Façade: The 157th Annual Hunger Games

by TheRaichuinRavenclaw

A flowery valley, a fairytale forest, a castle made of pure marble, and more. But it is all a façade. Façade: An outward appearance maintained to conceal unpleasantness. And the reality is far worse than unpleasant. Horrible creatures of the night prowl, in and out of the arena. The Capitol is in turmoil after the last year's catastrophe, but no one knows it. A façade. Closed SYOT!

31. The Launch

Konani Sowka, 15, District Five Female

This night has passed by as if some twisted lord of time or fate has been fiddling pausing and fast-forwarding it like the television set in my room, still running strong as meaningless, unintelligible dialogue runs on loop wastefully and the blue light wears down on my tired eyes.

There have been those split-second instances of euphoria, heartbeats where I cannot find anything but ecstasy, before I get reminded of the hand that I have been dealt. But even then, the light still never did fade away very fast, and I can still feel in swelling up in my chest now and lifting my chest up to sit straight, because Elior was there with me. The Banquet was not that miserable, because he was there, and we danced, and that night I experienced something, some marvelous sensation still floating around inside of me stubbornly, that I have never felt before. The sponsors were an afterthought, because all that I saw, all that I cared about, was him. I should be disgusted by myself for how cheesy that sounds and how much I loved being in my dress for the Banquet and having Elior's hands on my waist, however sweaty they were. Every tomboyish notion was thrown out the window then, but I doubt that girly girls from District Five stand much of a chance at winning.

Because, of-course, these are my final moments before being plunged into the arena, I remember. And just like that, the cheery cloud that I was resting on has dissipated into smoke. Or, it should have, because I steel feel myself riding upon its fluffy back as it obstinately resists the pulling vacuum of what should be reality below. This is reality, too, I tell myself, but as I rub my sleepless eyes for what must be the hundredth time tonight—no, this morning now, the sun is rising, more threatening than I ever thought that it could be—my happy cloud makes way for looming gray abominations upon the sky, ominously vibrating with bottled up wrath. I am more than worried or distraught, I am shaken, and shaking, with the panic of what is to come. My head is in a guillotine, only the blade of death is just waiting to slice down at my neck.

Last night, after Atlas sent us to bed and Elior was gone, was filled with those agonizing pauses in time when a minute went by every hour and my eyes were glued open with distress. The only relief came in the form of those fifteen-minute blinks of sleep that happened in an instant, ruptured by fear, not nightmares but just barely unwholly-consuming terror. Unwholly consuming, because even the power of terror could be matched by that strange buzzy feeling, not the butterflies in my stomach but the butterflies in my chest, even if it was just a candle in an abyssal, abysmal black.

The bed felt empty last night without Ziv, my brother and my confidant. It has felt empty since I left District Five, but especially last night, even more so than that first night on the train when I cried myself to a sleep that came much too late to be of any sort of benefit. I smack myself now for being so dependent on others for love and support, and allowing them to become so dependent on me, considering there is no way more than one person will win this year, but I would not have had it any other way.

"Ziv…" I squeak out.

I am furious at myself for only thinking of him in the morning after hours of writhing in a cold and barren bed afraid for myself, and afraid for some boy that I met a week ago as much as I would be if one of them was here in my place. I should be nobler than that. I am frightened for him now. Hopefully Robert, or Sherman, or Taiki, or Brecht has been keeping him company while I am away. They must all be so worried about me. I want to believe so badly that they will all survive without me, just one number out of eight, but the distress I feel for them illogically parallels, maybe even usurps what I feel for myself. I am afraid of the grief that they will feel if and when I die, and afraid of what they will think if I throw my life away for some boy that I hardly know, and afraid of the very real possibility of me doing that, and afraid of what will happen if I do, and also what will happen if I don't, and, confusingly, afraid of the way the balloon of undying optimism carrying me through it all refuses to burst.

There was another reason that I felt so lonely in my bed last night, however gross it is to confront. I wanted Elior with me, more than I wanted Ziv, more than just a brother, more than just a warm body for extra comfort, more than I have ever wanted anything before in my short life. It kept me up. Through the cold wind biting my bare shoulders and sliding through my silk pajamas to the unbearable, emotional anxiety blanketed on me by sheets on top of sheets, I wanted Elior for it all.

Fully energized once again by the agitation of self-reflection that sleepless nights always seem to bring in the morning, I rise from the bed for the last time. I decide to wait for my shower until after I eat, so I venture straight out the door and towards the smell of breakfast. Elior is somehow already there, and we are alone, since it is so early.

"Good morning," I greet, smiling as warmly as I can.

"G'mornin'," he says. "You ready?" he questions, but quickly regrets it, and his face flushes with red that I pretend not to notice as I pile my plate.

His question has hastily smothered whatever life our conversation could have had, but I cannot blame him. We are poised to be locked in a massive deathtrap that will probably claim both of our lives in the coming days, after all. As I scoop bacon onto my plate and press three muffins against my chest (It is odd how today, of all days, is the first one I actually have an appetite, and a voracious one, at that.), I have to pinch myself, just to make sure that this nightmare, and this dream-like state of reality, is real. Yes, it is. With that acute second of pain comes a realization: my family will be devastated if I lose, and so, no matter how much Elior charms me, those bonds are worth more than something that will end in tragedy any way that it is spun. The thought flickers in my mind that Elior's family treats him like dirt, and mine loves me almost as much as I love them, so why should he see his again instead of me? And then I pinch myself again, this time hard and unrelenting, until I draw tears, not of pain but of remorse and love, and they well up in my eyes. I blink them away. How dare I have the malice to even think a thought as selfish as that? How dare I be so self-centered that I try to justify valuing my own life over someone else's? I am better than that, and Elior is better than that, just some dismissal of his right to life because he does not have as many people back home who need him.

Delicately balancing food on my plate, I turn over to sit beside Elior, but as I glance over, I see him stooped and red-faced. As I approach him, I see tears quietly falling, droplets making circles in the bowl.

"Elior?"

His head twitches for a moment, like he wants to look at me, but it stops, and he shrinks away, embarrassed. As I place my plate beside him and sit down, he stutters out:

"Y-yes, I'm crying."

"There is nothing wrong with crying," I say.

I cup his face in my hands, spinning it to face me, so that I am sure that he can see where my tears dried up only seconds ago.

"Yes, there is," Elior argues, frantically wiping away his tears before I grab hold of his wrists. "I don't want themto see me like this. They don't root for criers, let alone pukers and sweaty nerds! And I don't want you to see me like this."

"Elior, I don't care how I see you. And I don't care if you cry. I'm crying too, see?"

The tears start to run heavier down my cheeks, because it stings to see Elior like this, it hurts on a level deeper than I ever should have let it reach. But there is no stopping now, not now that I have seen him like this, not after the last week has been Heaven in some twisted way because he has been here by my side. But of-course there is stopping us, maybe even as soon as a few hours. I let out a pitiful moan, and we both move to embrace each other at the same time, neither of us holding back. All of a sudden, Elior falls to the floor, his chair giving way underneath his unbalanced weight, and I descend with him, not letting go. Our food is left forgotten.

"But it's different with you," Elior says, laughing ironically through his anguish. "You're a… a…"

"A girl? What does that matter, Elior? Have you, in the brief eternity that we have known each other, even known me to act like a fragile little princess?" I ask him softly.

