shatter the second I got home. "Yeah. We had some logistical stuff to go over, too. Sorry."

He frowns. "You have a curfew for a reason."

"I know."

"I want you to be safe."

"I know, you do."

He watches the screen. Evidently we're replaying Jasira's death in all its gruesome detail now— slow-motion, from all angles, just to add insult to injury. Her brutalized cries make me wince, but I've run my tears dry.

"Tough way to go," he says, finally.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Yeah. She deserved better."

And then my mother says, "Guess the Capitol was right."

I don't think she's trying to make a targeted comment, but it rubs me the wrong way. After the day I've had, the abuse I've weathered at Akello's hands, my patience is low. "It was a freak occurrence."

"She turned her back," my mother says.

"And?" I say, my face and eyes burning. "She was still better than that. She should have lasted longer."

"But she didn't," she sighs.

"She should have."

"It doesn't matter," my father says.

"I'm just trying to say— she did everything that was expected of her. She shouldn't have died. And just because she did, it doesn't mean we aren't still the strongest tributes in the Games. Just had a rough year."

"Scout."

"What?" I ask, realizing too late how strong my tone is. I correct myself. "What?"

"I don't want to have this argument again."

"It doesn't have to be an argument. I'm just saying—"

"Let it go."

My fingers curl in frustration. "Mom—"

"Enough," she hisses. "You're home late enough. Don't make it worse."

"I was at training."

"And what were they teaching today?" she says, fully annoyed now. "How to die before interviews?"

Any reply I had planned fizzles out on my tongue. I stand, entirely at a loss for words, for the second time today.

"That's enough, Tasia," my father says.

"Maybe they were," I finally say. "At least I'm probably not good enough to get that far, anyway. Or maybe, I am. Like you'd know."

"Scout."

I laugh drily. "There is no way that's worse than what you just said to me. But regardless, I'm done. You win. I'm going to bed. I've had the worst day of my life and if I stay up, I'm just asking for trouble."

I'm hungry, honestly. Famished. But I'm not staying out here any longer, not even to pull a bowl of tasteless, probably-cold leftovers off the counter that I can eat alone in my room. Anything my mother's given me, I don't want.

I tug my bag back on my shoulder and rush upstairs, not stopping until I'm locked in my room with the door slammed shut behind me.

I don't cry again. I'm determined not to. Tears are weakness. I will not be weak.

Instead, I strip out of my sweaty, soiled workout gear and crawl into bed, tugging the covers around me. I don't care that my sheets will smell. I don't care about anything but training. Not anymore.

I glare up at the ceiling, letting the noises from downstairs abate until finally, I'm left in silence. Neither of my parents come up to check on me. And for once, I'm grateful.

In the silence, the simplicity of the soundless, chilling dark, one truth becomes clear: This is all I have.

I almost laugh at how pathetic it sounds. How truly, utterly screwed over I am if our training program fails another year in a row. But it's the truth. We need a victor, now more than ever. I need a victor.

If our chances are as bad as Akello says they are, though, I might just have to pray that the odds are on our side.

But I'll be honest— I'm not feeling so favored these days.

agreatleap. weebly .com

Oops. Sorry, Scout. Had to do it for your development, though.

Thus concludes Part I of AGL! Yes, already. I'll be taking at least a week off from updating between parts both to fix up my outline and make sure I'm properly keeping track of things, but hopefully this leaves y'all with enough questions to get you excited for Part II. Any and all predictions, thoughts, memes, Akello hate mail, I would love to hear!

Thanks again to everyone who's helped me out with plot ideas, offered edits, or simply allowed me to send them bits of this chapter as I screamed internally about the pain I caused Scout. Thank you for easing my burden lmfao.

Love y'all lots! Stay safe and see you soon.