"Anything For You"

A/N: Wow this was late. Sorry lol, writer's block on intros was really something else. Shoutout to Spr*nto for breaking the slump and getting me to write the last 5k words of this in one night. After this we get into the intros that have 2 POV characters, so while I want to say I'll 100% be ready with D2 by two weeks from now, best I can say is I'll do my best lol. In the meantime, enjoy Kyler Valde's intro.

~And I feel so all alone

No one's gonna fix me when I'm broke~

Kyler Valde, 18
Six Years Ago.

"—Settle down, build a home, and make you happy? Settle down, build a home, and make you happy?"

The world goes quiet as her voice trails off, her fingers sliding against the guitar strings as they hum off their last note, the sound echoing against the concrete walls before making way for silence.

Amara sets the guitar down. Quietly, she continues to hum the song, even as she tip-toes away from where I'm lying down on the couch. I'm facing the concrete, my eyes wide open as they attempt to peer through the small hole in the wall that gives a view of outside. The sky is dark, though, and there's nothing to see but black.

It's been two days now. Last night we slept on the street, huddled together in a secluded alleyway, using one of my baggy sweatshirts as a blanket to fend off the biting cold. We found this apartment abandoned, in the part of the district our parents had never let us visit before. There's no windows, just that small hole in the four concrete walls that box in the single room. The crummy couch I'm laying on is the only piece of furniture, and it's torn to pieces and hardly more comfortable than the wood floor looks. There's a few cupboards and a table, and that's where I hear Amara now, scribbling pen on paper as she continues to hum.

"I don't like it here," I say abruptly, giving up on pretending to be asleep.

Amara sighs, and I hear her setting down her pen. "I don't either, Kyler."

"I thought things would be better," I mutter.

"They will be," she says quietly. I turn over to face her as she crouches down next to the couch. My twin sister smiles as she runs a hand through my hair, brushing the tangled mess out of my eyes. "Just you wait. They will be."

That's what she said when we left. She told me that life could be better. That we could go somewhere where nobody will hurt us or try to tell us who we can be. When I was too scared to go, she took me and promised me that it would be better if we left. So far all that we've had since we left is empty bellies, dry throats, and cold, uncomfortable nights.

"Hey," she says, squeezing my hand and snapping me out of my bitter thoughts. "We have each other, and that's what counts, right?"

"We had each other back home too," I say weakly.

Her smile drops, and she lets go of my hand. "Someday you'll understand," she says quietly, seemingly more to herself than me.

She stands up and moves to turn away. I quickly sit up and scoot to one end of the couch, making room for her. "Can you sing one more song?" I ask.

Amara stops, then turns around, fighting a smile as she sighs tiredly. "I could sing the song I was just working on. It isn't finished yet, though."

I nod my head, and she makes for her guitar. When I was little I used to be jealous of Amara, the way everything came so easy to her. While I struggled with every little thing, she flew far above what anyone else seemed capable of. The words on the paper are just meaningless scribbles to me, but when I can hear them aloud, something in my brain just seems to click into place. The times that she's singing are the only times that the world seems calm.

She sits down next to me, letting out a loud yawn as she does so. She leans back into the side of the couch, and I pull up my legs to sit cross-legged, making as much room for her to lie down as I can. Amara is barely even sitting, her head barely propped up, but she's holding onto the guitar and has that determined look in her eyes she always gets.

"What's this one called?" I ask.

She gives the guitar a few strums and shrugs. "I'm not sure, it isn't finished yet."

"Well what's it about?" I try.

She smiles and gives a soft laugh. "You gotta figure that out yourself."

Before I can ask anything more, she begins to play. Her fingers move on their own accord, flicking across the strings as she strums a steady beat. The words spill out from her, a lilt in her voice as she speeds through the verses, less singing and more telling a story.

My ancestors planted some sequoias by a road,

I've driven down that road since I was born.

Oh, never have you ever seen so many perfect evergreens.

But I would chop them all down just for you.

There's a carefree smile as she loses herself in the music, and the smile spreads to me. I focus on the words, trying to understand them. Trying to remember them.