"No, but—"

"Elior, has it ever occurred to you that I am not staying with you because I think that you are brave, and strong, and you will protect me to the end? I am staying with you because you are you, and you are kind, and empathetic, and charming, and vulnerable, and so much better than any of the other boys."

Elior, through his wide green eyes, beams at me. And now, we are getting so close to that special word, 'love'. Elior senses it, too. And as crazy as it sounds, after only knowing him for seven days, I think I do. My mind flashes back to those few hours of utter release and splendor as we danced together last night, nothing like anything that I have ever felt before, and the remaining happiness that is keeping me from caving in on myself right now. But I cannot love Elior Gobel more than I love my family. My heart begins to pump fast, out of fear for Elior, and for Ziv and all of my other brothers and sisters back home, and for myself, and my own evil fate.

In the ensuing silence, both of us know what the other is feeling. We just cannot admit it to ourselves yet. Or, at least, I cannot admit it to myself, because I am supposed to fight through this, and see my family again, and rescue them from poverty and starving to death, and rescue all of District Five from it as well. But here is Elior, that maddening wrench in everything barely resembling a plan that I can scramble together out here, and—good lord—I do love him for it. That is what that feeling it, that which makes me bounce through the hallway, and makes my heart swell and, makes me, by resolve and optimism, invincible. It is love, love in that way that I could never feel for any of my siblings, love so much weaker, and greater, and crueler than anything that I could ever feel for any of my siblings back home.

"I'm so scared," Elior says, voice cracking as he breaks the tense quiet.

"Me too," I agree. "But I have had this feeling ever since I met you, Elior, that things would somehow turn out alright for us, maybe even better than alright. And I'm not all scared, because I know that there is still a future for us—for each of us out there."

That is only half of the truth, because things will not turn out alright for us, one way or another.

"You think that I don't want it to turn out alright? You think that I don't want the ending to be out of some sort of fairy tale, even if it sounds outlandish and ridiculous when I say it out loud? I have been hoping and praying for that for my entire life, and it has never come true."

Elior moans, and for a moment he tries to distance himself from me, but he pulls himself back into my arms faster than I can react.

"And for a second I knew that I got it, or a part of it," he goes on, looking me meaningfully in the eyes, "and I was foolish enough to think that the rest would be mine, too. My whole life, excess and meaningless abuse, all to culminate in this, after I thought that it would end up magically better someday. And it was, for a while, but I was so stupid to think that it could last!"

"Why can't it last, Elior? Why can't we just try and pretend like the end will never come? It will always come, but for us, it is just a bit rushed. But, remember what I said in my interview? 'Take it as it comes'."

I must sound delusional to him, because I certainly do to myself. Why can I not bear to be confronted with the fact that only one of us can win, and one of us will almost definitely watch the other die, maybe even kill each other? Whatever carried me out of bed and down the hall this morning is gone now, because Elior himself is holding me up in its place, and me him. We are two beings wrapped up to form one cocoon, one ironic place for supposed warmth that one brings sorrow surrounded by sorrow that looks like it should bring warmth. And though we are already so intimate, I cannot conjure those enchanting, monumental words from my mouth, so we are stuck in some sort of limbo of comfort, sadness, awkwardness, and overwhelming dread without the promise of relief and joy that love should bring. And so, I am left to bullshit out random attempts at inspiration, hoping that something sticks to the wall.

"How can I take it as it comes when every night, I picture myself dead, my own bloody, mutilated corpse, all my guts hanging out for the country to see?"

His sudden outburst takes me aback, and I scramble to me knees out of reflex. He must see me grimace as that very same heart horrific, heartbreaking picture clamps onto my mind like a virus, because he falters as he is about to go on and grabs me again:

"How can I take it as it comes when I think of you dying, and when I see you laying there dead instead of me. Konani, that is what I am most afraid of. Losing you, watching you die when I know that I could have done something to save you. If that happens, it all will fall apart. If that happens, I'll kill myself, Konani, I won't be able to bear it!"

I throw myself onto him. On paper, it should not be romantic, anything but. But I feel more electrified for that instant than I ever have, more than those heartbeats of euphoria on the dancefloor last night or anything that came before them. We are two skinny, malnourished kids, bodies heaving with racking sobs, faces wet and snotty, grimacing in sadness. But somehow, it is electrifying, in that special way touch but nothing more can be electrifying once you have let a person so far into your soul, and they have welcomed you so deep into theirs, that you are one in the same.

And then, Elior's words come crashing down, that stockade mercifully lifted for just one second before it is slammed back down on my neck and the guillotine is set into motion. He would kill himself for me. He would kill himself if he saw me die and had nobody left. And everything inside of me, all those seven screaming voices of my siblings trying to me heard over my and Elior's shared weeping, is urging me to resist the embracing the thought of doing the same, of resigning myself to the fate of some misguided girl who let love get in the way of what actually mattered. My family matters. Elior matters. Which one matters more? I am tempted to ignore the question, to throw myself off of Elior and pretend as if I never met him for my own life. But like I said, we are two people on in the same now. For now, because eventually one of us will be ripped away. My head only reaches his shoulders, wetness dripping from my face into Elior's shirt. My lips still have not reached his. My eyes see only the carpeted floor. Is this a sign? If it is, I want to defy it by kissing him right now.

As I make the move, Elior suggests, "Why don't we move to the couch? Probably a lot more accommodating than the floor, don't you think?"

"Yes," I admit meekly.

We move to the couch, and the moment is done. I am almost grateful, not disappointed, that Elior ended it. I am alert, and my mind is racing with fantasies and worst nightmares in synchronicity, which come with the morning nourishment that is powerful emotion, a sharp tea that cleanses the senses and prepares them for the troubling day ahead. Both of us are still clutching one another. We are left to reflect on the day ahead morbidly, emptily staring at the world around us as the fear begins to creep in more and more. The real tea sits unbothered on the table where I left it what seems like hours ago, completely untouched.

I care too much for other people. I know that it is my fatal flaw. I would not have buried myself in this mess otherwise. If I had distanced myself from Elior on that night on the train, gone to cry in my room, then none of this would have happened. Yes, it would have, who am I kidding. This is fate, looming fate that cackles as it pushes us closer to being devoured by its maw. But maybe fate is not all bad.

"You were right," Elior remarks, breaking the morning quiet. "We should just take it as it comes and wait for it to come to us. I just want to live in this peace forever. Until Atlas wakes up, we can."

"No," I challenge. "We cannot just keep on lying to ourselves, telling ourselves that our end will never come. We both know that the end is coming soon. Nothing lasts forever. That motto is just defunct, inept at describing what we are going through. So, I want to look ahead."

"What, and not focus on us now?"

"Focus on us now, plan for the inevitable."

Elior bristles nervously, and our serene reprieve from wailing in a tangled heap on the floor has been broken. I take his hand and squeeze tightly. I get a sense of that weightlessness he gave me last evening, that weightlessness that I have to keep close, that can never go away or else I will lose hope. In this bottomless pit of fear, it will always stay there, the stopper just barely not falling through the drain itself. I hope so desperately that it will carry, me, with carry one of us through to victory.

Hope. That is our only chance, now.

"Elior, neither of us are going to win if we pretend like we are in some magic world where we are untouchable. We need to plan for the rocky road ahead. And we need to face it head on. Together."

"Together," Elior says uncertainly, pleading for a moment before he sees the sturdy, assured expression on my face and nods.

