THE SECOND HUNGER GAMES.

—VALLE CERRIS | 12 | DISTRICT SEVEN.

extinction is the rule. survival is the exception.

»»—- —-««

In those few terrible seconds after her brother's name was called, she'd thought her life was over.

When her name followed it, she didn't just think her life was over.

She knew it.

»»—- —-««

"I'm scared."

Silas's whisper was as soft as their mother's smile, but in the damp cold of the cattle car shuttling them towards the Capitol it seemed to echo. Valle didn't move her head from his shoulder and drew in a deep, rattling, breath before admitting just as softly: "Me too."

His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles but the action was anything but comforting. Valle felt sick to her stomach. If she'd eaten breakfast this morning, she was positive it would have come back up by now. Her mind couldn't stop going back and forth; one minute she was leaning against her brother, desperate for his reassurance; the next she was pulling away, wanting nothing more than him to just disappear. She sat up, leaning her head against the wall.

"Silas?" She whispered. She couldn't even look at him. "Is both of us here a good thing?" She couldn't make up her mind; every pro was met with a con.

He was quiet for a long time. Valle sucked in shuddering breath after shuddering breath.

"I don't know, V," he said, sotto voce. "I don't know."

»»—- —-««

There was no way to tell the time where they were.

The cold damp of the Capitol basement was unnerving. Silas's elbows dug into Valle's side. Her joints ached against the hard concrete. They could have been there for any stretch of time and they would be none the wiser to the turning of the days; the small grate on the door opened infrequently, tiny plastic water bottles shoved through. There was no rhyme or reason to when they came. Sometimes it seemed as if one delivery was right after the other. It was on purpose, Silas reckoned, to disorientate them and throw them off. Valle agreed, and she couldn't deny that it was working.

There were never enough bottles for all of them—that would be too kind—but they managed somehow; occasionally a pair of disembodied arms would hold a mostly-empty bottle out to Valle and Silas, who would take it silently and split whatever was left. Even so, Valle's mouth was drier than powdered milk.

Her head permanently throbbed. Her throat was scratchy. Silas had given her the jumper he had worn to the reaping to help, yet she was still cold. Sometimes, after she had been awake for far too long and exhausted any and all other thoughts, she found herself willing the Hunger Games to hurry up: it felt as if anything would be better than another second of this.

It reminded her too much of the war. Something that was supposed to be in the past. Before the evacuations and the wagons that carted the kids off to the edges of the forests, all five of the Cerris' would cram into their tiny, damp, basement. Valle and Silas would bicker, Tulla would cry, and their parents would sit with the radio between them and hang onto every word that spewed from it. It wasn't a time that Valle wanted to go back to—getting her into the basement in the first place was almost like pulling a tooth.

Every time they emerged from it, when the radio said it was safe, their district would be unrecognisable. Even Tulla, at three years old, knew that the plumes of smoke dotting the skyline were bad. Their parents didn't even try to convince them otherwise.

The hopelessness that swirled in her chest was all too familiar. Valle had felt it back then, too, pushed up against Silas as the bombs whistled in the distance. There was nothing she could do to change any of it. She was there and now she was here. And not once had she ever been given a choice—

"Are you okay?" Silas's curled knuckle brushed a tear from her cheek. A rhetorical question, really. He knew the answer before he even asked.

"It's not fair." Valle only just managed to swallow down a sob. "None of this is fair."

"I know." Silas said. His shoulders slumped.

Valle snivelled. She tried to wipe the tears away, but they were coming faster than she could hide them. Silas drew in a quivering breath.

"You know what we have to do, don't you?" He asked. The loaded question weighed heavily on Valle's shoulders. There could be no mistake; the gore-laden broadcast last year had displaced anything remotely close to wishful thinking following the announcement. The Capitol stuck to their guns. Most of the kids last year had cowered at the barrels of them. Valle and Silas couldn't—wouldn't. But what they would have to do would never sit right with either of them.

"I don't want to."

