TW for mentions of plague, sickness and blood in the second POV.

Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male

They come when Alessio's the only one awake. Sleep has been hard to come by, considering the pain in his arm and the Fates' incessant deluge that he can't seem to silence. And because... well, Blade is right there. Every hour or so, he rewraps Alessio's wound to keep it clean.

'You've made yourself vulnerable to him,' the Fates taunt. 'He will surely kill you in your sleep. What good are you to him? Why would you even talk to him? He thinks you're crazy, useless, weak—'

It seems they haven't stopped since he first starting opening up to Blade. He doesn't remember much about the end of the fight. He remembers Marquis falling, the terrible piercing sound of Seven's wail, and the hot pressure of a spear in his arm. He remembers falling to his knees, his vision gone blurry, just staring and staring at Marquis on the ground and dying. And behind his eyes, seeing Caldwell dying, his sister and mother being taken from him. And Alessio, simply kneeling. Doing nothing to protect Marquis, or any of them. Left behind. Always left.

But then... hands on his shoulder. Someone, lifting him up. He remembers how weightless he'd felt, floating in some distant half-awake state. How somewhere, in his mind, he recognized that this was wrong. He should be standing up by himself, shaking off the pain, because he doesn't need anyone else. All he's ever needed was his sister, but she's been gone for years now, so there's only himself left...

He'd only come to full awareness when Blade had pulled out the spear. And then... well, he was remembering Marquis's advice. And Blade was actually making sense. And so he talked, more than he's talked to anyone in a long, long time.

And now he feels this odd mix of regret and lightless. Such a traitorous feeling, of being free. He should be focusing on his sister. He shouldn't be conversing with Blade, or anyone for that matter, unless they are of some use to him.

And yet... the way that Blade had patched his wounds almost reminded him of Melinda, after he'd been beaten at the community home. And the ache of missing her had been all he could think about. The Fates had been momentarily ignored.

Now they keep a steady chorus in his head. And Alessio is so exhausted.

Blade is finally asleep. It's Alessio's turn to take watch. Naya had urged him to rest if he needed it, but he'd shook her off. He's not getting any sleep tonight.

And certainly not now they are here.

Usually when ghosts come calling, they are kind and benevolent and wise. They speak to Alessio as if he is their closest confidant, and they, his only friends. But these ghosts feel malicious. Hungry. Almost accusatory.

They prowl at the edge of the room, having floated through the walls, almost beyond the light of the quivering candle that Alessio has lit in case of intruders. It can only be very early morning, perhaps one or two. But they don't care. They are here for him; Alessio is sure of it.

He begins to pick out their faces, unmasked. Tributes, all. Dead. The boy from Seven, whom Alessio had killed at the Bloodbath; the girl from Three, with her haunted gaze; Marquis, his hands out in a desperate plea. Fourteen dead children, all looking right at him. They stir, restless. Alessio takes a steadying breath, trying not to feel afraid. They watch him with hatred and grief and blame. But surely they cannot hurt him.

(Would he deserve it?)

Suddenly, a soft glow falls over the throng, and a singular ghost makes his way forward, arms outstretched. The other ghosts part for him. And there he is, even more striking than last time. Caldwell Kingsen, glowing and golden, his eyes dancing. He does not look angry. If anything, he looks totally at peace. He curls his fingers in a beckoning motion, looking right at Alessio.

The rest of the ghosts murmur, ominous, but they stay back, almost as if Caldwell is shielding him. He wags his finger impatiently.

Right then and there, Alessio knows he cannot hide from Caldwell. There's something in the boy's eyes that says he'd wait forever until Alessio did what he wanted. And besides, he doesn't want to wake the others, and he needs a moment of peace outside. And he remembers Blade's suggestion, that maybe Caldwell wants something.

So he stands, with some difficulty as a wave of dizziness hits, and follows Caldwell outside, where his glow is even more prominent in the thick, black night. The ghosts draw back in a hazy circle, still pacing and watching.

And Caldwell is not frowning or crying or pleading. He is almost smiling. Directly at Alessio. His eyes sparkle.

'Still,' the Fates whisper, 'what could you possibly be thinking? That he wants to see you? That he likes you, even after all you've done? You will never belong, Alessio. You will always be alone. And don't you enjoy that feeling? What more could you need?'