This is going to be the worst experience of my life, bar none. But maybe, just maybe, if I focus on that light at the end of the rainbow, the implausible future that me and Elior will fight to tooth and nail for, it does not seem that bad. That is what I must tell myself as I stare forward into the treacherous path in front of us. And if the stars align for us two star-crossed lovers the way that they already have and fate decides to have mercy on us for once, things might just go as well as could be in the Hunger Games.

But until then, we must face fate and the future together.

Elior and I lock eyes, squeezing each other's hand as the same thought passes through our heads. We say it at the same time:

"Together."

---

Carroll Heinback, 16, District Six Male

"You shouldn't bother getting anything for me," Keeley calls from her chair as she sees me meticulously scooping all of the meat onto one plate and the sundry fruits and vegetables onto the other. "I don't think I have much of an appetite this morning."

"Nonsense!" I call out theatrically.

I choose not to heed her, going ahead and bringing the savory plate to her chair and bowing as she reluctantly accepts.

"You shouldn't have," Keeley grumbles as she starts to poke at a strawberry with no intent.

"Whoops! Sorry, I didn't see you there, miss! I thought that I set it in front of my own seat! Let me just take that from your care—"

Keeley snappishly swipes at my outstretched hand with her fork in good humor and then takes a stab at the strawberry, begrudgingly nibbling on it.

I feel a swell of pride, of that fulfillment that was so obviously missing last night, pumped back into me, like I have bit by bit. Keeley needs to stock up on calories to burn before our abandonment in some unknown wasteland, and I am the one who is motivating her to do it, using my tried and true method from the hospital. This is enough, I tell myself. I got Keeley to eat, and I got her to smile. I have somebody who I can help, even if I did utterly fail with any other tribute who I reached out to, and that should be enough, because only one of us can make it out alive, anyway. And that person will be… one of us. Because, of-course, there is no possible way that I can save twenty-three lives. Not Aleyn, and not Scylla. Not Helen. Not any of those children in the hospital who died while I danced for them, while I was but a mere rainbow-colored disturbance against the blank and disheartening white walls that imposed death. But Keeley is enough.

"Carroll is right," Honda comments from my left, facing Keeley. "You need to stock up, even if it seems pointless this last minute."

"Nothing is pointless this last minute," states Keeley. "Honda, why have we not talked more strategy? It feels like neither of us has learned anything, or, at least, I haven't."

Keeley eyes me nervously as Honda shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. None of this is Honda's fault. She has tried her best to work with both of us to varied avail. Nevertheless, I understand what Keeley is feeling. I am feeling it, too, that bone-chilling dread sucking all of the heat from my fingertips, at the same time sending shock waves through my body, making me jump at the slightest movement or tick. But I can keep it all hidden behind my visage, my own little façade, because that is what I have been honing my practice in for years. I know how to press a stubborn grin on my face and try to distract little dying children from their fates. I can keep on smiling through the pain until the pain goes away, because that is what I am best at, and I always succeed. The real pain never goes away, though. Keeley sure needs some positive reinforcement. So, all that I have to be happy for her and carry the both of us through on the shoulders of my own optimism, because how else can I help her or anyone beyond making her forget.

Forgetting right now is impossible, because in a few hours—no, even less—we are going to be belted into the hovercraft and driven off to face our dooms. There, we will be pitted against one another, and my juggling and corny jokes will be useless, unless, of-course, I am juggling with knives. The image flashes through my mind of watching my hand drive a dagger into a nameless tribute's back, listening to his raw, throat-raking, bloodcurdling screams until he dies. Maybe in self-defense, maybe running to save Keeley from some attacker. I have it in me, I tell myself, because if I repeat enough times then it will come true. At least, that is what I must tell myself, and tell Keeley, because she needs cheering up. Is cheering up not what I was put here to do?

"God, Honda what the fuck am I going to do when the gong rings?! Why did I just go to bed like an idiot instead of trying to discuss what we were going to do in the bloodbath?"

"You were sleepy," I cut in, trying some for some desperately needed humor.

Keeley glares at me, loathing and full of intent, for one moment before darting away. She glares at me with no restraint, no fondness, her eyes only lingering for a moment before they dart away like so half-crazed wild animal. If anything, the feeble attempt at lightening the mood only made her angrier. Keeley does not need me right now, and she certainly does not want me.

All of a sudden, I feel uninvited, hot, and stinging tears blurring my vision and steaming off of my cheeks. I breathe in a shaky, strangled gasp. All that I have left is myself, and my optimism, and my righteousness and morality, and those things simply will not cut it here. Keeley certainly just made that clear. I am completely purposeless. Honda does not notice me sniveling beside her. She is too focused on Keeley and wisely chooses to ignore the death stare that she sent my way. By crying, I feel so childish, so weak, the demure, naïve little clown that they all have labeled me as back home. I cannot help Keeley from this point onward, and I know in my heart, in my being, in all that I exist for, that I will never be able to kill another human being. The thought of that terrifies me, of being pinned down in the dirt with a knife within arm's reach and having the opportunity to turn the table forever on my assailant, of taking that opportunity and ending another human being's, and of not taking it.

I can hear the chorus resting on my shoulder, sensible and yet frenzied in the way of a mob, chanting for me to kill my attacker, and kill anyone in the way of my path to victory, regardless of who they are. But that poison—because, poison brought on by pressure and hysterics is what it must be, otherwise I am as villainous as the Capitol audience cheering and jeering me on—in my head feels so artificial, not me, but those who could not understand the notion of doing something at no reward for yourself telling me to "toughen up". No, on the other side of my collar, I can hear those familiar angels singing. Mom and Dad, encouraging me to do what is right; Helen, watching me from above, advising me to stay true to myself; Carmichael, fuming, showing me a blurry painting of a blurry patient and asking me if I want to cause this, if I want to play the Capitol's warped and sadistic game; Daisy, begging me to be moral, and kind, and true from her hospital bed. And throughout my entire life, that striving force, that integrity and idealism was kept me going through so many hardships, I feel like I am losing it, and, even worse, that with it or without it, I will not be able to stay alive.

"You and Carroll need to find each other," Honda states. "The second the countdown finishes, you jump off your plates and run to each other outside of the circle. Do not, I repeat: Do not run into the Bloodbath, you run towards water."

Keeley nods frantically, restrained tears threatening to come falling down her cheeks. She gives up on hiding them in her behind her crossed arms, slamming her elbows to the table and resting her chin on her hands. She looks ashamed.

I should help her. It takes everything in my force of being not to rush over to her side and give her a hug. But self-doubt is creeping in on me now at the least convenient moment that it ever could, and I picture Keeley's incensed, manic, split-second glare. Have I truly ever helped her, or has it all been acting and false friendship and coincidence? All that I did for Aleyn was drag him over to an awkward and disastrous round table for around two minutes and tack a name on his mental disorder. For Scylla, I accomplished even less. And I want so badly to help her, to help anybody, to do something decent, because if I cannot even succeed at that, then what am I?

"What next? What about if someone runs after us, then what do we do? What if we get dropped in a desert, or a tundra, or a fucking castle?" Keeley slams a fist into the glass irately.

Keeley is trying to transfer her despair into anger as a healthier manifestation of negative emotions. It is smart, if not a bit abrasive, and I wish that I could do it, but I can only feel anger at myself. I have not the energy to feel much of anything at this point, save depression. All of that drive and optimism and hope that has saved me countless times is crumbling to dust, slipping through my fingers like sand as the sand in my hourglass surely has almost all fallen to the bottom.

"Just adapt," Honda stresses, carefully selecting the word. "Go for coverage, and I will be able to get both of you your sponsor gifts early on."