"I don't want to either." Silas's breath tickled her ear as he leaned in close. "But it's— we have to. And it— it's different when you're doing it to survive."

"Is it?" Valle looked up at him. Even though they were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the darkness still swallowed most of his features.

"I think so." He pressed his lips together. "And if it isn't, we can pretend it is. No one can tell us differently."

Valle hiccupped. She couldn't see any of them through the pitch dark, but something within her told her that the tributes around them would disagree with him. Something also told her that they would be hypocrites. The Capitol gave them no other options. In fact, they would give them every chance to kill each other and more.

There was a reason that access to weapons came before the tributes' access to food.

»»—- —-««

The Peacekeepers came in what Valle thought was the middle of the night.

She was jarred awake by a long, ear-splitting, screech of metal on concrete. Silas's fingers seized her wrist. That was what really made her panic; the fear written plainly over his face as a white sterilised light flooded in from the hallway.

"Now?" She wondered if her brother could hear her hammering heart. She grasped his arm. "Silas, I'm not ready!"

"Find me." Silas murmured. The first Peacekeepers had started to trickle in, pulling curled tributes from the ground with what seemed like no care in the world. "That's what you do first, okay, V?"

"Silas—"

"Find me."

When two Peacekeepers started towards them, cuffs and blindfolds ready, they could do nothing but try and shrink away. The rough stone wall dug into Valle's shoulder blades as she pushed against it. Her leg flashed out, connecting with the closest Peacekeeper's shin. He retaliated by pulling her from the ground by her hair.

Her brother's fingers gripped her wrist so tightly that they left bruises in their wake when the two of them were ripped apart. Her arms were twisted in front of her, wrists cuffed, and the last thing she saw before the blindfold stole her sight was a Peacekeeper smashing Silas's head into the wall.

»»—- —-««

The Hunger Games hadn't begun, but the killing had.

Valle didn't see it. She wasn't even in the arena when it happened. She was blinded, half-stumbling behind the Peacekeeper pulling her, when the faint sound of gunfire was heard. Her stomach sank; she had no idea what direction it had come from. What if it was Silas? What if he had struggled enough that the Peacekeeper decided he wasn't worth the effort or dragging into the arena? She tried to pull against the iron grip on her wrists, but she was a twelve-year-old girl, and she was no match for a grown man.

She was tugged into the fresh air, her pleas to check on her brother falling on deaf ears. Valle was nothing but panic; trembling from limb to limb like a leaf in the wind as she felt fresh air wash over her. Coming from the stuffy and mildewy basement, it should have been a relief—she remembered her mom bursting into tears once, stepping out into the sun after a long stretch in their basement at the beginning of the war—but all it did was further fan the panic roaring through her veins. Every nerve in her body was alight.

She was tugged unceremoniously forward before the Peacekeeper barked at her to stop moving. When he removed the cuffs around her wrists, Valle didn't even dare to rub the sore skin. The blindfold came off next.

The first thing Valle noticed was that the arena was the same as last year's. The second thing was the bodies.

Six of the tributes were sprawled out across the grass. Double the casualties from last year. Except this time, the countdown hadn't even begun. None of the bodies were her brother, that was the only thing she knew; their names and districts were lost to her and the basement they'd only just left. She hadn't paid attention to the whispers of anyone who wasn't her brother. Nobody could blame her for that.

The last few peacekeepers and tributes emerged into the arena. Valle's heart soared the moment she caught sight of her brother, bloody but alive. The moment his blindfold was removed, his eyes danced from one tribute to another until they found hers. Relief melted across his face.

At the blaring of the horn, they ran to each other.

»»—- —-««

"Silas!" Valle's hair whipped around her face. She'd never run so hard or fast in her life. Her brother was the one to reach her first, enveloping her in the briefest of hugs before he surged forward to pull something from the grass.

The sight of him with a weapon in hand left a sour taste in Valle's mouth. He turned towards her, cheeks flushed with fear and exertion. There were no words said to each other, only a sombre understanding; Silas pulled her further in, again, and soon he was pressing something into her hands, too.