Alessio feels himself withdrawing. He tries to dispel the feeling inside him—he is almost glad to see Caldwell. But outweighing all of the uncertain joy inside him is his fear. Whatever he feels for Caldwell, it doesn't matter, because he shouldn't feel it. If anyone knew, they'd leave him.

Caldwell looks more alive than ever. "Hey, Thief-who-lives-in-a-mine! It took you long enough!"

Alessio just gapes. Caldwell remembers. But he can't bring himself to answer. He cannot understand what Caldwell's motives are.

Caldwell almost looks hurt for a moment, but then he flicks his gaze to the ring of Tributes pacing in the moonlight. "They won't hurt you." His voice, too, is filled with life. "Not when I'm here. I think they fear you. Or, perhaps they are so in awe of my presence that they become insecure."

He steps closer, quirks a brow. He is waiting for something, but Alessio finds he cannot speak.

"They all want something, I think," Caldwell continues, nonplussed. "Their lives ended, unfinished, a tragedy. They yearn for peace." He stands right next to Caldwell and leans casually against the outer wall of the building, as if posing for some painting.

It would be a lovely painting. But Alessio suffocates that thought. Caldwell is dead. And, even more than that, Alessio shouldn't feel this way. He can't feel this way. Because he doesn't want to lose Caldwell again. He doesn't want to get attached.

"Ghosts are drawn to you," Caldwell continues, all casual and light. "Perhaps it's because you are so acquainted with death."

"What do you want?" Alessio manages, though his voice comes out all soft edges instead of sharp points like he wants it to. "Is it something to do with Naya?"

On the one hand, he hopes it is, because surely Caldwell will be angry that Alessio did not save him, and will want to enact some kind of revenge. But on the other, he hopes it isn't, and he's not even sure why.

Caldwell throws his head back in a laugh, sunny and unrestrained. "Why would I want to talk to her? No. Whatever befalls her will be out of my control, and her own doing." He studies Alessio. His gaze makes Alessio cringe.

"Then why are you here?" More than anything, he just wants this night to be over. He wants to be in the mine, all alone and far away from civilization. He wants things to be simple.

Caldwell furrows his brow. "I thought you could tell me."

Once again, Alessio is rendered speechless and dumbfounded. Doesn't Caldwell want to blame him? Does he not hate him?

Suddenly, Caldwell's gaze softens. He reaches forward so suddenly, Alessio gasps and flinches away. "What happened to your arm?"

He glances down. He must have reopened the wound by moving, because it's bleeding again. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Caldwell sighs, looking almost hurt. His hand falls to his side. And Alessio can't contain his words anymore.

"Don't you hate me?"

Caldwell stares. "Hate you?"

"I let you die," Alessio says softly. "I could have done something."

And Caldwell just stands there, staring at him. He does not speak. Indecision crosses his face.

Alessio keeps talking, to his surprise. "And I don't know why you're here because I didn't even think you knew I existed. So if you have some kind of dying request or unfinished business, just say it."

Caldwell stares up at the moon. His gaze goes almost dreamy. "I should think you don't need me anymore. You have your Careers now." Is Alessio imagining it, or is there a dark gleam of jealousy in Caldwell's eyes?

He knows he should protest. He wants to, even. But the words won't come out. He has never talked to anyone like this before. He feels like a tightrope walker, legs shaky beneath him and bound to fall at any moment.

He tries to phrase his next words so they don't sound too vulnerable. Every voice in his head is telling him to stop. This is against all that he's learned. If he confesses his feelings, he will be hurt, pushed away. His entire body screams at him to run away and hide.

But Caldwell is a ghost now. Surely he can trust him more than he does living people. And... something inside him wants to put this right. To make sure that Caldwell knows Alessio doesn't hate him. So he speaks, before he can change his mind.

"I'm glad you're here," he says tentatively.

Caldwell smiles. His eyes dance with light like twin fires. "And I am glad to see you, Alessio Spades..." He hesitates. "And I don't hate you."

It's as if an immense weight has lifted from Alessio's shoulders. He stands up straighter.

A sound like rustling comes from inside the building. Blade will probably be looking for him. Such an odd prospect, to have someone who notices his presence, and his absence.