"But what about—?"

"I'll be sure to deliver you everything that you could need if you encounter another tribute."

And in this first moment of self-pity since that desolate, despondent day on the trains, I reflect upon myself and am disgusted. How could I possibly so self-absorbed when I have stood by helpless, looking on as child after child dies an excruciating, drawn-out, inevitable death after weeks, months, sometimes entire lifetimes of being strapped to a bed with no semblance of freedom? At least I have a chance of escape, of life that will not be in the hands of doctors trembling from painkiller addictions. I have that chance, so I will not waste it on something minor, or something negative, or something useless and soon to be forgotten. Those tributes come and go every year who acts reluctant or squeamish about murdering and then have no qualms when push comes to shove or have their pleas fall on deaf ears and experience gruesome deaths. But I will not be one of them. No, I have been blessed with a good life up until this ruinous turn, but I can still keep my decency, and my valor, and my virtue, and I can still make good use of it. That would be so much more impactful, more inspiring to those children in the hospitals than going on a psychotic killing spree to prove my own strength. There is so much more to strength than just weapons and brawn.

Keeley seethes, but she takes a deep breath, trying to soothe her emotions. Good lord, why have I been so silent through her time of need after supporting her the whole way through?

"What should we do if we see another tribute?", she asks.

"It depends. If it is a career or a strong outlier alliance, run. And if it is a solitary tribute, maybe one who is injured or weak, then…"

Honda trails off into uncomfortable silence as she watches Keeley steel herself.

"Then we can take them in as one of our own and try to nurse them back to health," I finish with equal measures cheerfulness and defiance.

"No. Never take another ally if both of you are still alive and together. All you need is each other, and that is what the Capitol wants."

"What if they try to fight us?" Keeley asks, suddenly very faint.

"Fight back," Honda answers sternly. "Unless it's the Careers. Then run as fast as you can."

But that cannot be right, not for me. I can find my own way. Suddenly, I feel a burst of warmth and energy spread through me, defiant against the dark clouds that hangs hours away and every cold, heartless naysayer who believes that I cannot win my own way, the right way. It comes inexplicably, but magically all the same. But as I search deeper in my mind, it become obvious to me that no miracle send this bizarre peak, it was me, and that driving force of yearning to do something, to be fulfilled, to never lose that precious feeling obtained from spreading the light to others. I sound cheesy, even in my own head, but at this point, I have relinquished any faculty of inauthenticity or "sensible" logic, because that gives way to depression and pessimism.

Those are the very traits that Keeley is exemplifying now.

"What if we have no choice but the fight back?" Keeley bellows, her crust of tense indignation giving way into uncontrollable sobs. She keeps on going, launching question after question onto Honda while giving enough time only for a heaving breath. "You know that we won't be able to take them, we'll be dead! What if we're dying of thirst and nobody wants to send us water? What if we get separated, and we can't live without each other, and we both die? What if they see me like this, and they write me off as some emotional, naïve little girl? I'm not a little girl!"

"Keeley, if you just have faith, and do your best, then there is nothing to worry about," I interject.

"Yes, there fucking is, Carroll!"

Keeley's face falls down into her hands cupped on the table, and when she turns to me, all that I see is torment and resignation.

"Carroll, I love being around you and pretending like nothing is wrong, but something is wrong, and it seems like whenever we aren't joking, I'm crying on your shoulder. We can't just pray that everything will be alright and give it our best shot, because twenty-two other people are doing the same thing. There is so much that we don't know, that we just glossed over, and now we're put at such a disadvantage against those goddamn careers that it's ridiculous, unbeatable. This whole thing is ridiculous and unbeatable. And the only way that we'll stand a chance is if we toughen up and stop refusing to process the inevitable."

"You're right," I tell Keeley.

I push out my chair and circle around the table to sit beside her. I can sense the frantic beating of her heart when I put my hand on her back as her head droops down and her face morosely sags to the cold surface of the table.

She is right. Right on most of her account at least. But she is also so, so wrong.

"Neither of us is going to win by pretending like nothing bad is happening," I continue beside her.

Neither of us is. But I have always known that all along, and I have not been denying it, only trying to fight through the pain with something less troubling and more motivating than raw morbidity and negativity. I would not be here today if I blindly sat and prayed for lady luck to bless me, I have been through too much hardship for that. No, I vanquished that by helping others, edifying them in their struggles to rescue both of us. That is what kept me pure and kept me smiling through even the hardest of times. There is a razor thin discrepancy between blind faith and courage through optimism and empathy. I have the latter. But I understand Keeley, which really is not too difficult, and I can feel the alarm and stress radiating off of her, the beaten down resolve near the point of giving in under our shared weight. And now, I can seize the moment, and plead my case, and this is how I can win, not by taking down every tribute in my path with my daring and sword-fighting skills, but by taking a stand, and showing all of those eager for bloodshed, and, more importantly, all of those in dire need for an inspiration to keep on going, all of those who have buried that part of their heart that truly is as righteous as the rest of us.

I am starry-eyed at the chance to actually win, even if winning is just a foggy word in gold and all caps and the bloody path to victory at my doorstep seems insurmountable. I can do it, and so can Keeley. We can help each other. We can win!

"But that is not what I'm doing, Keeley. It isn't naivete, it's empathy, and goodness, and strength. Keely, do you think that my life has been perfect up until this point? Because it really has not been perfect. But I build myself back up, and so can you, by doing something so much better than resolving to kill. You were wrong about that. Toughening up is not picking up a sword or throwing some punches, it's coming to terms with your strengths and your flaws and vowing to help others through theirs."

"As cheesy as you sound, I want that so bad," Keely says, eyes widening in comprehension, in that desire for something better that is right in her grasp, a happy ending. "But Carroll, there is no way that you can make it out alive without killing, let alone watching other people die and being powerless to save them."

And for a second, it all threatens to come crashing down like a pile of bricks, of a black, soulless wave desperate to wash away my whole world for good. But I will never let that part of me that will not quit, that will not succumb to treachery, and duplicity, and the worst sin of all, indifference, fall down. I cannot focus on that when I can see myself having made that difference, having gone where no one else has gone before and killed no one in the arena, having saved everyone, having earned that golden ticket back to home, all at once, all snapshots of some idyllic, mystical what-if that will never come to pass. It occurs to me that Keeley is right, and that this fantasy world of happy endings and making change will never fully come to fruition. But I cannot let her see my hypocrisy, not in the state that she is in right now. I would not rather spend my final hours of safety doing anything than supporting Keeley.

"I know that there isn't, Keeley. I also know that you want to maintain your sense of self, to redeem yourself, and defy everyone who has ever pushed you down or counted you out."

She stares into my eyes expectantly, drinking in every word with an unprecedented and very desperate reverence.

"Keeley, just stay true to your heart—I know it's golden—and…"

"And?"

"And—"

The sound speaker cuts me off:

"Mentors, please send your tributes off to the hovercraft immediately if you have not already done so. A Peacekeeper escort will accompany them if they are not on the landing pan in five minutes."

I am grateful that I have been clipped off, and now Honda takes the initiative from her dormant seat across from us and begins to rush us to the door with frantic hugs and kisses, because I truly had no idea what I would say. Keeley does not need to know that, because I know that things will work out alright if I stay true to myself, if I try to help. If I can't help than I am nothing.