The club was heavy. Valle's hands gripped the handle and it didn't take an expert to realise that she was out of her depth. But there was nothing else near them; the other weapons were already in the hands of their competitors, and the sword Silas was holding wouldn't be any better for her.

"We'll find something better for you," Silas panted. "Later, okay?"

Valle's throat was so tight with panic that she couldn't manage any words. Instead she nodded. Blood beaded on Silas's bottom lip where his teeth worried at the cracked skin.

"Stay close to me." He said. Valle nodded again. "We need food. Then we'll be out of here, I promise."

As if he could sense Valle's hesitance to go anywhere near the fray, his grip on her wrist tightened and he dragged her after him. Every ounce of sense within her body told her to turn tail and run, but she couldn't leave her brother alone. She wouldn't.

The other tributes were working on their own. That gave her and her brother the advantage; two was always better than one, even if those two were completely inept with the weapons they had. All Valle had to do was hit and keep hitting.

Silas kept pushing forward. Valle did her best to keep an eye on those around them, ready to warn her brother if anybody got too close. It felt like an age before they reached the food-topped tables. Valle felt bile rise in her throat as faded red splatters caught her attention across the table cloth. The Capitol hadn't even bothered to buy a new one between Hunger Games.

Her brother started grabbing. Anything his fingers could reach, he took. Valle joined him. She didn't want to risk a second trip back here—she'd watched with bated breath how that had turned out last year. The longer they were able to stay away, the better.

"Valle!" Silas's voice was sharp with panic. She knew something was wrong the second her name left his mouth; he never used her full name. Before she could react, his hand flashed out to grab her wrist, pulling her forward so suddenly and forcefully that pain flared from her shoulder and down towards her elbow. She screamed, but it was lost in the loud splintering of the table. Valle spun around. The head of an axe was buried in the table near where she had just been standing.

Her veins sung with adrenaline. Silas let go of her hand, his arm held out in front of her chest, pushing her backwards. The tribute who'd tried to kill her was trying desperately to wrench the axe free from the wood.

"No fucking chance," Silas growled. His sword pierced through the boy's back, faster than Valle thought was possible. He struggled to pull it out, but when he did a thick river of blood soaked the boy's shirt and he keeled forward onto the table before flopping lifelessly onto the ground.

»»—- —-««

Valle couldn't stop looking at the crust of blood on Silas's sword.

He didn't say anything to her afterwards. She couldn't even meet his eyes. He'd taken her wrist again, and they'd hauled ass as fast as they could away from the tables and towards the wall. A few had still been battling it out; Valle watched from a distance as a boy slit the throat of a girl who couldn't be much older than her, but eventually the bloodshed drew to an end, and an uneasy silence settled across the survivors, waiting and watching for whatever the next move would be.

Valle's hands tightened and untightened around the handle of her club. She'd wanted to grab the axe from the table, but there wasn't time. It wasn't like it would be any more familiar to her; the only time she'd held one was years ago, when she insisted on "helping" her father chop the firewood. He let her believe that she was the one doing the heavy lifting and swinging, and then he had told her that under no circumstances should she ever touch an axe without an adult around. She wondered what he would have to say about it now.

"Do you remember the story Dad used to tell us?" Valle asked Silas, sotto voce. She knew that none of the other tributes would be able to hear her if she spoke at a normal volume, they were all spread out across the perimeter of the wall, but it felt wrong to do anything but murmur. "The one about the boy who dropped the axe on his foot?"

"He had to buy separate pairs of socks in different sizes." Silas nodded. "Your feet are a lot smaller when you don't have toes."

"Do you think it was true?"

"People have lost a lot more than their toes to axes, V."

"True." She laid the club on the grass next to her, leaning forward to rest her chin on her knees. "I almost lost my head."

"You almost lost your life." Silas's jaw clenched. "What kind of bastard tries to kill a twelve-year-old?"