I have walked a million miles in a hundred pairs of shoes

In search of some universal truth

Well a deity just came to me and handed me a scroll to read

And I will gladly pass it on to you.

She glances up at me, not even having to look down at the guitar as her fingers glide across the notes with ease.

Anything for you

All of this is true

But the best story that I could ever tell

Is the one that I am gonna tell with you

Amara props herself up, matching my cross-legged position. She's fully into the music now, making facial expressions and motioning with her elbows and head, swaying back and forth gently as she continues to strum the rhythm.

My scar is from a polar bear, my curse is from a witch,

I've caught a giant squid in all the seven seas.

I've picked up rocks from distant moons astronomers will discover soon

But I would give them all back just for you.

I've gotten drunk and shot the breeze with kings of far off lands

They showed me wealth as far as I could see.

But their kingdoms seemed all shrivelly and they cried with jealousy

When I leaned in and told them about you.

She stops singing for a bit, still playing the guitar but seeming lost in thought. Her eyes are locked on me, but she seems to be staring right through me. Before I can stop to wonder what's going on, she looks down at the guitar and her voice picks back up, no longer boisterous and braggadocios, but instead quiet and gentle.

I'd give up anything

(Anything for you)

I'd give it all

(All of this is true)

But the best story that I could ever tell

Is the one that I am gonna tell with you

All I've ever wanted, see, was to tell you honestly

I'd do anything for you.

I'd do absolutely anything for you.

Her smile fades away as she looks down at her hands. The strings continue to vibrate off that final high note for a prolonged moment. She seems deep in thought for a long moment as she runs her hand along the body of the guitar.

"We'll make it through, Kyler," she says, and her voice trails off until the echo of that last note fades away and the room is silent again.

~.~.~.~.~

The familiar chords strum off the old guitar. Nearly six years later, and the notes still echo off of the crumbling walls. I will the words to spill out, but only the notes and a muted hum will escape. The words are trapped, lost.

I want to sing, like Amara could. For words to just come pouring out, words that could brighten up a room. But those words are gone. I should have listened more carefully. Every day I listened to her voice, but I never really was hearing those words. They're all gone now. All the songs, all the music, just as lost as she is. Gone forever.

My muscles tense up, a harsh scratching sound coming from the guitar as I pinch the strings. A knocking sound comes from the door, and I toss the guitar down onto the couch. I pause in front of the door, and contemplate whether to just leave it unanswered. Who could possibly be coming that would be worth it? There's nobody I can think of. There also isn't anybody I can think of that would care enough to come knocking in the first place.

That curiosity is enough to get me to pull the door open. On the other side of the torn-up screen door, Audra Lee takes a step back from the door, a piece of neatly folded paper clutched in her hands.

She smiles at me, and it doesn't take someone as smart as Amara to figure out it's fake. "Kyler Valde?" She asks.

I stare through her, unwilling to return the pleasantries she's attempting. "What do you want?" I ask in a gravelly voice. It feels like I've got glass lodged in my throat, every pained word slicing my throat.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," she says in a soft, gentle voice. "Amara was a sweet, kind person. She deserves to still be alive, and I'm so, so sorry that I wasn't able to help her come back home to you."

My fists clench at my side. I stare at the ground, putting an iron curtain around my thoughts. I don't want to think about the arena. I don't want to go back to that moment where I failed to volunteer for her. I don't want to watch her die, alone and afraid, final words left unsaid as the air expelled out of her.

"I don't care about your apology," I tell her through gritted teeth. My gaze is still on the ground. "It doesn't mean jack shit."

She's quiet for a moment.

"I know," she says finally, the words coming out breathlessly.

I look up at her, and swipe away at my eyes with my sweatshirt sleeve. "What do you want, then?" I demand, my voice cracking.

Audra looks down at the paper in her hands, and extends it out to me.

"What do you want me to do with that?" I ask.

"Before she went into the arena, Amara, your sister, she gave me that." She bites her bottom lip and averts her gaze. "Amara wanted me to give it to you, in case she wasn't able to herself."