I am not a quitter. I am not a pushover. I will show them all what true bravery, and strength, and friendship is. And if I am being truly honest with myself, I have no idea how beyond those vague adjectives. I am scared out of my mind, so scared that I could wet myself or throw myself off of the roof of the building. But I refuse to, for Keeley, and so I am already one step towards my goal.

Things are going great. Or, as well as they could be.

"But wait, what were you going to say, Carroll?" Keeley asks over the head of Augustus, the escort, whom Keeley unsympathetic claws at until Royce appears from out of nowhere and assist him in corralling us out the door.

"No time, no time!" Honda says, sending us towards the elevator and stepping on with us as the doors close and I get my last glimpse of whatever sort of home I am leaving, hopefully not for good.

One rushed goodbye later, and Keeley and I are being sent towards the hovercraft.

"We will find a way, Keeley," I reassure her.

"If you say so."

She looks up at me like a worried puppy, and I give her one final hug. As she stutters out one final question, the last of the tributes arrive, and we are loaded on. We have no time to talk, now, and they space me five rows down from her.

I am almost glad that I am not there. Almost, because she needs my hand for comfort, just as much as I need hers. But I will be seeing her soon again. I may not be able to kill, or abstain from helping, but I will win, one of us will make it out of here alive. And beyond that… I cannot bear to think of it.

---

Marvel Silver, 18, District One Male

The Peacekeepers arrange us in alphabetical order, diligently buckling us and jamming the blinking, translucent, pink contents of a syringe into every tributes' wrist as they go down the line. By some coincidence, most of the careers have landed in the back of the hovercraft with me: Talisa sits obediently across from me, posture rigid, not wincing as her row's Peacekeeper reaches her and holds up a pointy syringe; Arlo shifts quietly two seats down on my right side, not reacting at all to the injection; Turquesa slumps broodingly in her spot on Talisa's left, staring at the soldiers with a mix of petulance, forlornness, and scorn. She is by no means an honorary career, not that I give a damn about any of that loyalist Academy bullshit. Just a movable, very temperamental pawn in my game, a plastic dummy to serve as my story's antagonist, the feigned object of my hate, to add another layer to the manipulation. Beyond that, she can fall off a cliff and I would not care.

Friends are not what I am here for. I am here for revenge.

A sudden squeaky whimper startles me out of my introspection, and I realize that my eyes have been absentmindedly and unintentionally deadlocked with Talisa's. She grins confidently when I break away, brimming with nervous excitement. On my right side, the Seven girl jumps as the masked woman above her holds up her needle. She shrinks back in her seat and unintentionally claws my wrist, clinging onto it for a moment before she looks up at me, blushes, and tries to pull off an apologetic smile.

Pathetic. She is too soft. Even if her brother died here five years ago, just like mine, she does not have the guts to do anything about it other than be meek and friendly and presumably cry into her pillow at night. I watch as she gives an intent, frightened look to her partner, who has plastered a phony smirk of contentment on his face across from Arlo. He whispers unintelligible words of assurance back to her. She flinches, trembling against the taut harness attaching her to her seat, but quiets down and nods to the Peacekeeper. She grips her partner's wrist as the liquid is introduced to her blood and a glowing, beeping circle begins to flash for a few seconds in her bony forearm before it shuts off. The girl needs to grow a backbone. The Hunger Games are not the place for the innocent, or the spineless, the dependent, or the faint of heart. I do not want her little alliance of pity and grief. Lux would not want that for me. He would want me to kill her, even if her little brother did not last a minute and it was the Two boy that killed him.

I know that because I reviewed Lux's year's tape last night for what must be the millionth time. I do not know why. Maybe I thought that I would receive some sort of closure by watching Lux die again, by watching the look of betrayal on his face as he fell off of the Four girl's cutlass, and that agony that I had somehow managed to block out as the pair of them, Mahi Ferris and Decimus Carver, laughed while they slowly picked away at his flesh. I looked away, tears blurring my vision, and stormed off in that moment, so I never witnessed that final moment of life, that final plea for mercy in the skies above, that shock and hurt and fall from grace written all over his gorgeous features, much better than mine could ever be. I never saw the way his lips formed to try and speak against the blood spilling in a sheet out of his mouth, first Mother, and then Mex, and then me. Marvel, my name forever immortalized in his mouth as the passing of the torch, the desperate cry for retribution. I never heard his cannon until that night, hunched up in my bed, alone, when I should have been resting. And out of that, I did not get any sort of closure that Lux was doing alright up in Heaven or wherever else he is stewing ruefully, nor that all could be forgiven, that it was unjustified. I got the closure that he, wherever he is or would be, is urging me on, demanding the justice that he deserves at any cost. Those bastards from Two and Four killed him, so I will get them all one by one, limb by limb.

"What is that?"

The Peacekeeper stands over the skeptical boy from Nine, who is distrustfully withholding his arm. I did not realize that I had even been touched, let alone injected, but as I look down, I see the lump on my left arm. To me, it feels nothing more than arbitrary.

"This is your tracker," the Peacekeeper says, obviously frustrated and out of patience.

"Tracker for what?"

"It's so we know where you are when you in the arena." The woman puts her hands on her hips and reaches out to snatch the boy's hand when he is still unsatisfied.

At the last second, the boy gives in, puffing out his chest and warily inspecting the liquid as he lets the woman slide it into his arm.

The boy is the last person to have his or her tracker installed, and now we all wait for the lifting sensation of the hovercraft taking flight. After poking at the raised bit of flesh, he peers around the room and catches my eye, which I can only assume is intimidating.

"How was I supposed to know if she was being honest or trying to poison me?" he asks in justification. His eyes dart from tribute to tribute, erratically scrutinizing each and every one of them randomly.

"Easy," I start, forcing a chuckle out of myself. "Each of us got one. Why would they poison all of us? Why would she be trying to poison just you and not the rest of us?"

I punch him on the shoulder, and his eyes briefly morph into something much closer to fear than bravery at my leer. He recovers quickly, though, and regains his trademark look of trying to figure out what in this given scenario is off, what is dubious. For a moment, he looks as if the idea is swirling in his imagination of punching me back, for he did look perturbed at my mocking but light swing at him. His better thinking saves him there.

"Why would a career like you bother with an outlier like me?" the boy asks.

"Because he has no one else better to talk to," Turquesa responds snidely from a few feet away.

Talisa snorts, laughing along with Turquesa.

"Because nobody else will listen," she jokes, evoking a laugh from Turquesa.

The two share a meaningful look, the kind of look two new friends give each other. That cannot be good. The last thing that I want is Turquesa spilling all of my tea to Talisa and debasing my front of friendliness. I want to keep her wrapped around my finger. I know that she is on my trail, but I will not lend her any sort of lead out of my annoying partner's mouth.

A Peacekeeper, tall enough to clear six and a half feet and with muscles bulging through his suit to boot, come slowly thudding our way, and the girls stop their catty laughter. While Talisa looks at the ground reverently, Turquesa snarls up at him. As I walks away, I loop a hand around and set a firm grip on the boy's skinny shoulder, what fat he has hanging off of his chest and gut. He knows not to squirm, because I will not let go.

"What's your name, Nine?" I ask. "Your partner doesn't talk much about you, or anything but the Capitol and leadership and death." I chuckle.

"Coleus Yarrow."

"Coleus, the word 'game' is in the title: Hunger Games. Games are not meant to be taken so seriously. I was only teasing."