"One who wants to go home," Valle answered. She'd been mulling it over for a while, once the adrenaline and the shock had worn off. If she wanted to believe that her brother wasn't a monster for killing someone, she couldn't pretend that the others were monsters for doing (or trying to do) the same. "You want to go home."

"Are you calling me a bastard?"

"If the shoe fits." Silas huffed in response. Valle sighed. "C'mon, you know I was joking, Si." Her brother didn't respond that time, staring down at the bloody sword. Valle reached out and placed a hand on his arm. It felt weird to be the one comforting him; it had always been the other way around. "It's different here," she said. "It's not— it's like you said in the Capitol. It's not really murder if you're doing it to survive."

"It doesn't feel different." Silas huffed.

"How would you know? You've never—"

"Inside," he said. "It doesn't feel different inside."

"Again, how would you know?" Valle moved, kneeling at her brother's side, taking his hands in hers. She brushed her thumb over his knuckles, just like he had always done to try and comfort her. "You're not a bad person. You were just protecting me. That's what all good older brothers do."

His eyes were filled with tears. "I love you, V."

"I love you too." She leaned into a hug and buried her face into the crook of his neck, that way he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes, too. "Remember what else Dad used to tell us? Bad people don't worry about being a bad person."

»»—- —-««

The boy approached with his hands up.

The afternoon had whittled down into evening. Everybody had stayed, for the most part, where they had found themselves after the start of the Hunger Games. Nobody moved. Nobody made a peep.

Valle had almost fallen asleep, her head lolling on Silas's shoulder. A few more minutes and she would've been in dreamland. At first, she thought that she was imagining the footsteps. One eye fluttered open.

She definitely wasn't imagining the shadow that slowly edged her way.

She startled, alerting Silas who had also been starting to doze off. A dangerous move on their part, Valle realised belatedly; the boy had managed to get closer than she was comfortable with without either of them noticing. Both of them brandished their weapons towards him and he stopped immediately.

"I'm sorry," he apologised. His hands were shaking. "They— They told me to come."

"Who?" Silas asked.

"The PKs." The boy looked over his shoulder, back the way he came. "They said they were bored. They said they'd shoot me if I didn't come over here."

It dawned on Valle slowly. Judging by the look on Silas's face when she looked over her shoulder, he had clocked the implications before she had.

"Do they want us to kill you?" She asked quietly. She looked the boy up and down. He looked like he was Silas's age, gangly and still growing into his limbs. He was bigger than Valle—obviously—but he wasn't a threat; he didn't have a weapon. How were they supposed to kill someone without a weapon? The boy with the axe was different. He had been trying to kill them first.

"They want us to fight." The boy nodded grimly. "I don't have a weapon, so if you're going to do it, do it quick—"

"We're not." Silas said. The agonising frown he wore made him look like he was in pain. "Go back. We don't want to get dragged into this."

"They'll shoot me." The boy said. He took a step forward and Valle backed up instinctively. "And I'd rather die to you than them."

"Silas." Valle murmured. She nudged him, nodding to the top of the wall. Judging by the amount of guns pointed their way, if they didn't comply, the Peacekeepers wouldn't just shoot the boy. Her brother's face paled.

"V, give him your club."

"What?!"

Silas wrenched it from her grip, throwing it down at the boy's feet. "I'm not fighting you without a weapon," he said. "If we're going to fight then it has to be fair." He turned his back on the boy for a second, opening his mouth to say something to Valle, and there was no time for either of them to realise his mistake before the club cracked into the side of his head.

»»—- —-««

"He said fair!" Valle screeched. Silas dropped to the floor seconds after the hit. He was still conscious; fresh blood seeping down the side of his face, his eyes screwed shut, his eyebrows pinched together as he grimaced in pain. All Valle could take away was that he was still alive. Every instinct within her screamed to go to him, but the rational side of her brain knew that she couldn't.

The other boy still had her club and he clearly wasn't interested in fighting fair.