I look at the paper, and I just shake my head, taking a half step back and contemplating just slamming the door shut and walking away.

"It's one of her songs, she wrote it the last night, up on the roof top while the party was going on." Audra quirks a sad smile, though it quickly drops as she extends the paper further towards me. "It's a beautiful song, you should read it."

I take the paper from her, but hold it tightly in my fist, not allowing myself to view the page. It's like a taunt, sea salt poured onto an open wound that's been festering for weeks already.

"No," I choke out. "I shouldn't read it."

She looks at me oddly, her head tilted slightly to the side.

"I should be hearing her sing it." The words almost get caught on my tongue, and it feels like there's something blocking my windpipe, stopping air from getting in.

I don't allow myself to break down though, not in front of her. Not like this. Not right now. Not again. I swallow the lump in my throat, and shake my head, folding the paper into a tiny square that fits into my pocket.

"Besides." I sniff, and I cough to hide the cracks in my voice. "I can't read anyways."

"I can read it for you," Audra offers, taking a step forward as her voice brightens up, a glimmer in her eyes. "If you want me to," she adds in meekly.

I shake my head. "No. That isn't right." I step away, letting the screen door slide back shut. I close my eyes, and bring my hand to my temple, where veins are pulsing beneath my skin. Those memories that I've fought so hard to keep out are forcing their way in, little fragments, words and images flashing across my mind. Audra takes a worried step towards me, but I slide the door shut, my voice quietly echoing against itself as she disappears from sight. "It isn't right."

~.~.~.~.~

Nothing is fair. Not a single thing in this whole, stupid world. The goodbye room is beautiful, and clean, and filled with shiny things, but it might as well just all be dirt. The chairs are made with some silky fabric as if they want us to be comfortable, like they think that we can be comfortable, that everything is okay. But nothing is, and I can't sit down, and be comfortable, and be okay. I can't.

I kick over the chair, and feel my fists clenching up. I want to stomp on that chair, break it into pieces. I want to tear up this entire pretty room until it's as ugly as it ought to be. That's what I should be doing. It was just two more years until we were going to be free.

"Kyler," her voice breaks through, and she's calm. I look over at her and she's smiling, but it doesn't seem real.

"This isn't fair," I say, wanting to say more but unable to grasp at the words. There should be some way to put out there how awful this is, but all I can think of is unfair, unfair. Like echoes bouncing around my head, unfair.

"It never is," she says, and she's still wearing that fake smile. Trying to make it seem like things are okay for me. She just wants me to be calm, to not worry, just like always. But just once I want her to admit that it isn't. It's always me that's the one that cries, and screams, and needs to be talked down. Why can't I be there for her? Even now, when she gets reaped, it isn't me taking care of her, letting her know she's gonna be okay, that she'll fight her way out.

"Hey, Kyler," she says, snapping me away from my thoughts. "You can't go worrying about me, okay? You're gonna have to take care of yourself for a while, now, but I promise I'll be back real soon." Her smile widens. "We'll be headed to Victor's Village, and we won't ever have to work for scraps ever again. Everything's gonna finally start making sense, just you wait, okay?"

"I should have volunteered for you," I blurt out. She looks at me sadly, but I keep on going. "You're my sister, and that means I'm supposed to watch out for you just as much as you watch out for me, maybe even more."

"You do watch out for me, you just don't see it yet," she says. "And I'm glad you didn't volunteer for me, I never would have forgiven you if you did. I'm gonna win this thing, okay? So I don't want to hear any regrets. You just focus on keeping yourself safe these next few weeks. It's a dangerous world to be alone in, Kyler."

Tears pool up in my eyes, and I furiously wipe them away with my sleeve, turning my eyes to the ground.

"Hey, what are you crying about?" She says, and that smile that just doesn't quite seem real pops up again.

I shake my head. "I'm never gonna see you again," I say weakly. "You're gonna die, and I'll be all alone. I'm never gonna hear you sing again."

"Is that what you're worried 'bout?" She asks, as if it were nothing at all.