'But if he found out your secret, he would leave,' the Fates whisper. 'You are weak, Alessio Spades. And you are alone.'

He looks back at Caldwell. The boy's eyes are sad, but he's still smiling.

"I should go," Alessio says hoarsely.

Caldwell shrugs nonchalantly. "Off with you, then." But he can almost imagine something deeper in his gaze. Sadness, maybe?

Alessio turns. This could be the last time he sees Caldwell Kingsen, and it fills him with an almost unbearable melancholy, which takes him by surprise. But at least Caldwell doesn't blame him for his death. And the dead Tributes with their haunted, accusatory faces, have dissipated as well.

"Alessio." Caldwell says his name like he did that second day of training. Like an incantation or a song. As if it holds meaning.

Alessio glances back. The image of Caldwell, glowing in the moonlight, with a wistful light in his eyes, sends a swell of feeling sweeping through Alessio. He almost cannot bear to look at Caldwell. Yet at the same time, he never wants to look away, never wants this to end.

"Did you like my painting?" Caldwell sounds almost shy. Uncertain. The idea seems impossible.

Alessio swallows. "I—it was nice." Hardly an apt description for the painting's beauty. Alessio has seen art before, but none that he thought about so much. None that made him breathless.

But Caldwell just smiles. "Perhaps we shall speak again."

Alessio finds himself nodding. "Maybe." Once again, he does not say what he really means. He is dying to speak, yet he cannot imagine how he would express such things. If he is even allowed to, or capable.

"Until then." Caldwell lifts his hand in farewell, and slowly dissolves back into the night.

The door creaks open, revealing a tired-looking Blade. He spots Alessio and shakes his head. "What are you doing out here?" he signs.

Alessio shrugs. He is feeling hopeful and afraid and confused and sad, all at once. It is all too much to handle.

So he follows Blade wordlessly back inside, and Blade does not question him further, and the Fates, for once, make no protest as he sinks into an almost involuntary sleep.

...

Luz Contreras, 15, District Nine Female

Asa's knees are pulled into his chest, his hands over his face, and his breaths dangerously ragged. She cannot see his eyes, but she would guess he is in some perilous state between sleep and wakefulness. Delirium. She'd hoped that it would pass him by.

She hadn't meant to doze off, and she hates that she closed her eyes, if even for an hour. There's just something so comforting about Asa's arms around her, the way he'd looked at her, that lulled her into serenity. But he's not with her anymore. He's somewhere else, locked inside his head.

"Asa." She moves a little closer to him, but not near enough to touch him. He is trembling. "Asa, I'm right here. Are you okay?"

"Luz?" he says, sounding panicked. His voice is small, almost muted behind his hands.

"It's me," she murmurs, her voice calm and low and steady. She tries to keep control of the situation, despite its utter hopelessness. She'd do anything to go back to that moment when Asa kissed her, his eyes so bright and enchanting. She can't bear to see him like this.

He cautiously peels his hands from his face and lifts his gaze. Luz has to clench her teeth to keep from sobbing. His cheeks are streaked with tears, but the spots all over his face are blistered and bleeding. His hands, too, are dotted with blood. Beneath the angry red, his face is almost colorless. His eyes are wild and unfocused.

"Oh..." she whispers. How is she ever going to fix this? She has to do something. She... she can't do a thing.

He runs a hand through his wild curls, a frantic motion. "What is it?" he says. "What's wrong?"

"N—" She stops herself before she can lie. "It's just..."

"I'm so sorry," he says, looking completely miserable. "It's all my fault. You're going to die and I won't be able to do anything and I just—" His voice cracks. "I can't breathe. I'm so scared."

"Asa... can I touch you?"

He's still shaking and breathing quickly, but he nods. "Luz, I saw you dead. I thought you—I thought he—"

She gently places her hand over his. "It's okay. I'm right here, with you. You don't have to worry."

He blinks back tears. "Am I crazy? Don't you see him?"

Tears spill down Luz's cheeks. "See who?"

He shakes his head. "I—" He seems to struggle for words. "I thought he was going to hurt you, and I couldn't do anything. And it was my fault. I'm so sorry..."

"Oh." Asa has never spoken this fear aloud, but it's not difficult for Luz to picture the nightmare playing out inside his head. In the throes of fever, he saw his father hurting Luz. She shivers when she thinks of how terrified he must be.