Valle surged forward. She pulled Silas's sword from the grass. It was lighter than the club, a brief surprise, but she didn't have any time to dwell on it before she was running to the boy she now had no qualms about killing. Maybe once the adrenaline wore off, or the night closed in, she would feel differently about it, just like Silas had. But for now Valle couldn't think about anything other than getting rid of the threat in front of her. It was like the boy with the axe all over again. Silas had been watching her back. Now she had to watch his.

Her first swing missed. It was too wide, too clumsy. She fought to keep her balance afterwards. Her second swing caught the fabric of the boy's t-shirt. Closer. She just had to get closer. If she could just hit him, she could figure out what to do from there.

Except the boy took her by surprise again. She'd expected him to try and hit her with the club; to try and block her swings, or maybe even to go toward Silas, still on the floor. But he ran at her. Taken off guard, Valle couldn't even manage a single swing before his body crashed into hers and the two of them hit the ground. She hadn't had much of a grip on the sword in the first place, and she wasn't as surprised as she was frustrated when it flew out of her hand and left her weaponless. Again.

Valle immediately went for the face. There was no way that she could try and wiggle out of this one; the boy was a lot heavier than her, his weight pinning her to the ground. Her parents had always been clear: back when she and Silas used to playfight, they were never ever allowed to go for the face. Here, it was all Valle could think of to do—and she wouldn't feel bad about it; the boy had been the one to play dirty in the first place.

She clawed at his cheeks; jabbed her thumbs into his eyes. He hadn't seemed to make his mind up about what he was going to do to her, and she used his split-second hesitance to her advantage. He hissed in pain, grabbing her wrists with both of his hands.

Both of his hands.

Valle gasped. The boy had let go of her wrists, furiously blinking his watery eyes. He batted away her left hand easily as she tried to go for round two, and she tried again and again as her fingers on her right hand desperately brushed the top of her club, just within her reach. It took a few tries for her to inch it towards her; there was no way for her small hands to grab the top, and not enough time for her to find the handle, but once she was able to grip it and lift it from the ground it didn't matter where she was holding it. Her swing wasn't masterful, nor strong; the element of surprise was all Valle thought that she needed.

The handle of the club thudded into the boy's shoulder and he cried out with shock. She tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but she hadn't hit hard enough to throw him off, and now he knew her plan.

Before she could work out something else to do, there was a horrible cracking sound. The boy atop of her arched backward slightly, before he fell on top of her. Something wet glistened on the back of his head; Valle realised belatedly that it must be blood.

"V!" Silas's voice was just as shaky as he was. Both of his hands were wrapped around the handle of his sword, the bottom of it stained with blood that had to have come from the boy's head. He pulled the boy off of her, dropping down to his knees, ashen faced with the exertion.

Valle's hands scrabbled across his clothing; fistful after fistful, sobs coming fast as she clung desperately to any piece of her brother she could reach. Her hands found his face; fingers tracing the skin and the blood—he was alive. Both of them were.

But so was the boy.

Valle sucked in a rattling breath, turning her head to look at him, to confirm it. Silas had only knocked him out; his chest was still rising and falling. She untangled herself from her brother, took a few steps forward, and picked up her club.

She had to do this. For herself, for Silas, for the guns that were still trained on the three of them. I just have to hit and keep hitting.

And she did.

»»—- —-««

In so little time, everything had changed.

Two weeks ago, Valle had played dolls with Tulla. She'd complained about school, and turned her nose up at the vegetables on her plate during dinner. She'd resisted tidying her room. She'd stomped around, like a kid Tulla's age, when her mother refused to let her sleep over at her friend's house on a school night.

Now, she was sitting here with blood on her hands. A murderer, in the eyes of the Capitol. Maybe even to some in the districts. She'd heard what the Capitol had to say about Elina last year, about any of the kids who'd killed at any point in the Hunger Games. They were barbarians; monsters. It was why the Capitol had to fight the war; the people of the districts were savages. They had to be put in their place.

"If they're willing to do that to the people like them, just imagine what they would do to us," the voice of one of the eccentrically-dressed presenters echoed around her skull. "There's no end to their cruelty."