The influence is not in how well-concealed the intimidation is behind the faint cloth of humor. It is the bluntness, and the obvious knowledge, left aggressively unstated that I am by no means joking. This is all part of my plan for revenge, and in that regard, Coleus Yarrow is a small fish to fry. I would be better pressed to try Arlo, or better yet, Talisa across from me, because some mysterious force compels me to internally froth at the bit whenever I entertain her murder, hopefully the most painful of all. Maybe it is because she is on to me and we both know it, or because she is playing the exact same cards as I am. But my web of lies, and manipulation, and fear will be greater than hers, and she will be the ambrosial butterfly that gets ensnared and devoured with more rigor than the measly houseflies. She will taste so much better.

The tail end of the hovercraft quiets at my remark, and I can feel certain tributes bristling at my taunt. Maybe it was a bit too obvious, since I feel many pairs of eyes peering down the walkway towards me, some frightenedly, some warily, and some full of loathing. I don't give a damn if the girl from Five shifts away from me in her seat or Tessa Oakhart reaches out in vain to grab her partner's hand at my words. It is my allies that I need to fool with my friendship act. Whether or not the outliers see my true colors is insignificant. I do want them to be scared of me, for that thrilling rush of pleasure that sates my need for some sort of modicum for exerting my anger, but it in the long run, they are not nearly as important as my allies. They can take care of the cannon fodder, and I can take care of them before they even realize.

I can sense myself falling away from that cold, calm, calculated persona that the trainers liked so much, and that measured feigned amiability with which I speak, and into something bolder and more authentic. I am not losing myself, I am becoming myself, now that I am almost done with putting on those unbearable displays of congeniality, now that the time is almost right for me to unleash the vengeful terror that lies inside of me, the dark side that I have had to conceal since Lux died, since that night when I vowed to avenge his name and punish his killers. But it is too soon, and I have to remind myself that there is still a long trail ahead. My allies will fall as the days pass, one by one, and ties will fracture, factions will form, until eventually it is just me and Talisa. And then, just me.

"I wonder how the trainers at the Academy took you seriously, Marvel?" Turquesa asks, breaking the silence after a delayed pause, enough time for her muleheaded brain to actually formulate a semi-clever response. "Then again, this is just a game, after all, so maybe they didn't."

Talisa laughs, some murky stage between derisiveness and genuine humor.

"Nice one," Talisa commends.

Somehow, Turquesa reads the acute anger stewing in me somewhere deep and negligible. It definitely is only negligible. I am not so fragile that I cannot take a simple insult masked as a joke, not so brash that I would feel the need to retort after such a lackluster jab at me.

"I was only teasing," Turquesa simpers, quoting me.

"Aw, come on!" laments the boy from Seven beside her. "If you are going to pick something about him to tease, make it his haircut, or his biceps. I know mine are bigger than his."

"Rowan, don't be mean, even if he is a career!" Tessa Oakhart buts in, chiding her partner.

Pathetic. The little girl is such a pansy that she will not even give me the payback I know I deserve. She looks at me, attempting a smile, but failing somewhat given she is headed towards her death, and I again am reminded of her desperate, childish ploy at kissing up to me at the Banquet last night, using her own dead brother as a tool to try and save her own ass. Or maybe that is not the case, and she is just an idiot. Either way, I want her gone. She could never understand what it felt like to lose Lux.

Turquesa is not worth my time either, just a reject career who feels bitter that she flunked out of the Academy and nobody volunteered for her at the Reaping. I am indifferent to the bullshit that the trainers spray about patriotism and loyalty, but openly opposing it is simply idiotic. I will let Imperia take care of her soon enough.

"What does being a career have to do with anything?" I ask to the group around me, laughing and laying on the passive aggressive undertones thick.

Being a career is nothing but having an arbitrary title handed to you that gives you the right to bully the weaklings, but to this batch of cannon fodder, it is everything, a perfect opportunity for me to instill fear in their hearts but also blend in as just a cog in the savage, uncaring machine getting ever closer to them.

"Don't think that I can't take a joke," I say, leaning over to Tessa Oakhart.

It is all part of the plan: appearing like the most amicable of allies, flying under the radar, stirring up conflict until I can slowly kill them off one by one, all the while no one notices that I am the one in the driver's seat. That is the best part of revenge, how gloriously satisfying the grand finale can be after years of devastation, and agony, and rage locked upon inside of me needing direction, especially when there is an infallible blueprint of justice that will lead me straight to… straight to killing all four of them: Arlo Maddox, Scylla Frigard, Aquatico Espovera, and Talisa Rowland.

All that I have to do is plant the seed in Imperia Crimson's head of the Twos' unfair advantage, being "joined at the hip" and all, and get it through her thick skull that we must target them. And after, me and Talisa can fell the hulking brute before she ever sees it coming. The annoying boy from Four, we will catch at some point, and maybe, if Talisa acts a little too sympathetic towards him, I can off both of them in one fell swoop. But something makes me want to keep Talisa Rowland around for the long haul, whether it be our flimsy, transparent alliance as the two most deceitful careers, or the fact that she makes a nice shield to hide behind, or something else entirely, some implacable, mysterious urge deep in my gut to keep her close, closer than a friend and closer than the enemy that she is. But even stronger than any of those is that desire to stab her in the back in one spectacularly orchestrated move of climactic betrayal. Karma. And that repulsive, alluring brightness, that force that draws me in so close to her makes me wants to go even closer than skin deep. It makes me want to stab her the same way the District Four Female of five years ago stabbed my brother, in the heat of the battle, and pick her to bits for hours and hours, and laugh as I see all of her blood and her organs spill out the way that Mahi Farrow did, even if the unnamed tribute she is fighting runs me through and my blood merges with hers. My goal would be done by that point, anyway.

If I am being honest, I do not care whether or not I win as long as I get my revenge, because if I do, then I will have nothing to live for, a permanently blank slate with no motivation for anything. Mex loves me, and Mother loves me, but I have doubts as to whether or not I love them enough. Mex would understand. Lux would understand, and maybe I would find him again and be happier than if I was stuck mentoring in this fucked up world. I came here to ensure that four people, and two districts would get their revenge. But now, my methodology seems arbitrary; the logic that it is the fault of the districts for their academies is not strong enough to keep the fire in me alive anymore.

I find myself staring at her again, though now she is scanning the room. My hands dig into the frigid metal armbars hard enough to form little white marks where my nails were. Talisa finds me as her eyes scan our competition. She grins confidently. And there is that thing that lights my fire, my burning passion, my burning passion for revenge. There is something in that self-assurance, in that hope, that pulls me in almost as much as it makes me want to squash it.

"You ready," she mouths surreptitiously.

"I've been ready," I whisper back.

How far I want to take our secret alliance is still up in the air. Imperia is the strongest tribute left, but Talisa is my biggest threat, and I am hers. And so, for now, we are stuck in a limbo, a stalemate, united in our cleverness and our unvoiced understanding of one another. But that very same light inside of her that draws me close, that keeps my destructive fire alive by alighting the ashes, is what will do her in.

For someone so observant and intelligent, she needs to grow up and lose her idealistic vision of some sort of patriotic celebration that will happen if she makes it out of the arena. Putting your life on the line just to achieve some intangible feeling of success and get the praise of your peers and superiors is pointless. And I know that she would call my rationale ridiculous, too, and in a way it is. But it still consumes me, and all I can think about, all that I have been able to think about since Lux was murdered, is getting revenge. The desire is an immovable parasite leeching onto my brain that keeps on growing and growing and growing, until any joy or content or emotion other than detachment or rage has been stripped from me, and all that I can feel is an overpowering desire to do anything to make it right.