And suddenly, she's sickened and furious at the Capitol and the Games all over again. Of course they would give him a plague that would hurt him like this. She hates this powerless feeling, the knowledge that there is nothing she can do to save him.

She gently brushes her knuckles over his cheek. "Asa, you don't ever have to be sorry. You don't have to apologize to me."

Tears gather on his lashes and he nods. "I know."

"And you don't have to worry," she continues. "You're safe, okay? I'll be right here whenever you need me, and I'm going to—" She stops herself. No lying. "It's—it's all going to be okay. You can trust me."

He nods again. "Thank you," he whispers.

She points at the spots on his cheeks, his nose... everywhere. A million things she cannot fix. "Can I take a look?"

"Yeah."

She grabs a cloth and dabs it with alcohol, slowly and gently cleaning as much as she can. Everywhere she looks, she sees warning signs of infection—the swelling and the redness. She keeps it together until she's cleaned as much as she can, but when she presses her palm to Asa's forehead, she sobs.

"Can I do anything to help?" The voice makes both Luz and Asa flinch. She'd almost forgotten about the boy in the corner, watching them carefully.

Luz shakes her head. "No. Thank you for offering, though."

A look of terrible grief and helplessness crosses Callisto's features, hardly a fraction of the boulder in Luz's chest, before he glances away. Asa's eyes are half-closed. His head slumps against his chest.

She gently touches his arm. "You need to eat something. And drink water."

He pries his eyes open, lethargic and sluggish, and nods. "Okay. I'm just... so tired."

"I know." It's all she can think to say.

She pulls out the canteen and pours water into Asa's mouth. He insists on helping her hold the canteen, and she lets him. He's only swallowed a sip when his face scrunches with pain. He takes a rattling breath.

"Are you okay?" asks Luz, alarmed.

"Yeah, it's just... it hurts to swallow, is all."

She has no idea what kind of state his throat is in. Judging from the raw rasp of his voice and the spots that cover his face, probably not well. He insists on taking another drink, but then tears are spilling from his eyes, and she shakes her head.

"Never mind."

In this moment, Luz makes a terrible decision. She does not want to see Asa in any more pain. She would rather die than see him in this much misery. And, as much as she tries to change circumstances, she has no idea how to cure him. So, unless the Capitol decides they have enough mercy to send an antidote... Asa is going to die. And if he dies, she does not want him to be in pain.

This realization almost crushes her. Her heart creaks in protest. She has endured too much, cried too many tears, and her mind is simply shutting down.

But she breathes through it and guides Asa back to his mat, where he shivers and murmurs something that Luz cannot hear. He is already half in a dream.

She brushes curls from his forehead. Never has she felt so much love for Asa. She wants to cradle him in her arms and take him somewhere safe, kiss his forehead and tell him that things will be better soon. But she knows they won't. And she cannot stop the desperation that claws at her chest. She cannot stop the plague from leeching away at Asa until there's nothing left.

She lays her head beside his so that their cheeks are touching. He reaches for her weakly, tentatively, and she grips his hand. He falls asleep and, within his feverish mutterings, she catches her name several times. It makes her heart implode.

In the next few hours, Luz pulls every weapon from her arsenal, everything that she can think of to loosen the grip of Asa's delirium. At one point, he asks—endearingly shyly—if he can braid her hair. He does a surprisingly good job, and it calms his mind. At another, when he can barely breathe from panic, she sings snatches of a half-remembered folk song from Nine until his eyes fill with light again. But most of the time, she just talks and he listens.

Mostly, she tells him easy details. "We are in the Arena and the moon is so bright and full that I can see its glow through the crack in the door, and Callisto is here, and I am here, and you are so strong, Asa. You are so strong and you are alive and so am I."

Sometimes she makes confessions that she isn't sure he hears. "I don't know what to do, Asa. I have nothing left. I don't even know if you can hear me. I want you to come back, Asa. Please."

Sometimes he sees her, really sees her. He looks at her with an unbearable sadness. "Luz, I keep seeing you alive and dead and I don't know which one to believe."