She wondered what they were saying about her and Silas right now. About any if the tributes still remaining. She and her brother were not the only ones forced into action that evening; there were only five of them now, and every single one of them was alive by the skin of their teeth. The Capitol were probably having fun, tarnishing all of their names with the same brush. Murderers. Animals. Inhuman.

Never children. Never victims.

She and Silas shared a small bag of trail mix for dinner. Unsurprisingly ,neither of them were very hungry. As darkness settled across the arena, Silas was the one to fall asleep first. Valle leaned against him. The darkness here was better than the one in the basement; she could still see their immediate surroundings. Periodically she would tighten her grip on her club. It made her feel better, knowing that it was at her side. She'd never let herself be weaponless again.

She couldn't stop her mind from circling back. There had been no time for her to process it as it was happening; the boy was on top of her, and she was defenceless, and Silas was down, and things were bad. Things were real bad. If the boy hadn't hesitated; if her brother hadn't found the strength to get to his feet, Valle would be dead. Back at the tables, if Silas hadn't pulled her forward, she would be dead.

And Valle had barely lived; twelve years wasn't enough for anyone . Especially not when a war stole away years as easily as taking candy from a baby; she'd blinked, and her childhood was gone. Old enough to ask questions that her parents couldn't hide the answers to. Old enough to remember District Seven before. Valle's childhood was a casualty of every bomb blast, every bullet. A casualty of the sword balanced on her brother's lap, and the club at her side, and the axe, and the boy—

She would never be a child again. Not in the way that her friends were; not in the way Tulla would still grow up to be, despite her rocky start. The realisation made her chest seize.

Either way the Hunger Games went, Valle would end up dead or haunted.

In the hours it took for Silas to start stirring, Valle wasn't able to decide what option would be kinder.

»»—- —-««

There were no dreams to welcome Valle once she finally fell asleep, but that didn't mean that she slept soundly. Silas was always there when she awoke, gasping for air with her heart hammering so hard she was certain that the microphones would be able to pick up the sound. Every time he would calm her down, running his hands through her hair, or tracing circles on the back of her hand. Valle clung to him, cried to him, and then she'd eventually fall back asleep. And the cycle would repeat.

It had to be mid-morning by the time she decided she'd had enough. It was overcast, a thin mist of rain slowly soaking the arena. Valle sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and Silas simply watched her, worrying the cracked skin on his bottom lip some more.

"Did anything happen?" The silence was almost oppressive, and Valle couldn't take any more of it. Her eyes danced across the wall, from one remaining tribute to the other. She frowned. There had been three before she fell asleep. "Who killed the blonde girl?"

Silas pointed straight across to the brunette girl opposite them. "Her," he said. "An hour ago, maybe. I think everybody is starting to get antsy; we're past the length of last year's Hunger Games."

"It'll be today, won't it?"

"I think so."

Valle's palms prickled. It was hard to believe it had only been a little more than a day since she and her brother were thrust into the grim chaos. A little more than a day, and she had nearly died twice, and she had killed once, and in maybe a matter of hours, she and her brother could be dead or dying. She had tried not to think about it so far; how, even in the best case scenario, only one of them would make it home. It was a painful thought, raw and tender, that made her wince and grimace the moment Silas looked away.

"How are we going to choose?" The words fell from her lips unbidden, tumbling out clumsily into the air of the arena. Silas's jaw clenched, but he didn't dare turn to look at her. She could see his throat tightening.

"I don't know." He admitted.

It should be him, Valle knew it should. He had saved her here, both times. He was better with Tulla; gentle and kind and more soothing than Valle could ever hope to be. He had always made their parents proud. It should be him. Yet, Valle couldn't let go of the selfish urge to think that she deserved to live as well.

»»—- —-««

The brunette girl died from a Peacekeeper's bullet.