"You can't say you know it isn't true," I sniffle.

"This isn't the last time you'll be hearing my voice," she promises. "What have I always told you? The last time you'll ever hear me, I'll be singing from the top of the world, and it'll be so pretty that every single soul in this whole rotten world will have a tear in their eye."

"And what if you're wrong?" I ask.

"And when have I ever been wrong before?" She asks, cheekily. "Just trust me, Kyler, I know what I'm doing. This ain't the end of my story, not yet."

"You really promise that?" I ask, tentatively.

She reaches over and clasps onto my hand, and gives me a reassuring smile. "I promise."

~.~.~.~.~

The bar is mostly empty by this time of day. All that's left is a few drunkards, holding out 'till last call, drinking away the minutes of their miserable lives. Amara always liked to sing to those types of people, the sad and downbeat, the ones who hung at bars way too late or got there far too early. I always thought that was because they were easy targets. A bunch of people with money to spare, drunk enough that their decision making is poor and a few songs entertain them enough to toss a few bills their way? They're probably the easiest way to make money in the district doing what we do.

But Amara never thought about people the way I do. I can still remember asking her about it, after a slow day where our cup was empty and all we got were compliments and thanks for playing, apologies for not having a dollar to spare. Amara just smiled at all of them and said we didn't do it for the money, that she was just glad they liked it.

"Why don't we find somewhere else to play. I bet we'd make way more money at the town center," I said to her as we were walking home.

"Because that isn't the way I wanna do things. It ain't right," she said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means that for those rich folks at town square music ain't mean a thing but something that sounds pretty."

"It is pretty," I said.

"Sometimes," she said. "And sometimes it ain't. Sometimes it's about how things aren't pretty all the time, and people like them would never understand the idea of that."

"Yeah, but can't we find somewhere else still? I'm sure we can find somewhere people like your songs, but they'll still pay us more."

She stopped and looked at me. "That's not what it's about."

"I know, but still."

"I don't sing for people 'cause I want them to give something to me, that's not real singing. I'm trying to give something to the world. Those people that don't have a dime to spare, that spend all day drinking away their pain and their hurt, they're the ones who need to be given something, and not a single damn person in this crummy world wants to be the one to give to them. Everyone always just wants to take, take, take. But if that's all anyone ever wants then nobody in this world is ever gonna get a single thing. If we all cared a bit more about giving and less about getting, then nobody would have to worry about getting ever again."

"I don't get it," I said, and I kicked a rock down the street.

"Yes you do," she said. "You just don't understand it, not yet. But someday you will, and you'll see the way those songs can make someone laugh or cry and realize that's what really matters."

I paused. "If I don't understand, then explain it to me."

"It ain't like that. I can't explain it to you, you just gotta see it."

"But, see what?" I asked. "All I see is a bunch of sad old drunks who don't even seem to notice we're there."

"That's 'cause you're not really looking. It's not 'bout their mouth or their eyes or their body. It's 'bout making people feel something."

"I guess," I said.

"Just trust me, Kyler," she said. "Someday you'll see it, and you'll understand. Just promise me that you'll never stop looking."

I can't remember what I said to that. I think I might've shrugged, or just changed the subject completely. I wish I could tell her, I promise. Give her those final words, like they could be some form of closure to end a song that was left unfinished. But the truth is she's gone, and I can't ever bring her back and promise her. All I can do is keep on trying, even if it doesn't mean a damn thing. Even if she isn't out there, or up there, or wherever else where she can be watching me from. Even if she really is just gone, I gotta keep on looking.

The people at the bars were sympathetic at first. They saw me, the boy who had been playing there for the past six years, still strumming his guitar, but without the voice. They were more generous with their pay, and kinder with their words. Those sympathies faded though, and now it sometimes feels like nobody even notices I'm here.

I don't blame them. All I have is the notes, a few chords that I strum through again and again, but it isn't enough. Those words are missing, a visible gap, a constant reminder. Even the lightest of her songs seem sad, now. I have a few lines here and there that I can remember, and sometimes a person will come up to me and remind me of a handful of words they recall hearing, but it's all still a patchwork.