And then she holds him against her chest so that he cannot mistake the steadiness of her pulse, and she finds his life force in the dip of his wrist and runs her finger back and forth over his pulse as if she can simply will it to keep beating. Sometimes he wakes up and cannot find her, no matter how many times she sings or pleads or rationalizes. At one point, he opens his eyes all the way and whispers, "I don't want to fall back asleep. I don't think I'll wake up."

So she talks and talks until her voice is hoarse, and he just watches and listens, clinging to her hand as if she might disappear if he lets go.

Sometimes, when he is conscious enough to know of her presence, he will curl into her and bury his face in her chest. "It hurts so much, Luz."

And all she can do is soothe him in the only way she knows how: by talking to him, and doing anything she can to ease his misery.

It is the apex of the nighttime, some in-between point, after midnight and before dawn. Luz is slowly unraveling. Asa is fighting a desperate battle. His voice is nearly squeezed to nothing by the plague's viselike grip.

He looks at Luz pleadingly and requests the simplest of things. "The stars," he whispers. "I want to see them."

Luz glances at Callisto, staring into the distance and thumbing numbly through the pages of his book. "Help me?"

He nods, understanding. Luz takes Asa's legs and Callisto helps to lift him, and they walk very slowly out into the night. Outside the hut, cramped wall-to-wall with sickness and despair, the air is cool and fresh and gentle. They gingerly set Asa down in the grass and his eyes sail skyward to lock on the stars.

They really are bright. A multitude of pinpricks, spattered across the sky like dots of paint on a canvas. Trillions of silent, glimmering sentinels. Asa lets out a sigh and all the tension melts from his body. His grip on her hand is loose, weak.

She looks at him. "Asa?" He is so still.

But no. He's alive, enraptured by the splatters of light dancing in the sky. "Luz," he says suddenly. "How will I know if you win or not?"

She flinches. In truth, she doesn't know. And she doesn't want to talk about it. But she lies for him, just this once.

"Maybe you can watch me from one of those stars up there," she says softly.

A smile steals across his face, and he points to one of the infinite many. "I choose this one. Do you think I'll turn into a constellation? The Asa Major, maybe."

She smiles, for his sake. "I hope so."

He looks at her, his expression painfully bittersweet. "Could you tell me a story?"

Luz's lips part. She is terrible at stories, at making anything up. Her mind simply doesn't work that way.

"About us," he adds. "But... one with a happy ending."

There is so much clarity in his eyes. He is entirely lucid.

"I... okay. But you'll have to help me. I'm terrible at stories."

He nods, but his eyes are going distant, as if he is floating away.

"Um... once there was a boy and a girl, who were young and in love. The boy was like a bird, with sparkling eyes that made the girl feel like she was worth listening to."

"And the girl was a lighthouse in a stormy sea," Asa whispers.

"They had many hardships to overcome in their lifetime, but they knew they could survive, because the other was always there to lean on."

"They knew that they would always be together, because their love was stronger than anything else," Asa says.

"During the day, they would dance and laugh among the wildflowers, and at night they would look up at the stars and hold hands beneath the moon."

"One day, they went sailing on a beautiful lake, and they had a picnic," Asa says. "Afterwards, the boy made the girl a bouquet of Queen Anne's Lace and daisies, and he asked her to marry him."

"And the girl said yes." Luz is crying now. "And when they kissed, it felt like a million stars had just ignited inside their hearts. And their wedding was quiet and perfect, with their loving family supporting them. And they knew that everything was going to be okay, because they would always—always be together."

Asa does not speak.

"You have to finish the story now, Asa. I don't know how it ends. I don't know what happens next. Please... please don't leave." Luz's voice is tiny and choked and terrified.

Asa's fingers twitch once in hers, a gentle squeeze. His face spreads into a gentle smile. His eyes lower from the stars to rest on her face. They are dreamy and faraway.

He opens his mouth and his lips forms her name, but no sound comes out. His eyes fall closed and his hand goes slack.

Luz grabs his limp wrist, feeling for a pulse. She pulls him into her arms, rocks back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, wait. Wait. Asa..."

A cannon pierces like a chisel through her skull. She screams. Clutches tight to Asa so he doesn't dissolve, as if her grip will keep him alive.

"No, Asa, you have to tell me how it ends. I can't do this. You're okay. We're—" But her voice breaks.