Silas was the one to notice her talking to them. Her voice wasn't loud enough to carry over to where they were, but he'd noted her body language and how agitated she'd seemed as the helmeted Peacekeepers gathered at the top of the wall. Valle watched with a sour taste in her mouth; she knew what it meant. The Hunger Games were drawing to a close whether she wanted them to or not.

Valle was already trembling when the gunshot resonated through the arena and the girl hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Neither of them had been expecting it; instead, they'd been readying themselves for a fight. Instinctively, the moment Silas had nudged his head in the girl's direction, Valle's hands had wrapped themselves around her club. Her brother had been ready to spring to his feet the moment the girl even looked over at them—they both knew that they couldn't be caught off guard again. But then the girl was dead, and for a split-second there was relief, until they realised that she was not their only threat.

Valle's head snapped to her right, where the only other tribute had started to rise. She was suddenly breathless, anxiety lacing her chest so tight that she could only wheeze. She could feel the blood draining from her face. When Silas helped her to her feet, Valle felt as if she would fall with a single step.

"It's okay, V," Silas said, even though his voice was shaking, too. "Hey. It's okay."

Tears fell hot and fast down her flushed cheeks. She couldn't do anything but cry.

Silas was the one who stepped forward, his chin held high, his blade at his side. He was unwavering; resolute as the clash of metal pierced Valle's ears and she fumbled backwards, hands scrabbling for purchase amongst the slick blades of grass. Her mind was screaming, she was screaming.

She was letting her brother down.

She needed to help him.

The realisation came too late. Valle was halfway through staggering to her feet when the girl's cleaver tore into her brother's gut, her last act as his sword pierced her middle. His agonised howl permeated the air, propelling Valle forward and forward in a blind burst of panic until she was there.

"No, no, no!"

Dread rooted itself deep. There was nothing Valle could do; the gash across her brother's abdomen was deep, soaking his shirt and her hands in blood. She tore off her jacket, futilely balling it up in an effort to staunch the thick flow.

"Silas, no. No." His eyes were glassy and unfocused. She was dimly aware of the girl beside him, dying on her own. She couldn't find it within herself to care. Somehow, amidst the multitude of his pain, Silas smiled. His blood-soaked fingers trembled against Valle's wet cheeks; he drew a shallow, quivering breath.

"Hey," he rasped. "At least we didn't have to choose."

At the very end of it all, Valle proved herself to be a coward. Her brother—her hero—paid the ultimate price.

For weeks afterwards, her parents couldn't look at her. And when they started to, Valle wished that they wouldn't; eyes were the window to the soul, after all, and she saw their disgust with every passing glance: monster, animal, inhuman.

Valle steeled herself for the insults of the Capitol and their late-night panel shows. She hid from the stares and disapproval of her District. It was easier to distance herself; they didn't know her. They never would.

But the judgement from the ones that she loved buried itself deep under her skin, bloomed across her ribcage, snaked its way through her veins. And after a while, it was easier for her to just believe it. Valle was tired of fighting.


TIME LASTED: 28 hours, 14 minutes.
VICTOR: Valle Cerris, District Seven.
VICTOR KILLS: One.


Beginning quote by Carl Sagan.

So, this one kind of took it's own path as I was writing. I have the majority of these twenty-four Hunger Games plotted out, and so far I've been good at sticking with what I've planned, but this one kind of went off the rails a little bit. It was originally supposed to be from Silas's POV-up until the past few weeks, he was always my Victor between the two-but that did him little good. Unfortunately the pieces just clicked this way, and I'm incredibly sorry for the pain caused to both of these fictional children.

I hope this chapter raises some questions (and I hope some of the upcoming ones answers them). I had some fun little world-building tidbits in here, I think. My biggest challenge was figuring out how to shoehorn in some early stages of "Gamemaker" intervention, but I think using the Peacekeepers works. And it it doesn't then, well, we're stuck with it for the foreseeable future anyway. Eventually I want to go a little further into what war was like in the Districts; it's easy mentioning things like District Seven's evacuations in passing, but I think going into full detail is a task for a separate, info-dumpy, work.