And sometimes, when my mind wanders or I am alone at night still weeping into my pillow, I allow myself to lose control. But that cannot happen now, not yet, not until that perfect moment. And I need it to happen so badly, so desperately, because without it I am nothing but an empty husk of a person without any sort of drive free to drift away in the wind or starve myself to death and shrivel up and die. And I am so close.

I feel my center of gravity lowering and hear the steamy roar beneath us growing louder. We are about to touch down. We are about to enter the arena. I am struggling to contain myself.

"No. No! This is all a scam! Don't touch me!"

"It will be alright, Coleus, just breathe!"

But I will contain myself. I am not the boy from Nine, having a panic attack and barking at any Peacekeeper who comes close to unbuckle him. I am definitely not the spineless little Seven girl who is about to have her dreams crushed, who masquerades as a good person, as if there ever was such a thing on this earth anymore, and tries to say that she knows how I feel, tries to manipulate the way that I manipulate. No one could ever know how I feel, because I have built up my façade, my wall, and I will keep it that way for now. I will stay cool-headed and hawk-eyed, friendly on the surface but remorseless on the inside, like I have been for my entire life, until it finally culminates in that moment of sweet reprisal, the climax of five years' worth of murderous vengefulness.

Arlo gulps nervously and eyes Scylla, whose eyes flit back and forth between reality and whatever chaos is taking place in her head. Imperia's cold stare does not leave the eyes of Mystic Archeron. Weak. Malleable. Dumb.

Talisa is thinking the same thing. I watch as her feet tap rapidly against the floor, fingers crossing and uncrossing. Nervous. This will be easy.

I feel a sudden jolt as the buzzing sound of the engines comes to a halt. We have landed. Peacekeepers now file up our line unbuckling us.

This is it. We are only minutes from the arena. I am excited… no, not excited, energized. And heated with rage. And beyond that, nothing.

Talisa grins shrewdly at me for one last time. She winks, and then is whisked off, all of us being escorted by a Peacekeeper around a looping circular hallway to our room.

She winks.

She winks, and now I feel something foreign brewing in me, red hot fury interspersed with some odd force that rivals its own passion and makes me all the angrier.

---

Raihan Everstow, 12, District Ten Male

Boys at school used to ridicule me for my tears, circle around me at recess until I fell over or whisper mean names at me under the teacher's lectures until they came. They would always come at some point, as reliable as the sun rising and setting every day. No matter how hard I tried to keep them in, no matter how many times Noello told me to "toughen up", they would always come. Daddy said that I did not need to force myself to grow, so I should stay the "incredible person" that I am and continue to wear my heart on my sleeve. He swore that as I got older and got bigger, the strength would come, and my eyes would get less leaky if I gave it time. But I am running out of time now, and as the tick of the imaginary clock chimes deafeningly inside my mind, my heart races faster and faster, ten times a second, a million times a minute, and the hands of the clock on my life pulse raucously with it. I cannot contain the tears now, not as I am being sent off to fight to the death. My heart is thumping out of my chest, and blood is rushing to my head, redness rushing to my face, all of the usual symptoms. There is a way to control them, I know there is, because it cannot just be me who has them. And yet I am the only one who cries when they get overwhelmed, or scared, or depressed. I might as well give up on trying to keep them to myself now. Everyone on this hovercraft knows that I am bawling, because I can only shield so much of my face, and I can only hide so many of the racking moans and airy sobs that escape me.

I am lucky to be surrounded by so many of my friends. Bolt is wringing his hands and tapping his feet against the floor noisily, but the noise is comforting, a distraction from our destination for a few seconds at a time. Nerissa is in between on my left, and I can only admire how unaffected she appears, how cheery she looks even now. Tabitha is nearby, across from Bolt two seats down from me, and she is crying, too, but there is something so lost, so dignified about her crying, I think as she sits posture straight, face blank as droplet run down from her eyes. Sierra is on my right on the other side of Aleyn, who is stunned with worry. She does not ever cry. Sierra is never anything but proud and fearless. She dares the world to give her its worst with a confident grin and a tall chin. I could never be like that.

But it is nice to have people close who will not judge you for weeping. Back home, none of them could understand it, except for Noello, so they were rude out of ignorance. They were good people deep inside, and I can recall very happy memories, much more happy memories than traumatic or embarrassing or unhappy ones. But the five of us have a bond. An unbreakable bond. And in a way, I am closer to them than I could ever be to Noello, or Wyola, or even Daddy, because we are bound together by this horrible shared experience. Another sob slips past me, and I sense ten pairs of eyes resting on the back of my head as I hunch over and cover my face again. I miss District Ten. I miss my family. And I am probably never going to see them again.

"Don't get too down in the dumps, Raihan," Nerissa says lightly from beside me, pinching my shoulder.

"It isn't over yet," Bolt promises from her other side.

The front of the hovercraft fades quickly back into silence, save for the rattling of the hovercraft. I look up bashfully and stare straight into the District Two Female's face. She quickly turns her head. I know that my eyes are bloodshot.

"How do you stay so optimistic?" I ask.

I realize after the fact how contrary to my essence I sound. I should be the peppy and upbeat one, the one who is full of hope and goodness who knows, known that everything will turn out fine in the end. That is all that I have ever been, the cute, friendly, happy go lucky kid who is certain that in the end, all is well, and all is good. But even though I keep on repeating to myself that that is true, it is impossible, and the only ones that kid themselves are—well, kids—so I might as well grow up and stop pretending that everything is alright. But if I am not that person, that child who is always starry-eyed and naively hopeful, then what am I? Certainly not a fighter, or a hero, like I want to be, like Bolt, or Sierra, or even Nerissa. Just a soulless little baby praying to squeak by on acting cute and childish. But I don't want to be a child anymore. Children never win. Daria said it herself that miserable night after I bombed my Private Session: The adorable little kid of the year act is wearing thin and growing old. The babies hardly ever make it past the Bloodbath now.

Sierra guffaws, drawing my attention, and everyone on board the hovercraft's, to her two seats on my right.

"Who are you, and what did you do to Raihan Everstow?" she jokes. Everyone hears her. "Raihan, lighten up some."

Her words fall flat. They echo across our holding chamber dramatically as their awkward irony sets in. How can I lighten up now? Tributes around us start to nervously fidget, even the careers. The girl from Two takes in rattling breaths and the boy from Four in between her and Tabitha starts to titter to himself. The boy from Five on her other side looks longingly down the aisle to his partner as his cheeks, sleek with sweat, grow redder and redder. Aleyn shudders and mumbles something that I cannot understand to himself.

"Well, you never did answer his question," Bolt presses Sierra. "So, I guess I will. Just never stop believing that there is always good in the world if you know where to look for it, because there is. But there is also bad in the world, so don't be afraid to make your voice heard. I certainly am not. Like twelve tributes are listening to me right now, and I do not care, because I want you to hear what I have to say." He tries to stretch himself through his metal harness, but it straps him tight to the backrest of his chair. "Listen," he whispers. "Raihan, I have a secret, and I'm going to tell it to you when we land. Got it?"

I nod.