Something flutters down beside her. An envelope. On its surface is Asa's sloppy, beautiful handwriting. His letter. He wrote to her, and she to him. But now he'll never read it.

She wheels away from Asa, gently letting go of him, and screams into the sky. "Are you satisfied now? Have you filled your souls with enough death for a lifetime? I would beg you for his life, for an antidote, but you're too late. It's too late. He's gone because of you! And I'm not playing your game anymore! I'm not! But I'm sure it was a good show, right? Does that make up for it? You don't even care that he's—"

And suddenly all the energy saps from her limbs and she falls to the ground. Someone is screaming and sobbing at once, a terrible wailing sound that drives deep into her soul. Luz knows it's coming out of her mouth, but she is distant, floating far away from her body. She looks over at Asa and his still face, his closed eyes. He can't be dead.

She checks, one more time, for the hummingbird flutter of his heart. Any minute now, he will open his eyes and smile, tell some joke that miraculously makes everything better. He will grab her hand and spin her around and put a flower in her hair and tell her that she is his everything. She waits.

He does not move. And her brain cannot compute this impossibility. So she just curls up on the grass and cries until the world is shapeless and fuzzy.

What feels like a century later, a hand falls on her shoulder. Someone lifts her up. She follows listlessly, allowing herself to be half-dragged. Someone is speaking words, but they are unfamiliar and meaningless to Luz. All she can hear is Asa's voice in her head, his panicked cries. She failed him.

She's back in the hut that smells like death, the mat that Asa slept on, his mask still lying forgotten on the dirt. Callisto gently guides her to sit against the wall. He sits beside her. His eyes are depthless pools of grief.

Without thinking about it, she puts her head on his shoulder, and they cry together until the sun comes up.

But it isn't as bright as Asa's eyes lighting up when he sees her. She will never see anything that bright again.

...

Felicia Simmons, 16, District Eight Female

It is time for her to move. She knows this, deep in her bones, yet wholly rejects the very idea. As much as she longs to stay here behind these curtains, she knows that she won't survive with her sanity intact much longer. Although, she isn't sure if sanity has ever been in her grasp. She possessed fantasy, once—perhaps even delusion. Wrapped in her web of ignorance, she had never once thought of something beyond.

But now her world has expanded, violently and relentlessly, leaving her nearly shattered. She feels things in distant, muted colors. She curls her knees to her chest and wishes to be taken away, back home... but then, what awaits her there but broken dreams and boys who do not like her and days that plod mercilessly along, sapping her innocence and hope until she is a hollow husk?

Yet... what other options could there be? Felicia has always dreamed of being in the Capitol, wearing the fine dresses, flirting with the beautiful boys. But the only way to return there is to win. And she is not delusional enough to believe she could accomplish such a feat. She's not even sure what she would do, if she ever gets out of this place.

She only knows that these thoughts are scraping away at her psyche until it is battered and frayed and fragmented. And after a close call with a tall girl and a bow the day before, wherein Felicia was almost certain she'd be spotted and killed, she knows that if she lingers here any longer, she'll die.

And she's been through far too much to die without ever figuring herself out. And if she dies of heat exhaustion, tucked behind a curtain... well, even she has more dignity than that. If anything, she wants to go glamorously. Or perhaps in exquisite tragedy.

The morbid thoughts prove that she is losing her mind. They almost make her giggle at their absurdity. She hefts her little remaining supplies over her shoulder and gazes out at the empty stage. Nobody in sight. She hasn't seen or heard anyone since the crack of a cannon and the wails of a grieving girl some hours ago. Now, the noonday sun blazes down over the wooden stage, and Felicia crosses hesitantly beneath the natural spotlight. How she longs to twirl in her bride's gown on this spot, arms outspread like some kind of primadonna, a Capitol darling or a girl in love.

But she is none of those now. And so she leaves the stage behind, trying her best to hide in the wide-open, sparkling city.

She pauses beside a fountain, breathing in the clean air, and allows herself to unveil the secret layers of her mind. She lets herself remember every fact stored within, the skills that she never put to use before. The feeling of permitting herself to actually think, scrub away the glossy dumb-blonde veneer and allow the girl beneath to come to light, is shaky and uncertain and exhilarating, like a delicious secret. She does some quick calculations and discerns that she has been in the Arena for five days, this being her sixth, that there are nine Tributes left including herself, and that with her remaining food and water, she can survive for two days at most.