There's only one song I can still remember, that song that she sang to me time and time again, so that it printed itself in my mind. But I never sing that song. It doesn't feel right. Amara never sang it in front of crowds, because she said it wasn't theirs. It was my song, she said. It belonged to me. Nobody else would get it, anyways.

I wrap up just before closing time, and nobody has anything to say to me as I put the guitar over my back and walk away. A man is crying into his drink near the door, and it reminds me of a line from one of Amara's songs, but it's gone from my head before I'm out the door.

~.~.~.~.~

It's been a year now. I still remember watching her die. I hadn't slept in days. When she fell asleep at night it only made me more scared, and daytime brought enough action to keep my eyes peeled wide. My eyes were already cracked and red, my throat dry and my body melding into the couch, and I hardly even reacted at all when it happened at first. It didn't seem real.

There were only a handful of people left in the arena, and my hope was starting to turn into something that felt more real. There was only a single Career too, still injured from fighting the rest of the pack. Blood was spilling from her gut, and it seemed like she wouldn't last another two days, and it would be up to the half-dozen outliers to fight it out.

And Amara was fighting. Mutts had been sent after her, an ally had turned on her, and she had to fight her way through hunger and dehydration, but she kept on pushing through. Just like she had promised.

My eyes were barely hanging open, sleep starting to win its war over me, when the spear went through her chest.

Nobody had ever seen the Career girl coming, and Amara barely kept her eyes open in time to see her killer emerge from the foliage. She softly scratched at her chest, and then she fell backwards, her eyes lifelessly trained on the sky as blood trickled from her wound.

The girl slit her throat to speed up the process, and the canon boomed a moment later. And just like that it was over. I was expecting more. For her to leap to her feet, and fight back. Or maybe not something so childish and naïve, maybe just something meaningful. A final song she would sing for the world, or even just a few words, even a meaningful gaze. But there was none of that. One moment Amara was there, alive and vibrant and full of hope and ready to make the world remember her name. Then she was gone, and the world kept on spinning, and the Games continued, and the world forgot her.

I made a mess of our, my, home that day. I tossed furniture, tore apart papers, and made a hole in the wall that still lets in a breeze. None of that did anything to make me feel better, or less angry. It didn't change a thing. I still felt the same. I still feel the same.

The guitar is in my hands, and the notes come so easily. I don't even have to think of them, they just come on their own. But the words are still missing. Every day I pick up this guitar and play, and wait for the words to come back. Like they're not really gone, just away for a trip, and that they'll be back eventually. But with every day it becomes more obvious that they're just like Amara, gone. Maybe that's a good thing, it means they're with her, wherever she is, and that means she isn't alone. But I am. I'm alone, with nothing left to sing me to sleep, or calm me down, or remind me to keep on looking, to always be looking for that special something that made the music mean something.

There's reminders all around me, pieces of memories just as broken apart and missing as the lyrics to her songs are. I can remember pieces of her, but every day those pieces seem to break further apart. Sometimes I have to watch the replay of her Games just to remind myself what her face looked like, to hear her voice and remember it.

I set down my guitar, and press down on the strings, not allowing them to echo. None of the music feels right anymore. It never does, not since she's gone. But especially today. That missing piece is too obvious.

My knuckles are still red, freshly dried blood and deep red scars mixing together so that I can't tell the difference. I got in another fight today, on a street corner this time. A couple guys walked by, and one of them cracked a joke to the other, something about the song being shit. I punched that one in the mouth. His friend hit me a few times in the gut, and we were pushed away by a bystander and then forced to leave in separate directions before Peacekeepers arrived.

He was probably right. I can't concentrate on the music anymore lately. Amara always said that music is a reflection, that it shows who we are on the inside, how we feel and how we want to feel. Lately it feels like anger is all I have in me. Anger at the world, but that's too broad to latch onto for long. Anger at Amara, sometimes, for not fighting harder, for dying in there and leaving me alone, but I can't stay angry at her. The anger always comes back to the same place eventually, me. For not volunteering when I was supposed to. I could have gone in there, and maybe I would have lived and everything would be perfect. Or maybe I would have died, but at least then Amara would still be here to sing for the world. And she wouldn't be alone like I am. She would have her songs, and those would keep her company. Maybe she'd do even better on her own, without having to always take care of me.