She does not know what to do with this information, or where to go. But if she wants to survive, she decides that she needs to glean as much information about the remaining Tributes as possible. Perhaps she could find a promising ally, or a vacated building to take shelter, if only she had a good vantage point...

Her eyes catch on the church and its considerable height. There appears to be a tower over the church, which has to be incredibly high up; the perfect spot for getting her bearings. Or... spying. The word feels forbidden and also a bit daring.

Unfortunately, she cannot see any way to get up there, only the large main doors. And as she draws closer, she hears faint, echoing voices from within. If she can just get in...

She skirts around the building and presses herself against the wall, in the church's looming shadow. Surely, they will need to leave eventually. And Felicia will wait for her chance.

It feels strange, thinking about these things—doing these things. She is not some cunning girl, able to slink through shadows and hatch devious schemes. Surely she cannot be capable enough to be a spy, or whatever she is calling this operation.

But neither is she a princess, awaiting her true love. Her handsome hero is not coming, if he ever even existed.

All she can do is struggle on. She has found herself in these circumstances... and she can't give up. She has made it this far.

Sure enough, she only has to wait for an hour or so before two girls walk solemnly out, discussing a funeral. They are sullen and tear-streaked, obviously affected by the Arena's cruel devices as she is. They round a corner and start toward a blocky, colorless building, where they disappear from Felicia's view.

She waits a beat, then scurries out, trying to calm her shaky breath. She almost trips on her skirts before she hurries through the door, trying to quiet its incriminating creak.

It thunks closed behind her, and she runs through the vaulting chapel before they come back. She weaves through the building, past pews and altars, mosaics and stained glass, and finally comes to a winding staircase. It looks daunting, and Felicia is far from athletic.

But she steels herself anyway, hikes up her skirts, takes a breath, and begins to climb.

She has ample time to think about her mother's constant lecturing, the friends who weren't really friends, and Buck. How he'd treated her like a child. All the guys who'd rejected her back home, the demeaning factory owner that employed her, and even Felicia's own inner beliefs... everyone and everything that had told her she was nothing without her looks. But she's proven that theory false. Because she is now a murderer, and also a survivor. She is climbing a flight of stairs so that she can spy on the Arena and learn secrets she can use to keep living. She is beautiful, but she is also more.

Even if 'more' means things that she is afraid to face. Even if she is alone, she is a human being and not an object. She is real, and not made of sparkling make-up and false laughter. And that realization is jarring... but it is also wonderful.

She reaches the tower. Up here, she sees statues and little else. A rigging with a cord that nobody has pulled—she doubts anyone would ever find it, had she not taken the risk and discovered it herself. And there's an ornate window, perfect for spying.

Felicia smiles and makes herself comfortable. She's not sure what this new avenue will bring, but she knows that she is choosing this of her own volition. And being up here, looking out the window and seeing the whole city spread out like a postcard, makes her feel light and free as a bird.

And for once, she lets herself accept that feeling instead of being guilty for feeling it.

...

10th Place: Asa Trevino, died of the Black Death. Asa, where do I even start with you? I'm tearing up as I write this. I fell in love with you from the moment I first read your form. Your endearing love for Luz, your mischief, and your good heart won everyone over. Your need for attention and connection hit close to home for me, and your bond with Luz was so beautiful to explore and brought a lovely tenderness to the story. You had a beautiful soul, and your story was so poignant and special. I don't want to let you go, and I'm so sorry for all the pain that you felt and how long I drew out your death. But I am so grateful to have the privilege of writing you. You will be so dearly missed. R-B, thank you so much for sending in Asa. I hope I have written him well. Here's to Asa, our self-sacrificing soulmate. I hope he finds refuge, and that he finally stops running.

Hi besties, and welcome to Day 6, Part 1. I am not okay after this chapter, and I honestly don't have much to say about it, except that writing a certain POV ruined my day. The other POVs were so powerful to write as well. All three of these scenes have been living in my brain for a long time, and to finally put them to page is surreal and a little scary. I hope you all enjoyed. Thank you so much for all your kind words and support. I hope you have a wonderful week.

Much Sadness,

Miri