I tighten my fists, clenching them until I feel the circulation cutting off from my palms, and then I release. I pick up the guitar again, and try to force away all of those thoughts. A few notes bounce off the guitar on their own, my fingers playing on their own accord, and the song is enough to hold the anger away for a brief reprieve. The one song that I still remember, the song that Amara wrote that first night, when the world seemed so big and lonely and scary. My song, Amara always told me, but that didn't feel right. It wasn't mine, it was ours.

My voice is hoarse, and dry, and each word feels pained, but they come out all the same, ringing out through the empty room.

But the best story that I could ever tell

Is the one that I am gonna tell with you

Audra Lee

The reaping is always the quietest day of the year. The crowd seems almost still, the entirety of the district laid out in front of me, pushed into their pens and waiting for the day to be over so they can celebrate another year of safety. I still remember that part of the day, however vague that memory is. It's been eight years now since I got to see the half of the day that was like a holiday. My dad explained it to me when I was younger, that people celebrated even on such a horrible day because it was a reminder of life and how precious it was. Any day could take you away, and the reaping was just a manifestation of that. A reminder to live life in the moment. That explanation felt less adequate when it was me that got selected.

Still, I'd like to see that celebration again someday, through the eyes of an adult, instead of a wide-eyed kid who didn't understand what the Games and the reaping really meant. Dad always tells me that as a parent it's the greatest day of the year, the relief that washes over you, knowing that your kids are safe for one more year. I don't think I'll ever get to feel that way. Victor's kids have a way of ending up in the arena one way or another, and something tells me that anxiety would never give way to relief.

It was a nice morning, though. We laughed and joked around over an orange juice and cereal breakfast. The television played some silly Capitol soap opera that I've ashamedly watched religiously. Arc and Liam are well past reaping age, a few years older than me, and Ollie is eighteen, just one year away from safety now. He won't be reaped, though, so I can find peace in that. I've put in my dues to make sure that doesn't happen to any of my brothers. Our family's gone through enough already.

Nobody else seemed particularly worried about Ollie's chances, Ollie himself least of all, and so it was a nice, peaceful morning. I've started to fall into a pattern whenever I'm at home, the world almost seems to fade away and I can pretend like I never got reaped in the first place. It's just us, and sure our house is fancier and we never have to worry about food, but everything else is the same. Dad still works to stave off the boredom, and my brothers are all chasing their own dreams. Arc is making his third attempt at getting into Pioneer University, undeterred by failure. Liam is learning under dad, and apparently has a knack for electrical work. Even wild Ollie has a tryout for some new soccer farm league in the districts, not anything that would make him famous or rich, but enough to get by and make him happy.

The outside world can break through with reminders every once in a while, but nothing can stop me from falling back into this contentment. The Games will be hell for a few weeks, and it will stick with me for a long, long time. But I'll rebound, and I'll be ready again for next year. Just like I'm ready now.

And one of these years, I'll finally bring somebody home. We'll return home to confetti instead of black suits and dresses. I'll visit a relieved family in their new house in Victor's Village, instead of a grieving one in a broken home. Six months will pass and the Victory Tour will take us around all of Panem, instead of leaving me waiting for the day where I'll have to pretend I'm over it. And the next year, I'll be sitting up on this stage, and I won't be alone. And eventually, we'll bring home another kid, and I won't have to be ushered away by a train for the next few weeks. I'll stay, and finally get to see that celebration happen again.

I just have to be patient. I just have to keep trying.

The mayor's speech finally wraps up, and I focus my attention back onto the moment at hand. I try not to think wishfully during the selection. Getting your hopes up is dangerous, and expecting the worst seems to challenge the universe into defeating your imagination. Still, though, I hope for something easier than last year. Amara and Baylor, they were good ones. They all are, of course, but still. Some hurt more, and for longer, than others.

Poor Aleksey is introduced at last, and I'm the first and loudest one to clap, offering him a reassuring smile as he takes the stage. He returns the smile, and looks more confident than ever, a straightened back as he struts out on stage in his trademark Kilt. He even gives a brief wave out to the crowd, who has clearly warmed to the man. Escorts don't tend to stay in Five for long, but Aleksey has been sticking around. A familiar sight is always a good one, and I always allow myself a breath of relief when I see that he's returned to District Five.

The lanky man makes his way to the microphone, and quickly jumps through an introduction and into the event which has to happen. He wastes no time, taking two slips from the large glass bowl on the center of the stage. He hurries back to the microphone.

"The first tribute's Cambria Orwell," he says simply.

There's none of the usual delay, a girl quickly moving out of the sixteens section and walking towards the stage. Her head is held high, and she makes herself smile, but it's clear to anyone watching she isn't happy or carefree. She's a good actor, though, and graciously thanks Aleksey as he helps her up on the stage.

"Thank you, you're too kind, really." She turns to the crowd. "I'll do my best to make you all proud," she says, and she chokes on the last word, nearly falling into tears as she fights to keep a smile in place.

"Yer gonna do great, lass," Aleksey says, reassuringly. I give an encouraging smile when she looks my way, and she smiles gratefully back at me.

The girl reminds me far too much of some of the tributes I've had before. Bailey, Levi, Lydia, Amara, it's always the kind ones that hurt the most. I always manage to convince myself they'll win, when I like them enough. If for no other reason, than to remind me that there's some fairness and karma in the world. After all, if someone as unlikely as me could stumble her way to victory, why not one of them? It never seems to work that way, though.

"And our second tribute," Aleksey pauses as he reads the slip, and looks hesitant for a moment. It's enough to make my breath catch in my throat. What name could he possibly recognize from District Five? I search for Ollie in the crowd, desperation scratching at my neck as I try to find him.

"Kyler Valde."

I feel relief for a moment, the breath releasing from my throat until the name echoes off the speakers, and the last name rings in my ears. Valde. Amara's sister.

A boy pushes his way out of the eighteens section. His eyes are cracked red, and I can't tell if it's from tears or a blood vessel popping. He seems unsure of that himself, looking half on the verge of assaulting a peacekeeper, and halfway ready to break down and cry.

A part of me wants to leap out of my chair and run down to him and hold him in a hug. I've only spoken to him once, but that day sticks with me. Amara was everything to him, and he lost her. And now he has to follow down that same path. The bitterness is double-edged. Amara's last nights in the Capitol, her confiding in me that she was okay with where she knew she was headed. That, at least, Kyler would be safe. She handed me that paper, and asked me to give it to him once she was gone, and to watch after him. I promised I would, and now not even a year later, that promise is already crumbling at my fingertips.

He swats away Aleksey's hand when he tries to help Kyler up, and he has no words for the district. His hands are folded over his chest, and he refuses to lock eyes with me. His eyes are anywhere else, down on the ground, up in the sky. Tears are beginning to well up in his eyes, and he discreetly dabs it away with his sleeve, disguising it as a yawn.

Aleksey introduces them one final time, District Five's newest team, and I trade my broken promise for a new one. I can't guarantee that I'll keep Kyler safe anymore. But these two need me, and I can promise to myself to do everything I possibly can to make sure that dream of mine finally comes true.

District Five will have another victor. All I have to do is believe.

I just have to believe.

A/N: Thank you so much to CC (CozenCraze) for Kyler Valde. He's such a wonderful character, with so many unique aspects. His relationship with Amara is wonderful and broke the mold of what a brother-sister relationship (especially twins) is portrayed as. He absolutely broke my heart and will likely continue to do so throughout this story, along with every other one of y'all's wonderful characters.

Trivia (1 point): The first line of this chapter is the end of a super awesome song. Anyone that knows it gets a point, with a bonus 2 points if you didn't use Google lol.