I have faith in Bolt. Bolt is everything that I want to be, and that I should be, and yet I am not. He is smart, and funny, and fast, and strong, and so brave. He held onto me in the bunker the night Head Trainer Cornelius was found dead and made sure that I was safe, and that I did not get trampled in the madness. There has to be some way to survive this mess, stay happy, and lose my fear that he has been withholding. It sounds childish, but I know that there is a way, because there is always a way, always chance, it is just a matter of taking it or leaving it. That is something Daddy told me. And this is the little boy in me manifesting in that quote, but I decide not to fight it. It is soothing, and it feels right, and I cannot let it go, because if I do then I will lose myself in panic and self-pity.

"Don't worry, kiddo. Just let us big kids handle it for now."

Nerissa pinches me again, and this time I wince in the pain, and at how chilly her hands are after gripping the unforgiving metal. I do not have the heart to protest, or to tell her to stop, especially when I see the merry look in her eyes, magically undisturbed by the threat of death that is looming above us. I want to snap back and argue that I am one of the big kids, that I was selected to be here just like the rest of them so I should be able to stand up and fight, but I am afraid to. Afraid to stand up and fight, and afraid to make my voice heard. And I am also afraid to burst her happy little bubble of cheeriness. Maybe this is how the grown-ups have thought of me, just the innocent, spineless little boy who they do not have the heart to expose to the savage real world.

I have been letting the big kids handle it my entire life, and it has worked out well for me. All that I have done up to this point is live peacefully and be friendly to everyone. Daddy has done all of the cooking, all of the farming, all of the chores… But maybe that will not work out here. I want to be the big kid so badly, I always have, but I fail whenever I try, whenever it matters most, and I come home crying to Daddy, and he tells me that it will be alright, but nothing is alright now! I tried to be the big kid that harrowing day the vicious stray made its way through the fence and ran at little Wyola, and tackled her to the ground, and locked its teeth on her leg and shook her around in a death roll. But Noello was the one to save her, because, by some chance occurrence, he was wheeling by our house, and he took a shovel and brandished it at the creature. I would have let Wyola die, because I was paralyzed shock and horror. I just stood there as she screamed for me, as stray flecks of her blood landed on me only feet away. I was so cowardly that I would have let her die that day. After all the times I was a good big brother, and all the times Mommy told me to always protect her before she died, I choked in the moment where it mattered most. And I could not save Mommy either. There must have been a way, because there is always a way. That is what she, Daddy, Noello, Bolt, Nerissa, Sierra, all of them, have always told me. But she died, and I stood there helpless, not helping, as all of the blood spilled out of her with Wyola, and Daddy and the doctor were white-faced.

I cannot freeze up here, because if I do, then I will die, or one of my friends will die. But I do not know how the rest of my allies fight it, and I am running out of time. It cannot be some sort of age thing, because Noello was a year younger than I am now when he saved Wyola. If it is, how could I win? How could I age and develop in just a few days? There is some sort of secret, there has to be, because there is always something that you can do, it is just a matter of doing it. There is always a bright tomorrow, it is just a matter of reaching it. Mommy and Daddy told that to me, and I cannot let go of it, because if I do, then I will have given up and conceded that the world really is a dark place full of evil people, and I know that that is not true! There is good in this world, but no good where we a going, and I need to save the good, and restore the good. I can picture it in my head: me, fending off Imperia Crimson and her pack of bloodhounds from my friends, or scaring away a pack of vicious wolf mutts. And if I can see it, then I can make it a reality.

I can feel the hovercraft beginning to dip, the surge of air through the floor vents blowing my hair up. Bolt will tell me how to be strong soon. And once he does, I can actually help, actually do something worthwhile and meaningful, maybe even save a life, instead of floating around benignly with stupid, naïve beliefs, or crying like a baby.

Sierra clicks her tongue until I look over to her and mouths, "Remember the plan. You got this, Raihan."

It does not do much to lift my spirits.

Remember the plan. I hover around outside the ring of pedestals and find Tabitha, and then Bolt, Nerissa, and Sierra run to us once they have gathered enough rations and we leave. I am just standing by again, letting the older ones, the smarter ones, the stronger ones, the ones brave enough to actually run into the fray and risk their lives instead of waiting on the bench powerlessly. I would give anything to be one of them, just so I could prove that I am bold, and valiant, and heroic to all of the boys who would bully my because I would cry, and to myself, and prove that I can actually do something important and be more than just a cute kid or a reliable babysitter until things get dangerous. But of-course, I will not protest, because who am I to challenge what Sierra or Nerissa has to say and put the trust, and the lives, of our alliance at stake?

The air streaming through the floor winds down as I feel as thud and bounce in my seat. My stomach is doing somersaults. My heart is beating so fervently against my sternum that it aches. I cannot breathe. Only now do I realize that I stopped crying through my absorption in my own thoughts, but only because I feel the familiar stinging in my eyes. And I try to hold my tears in, but no matter how forcibly I shut my eyes and tell myself to stop, water pours through in sheets. This is no place for weeping. This is no place for me. I am going to die here.

"Come on, Raihan, there is no need to cry," Nerissa says in what is supposed to be a solacing way, I think, but it only reminds that I should not be wailing like I am, and that strong people like Daddy never cry.

"Don't try and hold it in," Bolt calls from over Nerissa.

I let out a guttural sob. I can feel thirty pairs of eyes on me, but I do not care. There is no hope for me now, except for Bolt and whatever his special, secret advice is. I cannot do it anymore.

Peacekeepers begin to come around and unbuckle us. They lift us out of our harnesses and pull us out of our seats forcefully. I let out a humiliating squeak when one squeezes my arm.

"Get in a line, single file," the leader Peacekeeper orders.

Bolt slips past Nerissa to get behind me. In front of me, Aleyn is muttering furiously to himself, trembling so quickly his outline is blurred. But I do not have time to help him right now, even though that is what someone manly would do, because I need to focus on keeping myself together and whatever Bolt whispers in my ear.

"Bolt, what am I going to do?" I ask frantically. "I can't face the arena like this. I'm so scared, Bolt. I shouldn't be so scared. It hasn't even started yet."

"What do you mean, you shouldn't be so scared?" counters Bolt. "Do you think that any of us are not scared?"

"None of you look very afraid. Only me and Tabitha, and the rest of the young kids. But Bolt, I'm so sick of being young and naïve and sheltered. You don't look very scared, and why would you be? I want to be like you, Bolt, courageous, clever, and calm even in a situation like this. Bolt, you're the hero that I was always meant to be. What do you learn that makes you so… unflappable? How come you didn't cry in the bunker? How come you are not crying now?"

But when I look over, I see something I do not expect. Bolt is crying, quiet droplets flowing down his face as he takes in one rattling breath. For a moment, I do not understand. If Bolt is in despair now, then how am I supposed to be strong? But then he puffs out his chest, and it dawns on me.

"You think I'm a hero?" Bolt asks, taken aback.

"Yes! Tell me how to be one, too!"

"What have I done to make you believe that?"

"You protected me in the bunker. You watched over me in training and taught me so many new things. And you weren't even crying a minute ago! You aren't even afraid!"

"Raihan, I'm scared out of my wits! Imperia Crimson and all of the other careers are so scared, they could pee themselves. I am honored if you think that I am a 'hero', Raihan, but if you define that as someone who doesn't cry, then you're wrong."

"Then what is a hero?! I need to know, because whatever it is, I want to—need to be one. I can't keep on sitting on the sidelines. I want to have power, and courage, like you."

I wait with bated breath as Bolt pauses to think. Our conversation has gone unnoticed up to this point under the commotion on the hovercraft and ten or so other similar exchanges, but now he pauses, staring at the unfeeling black visor of a Peacekeeper helmet. But now, I see at the end of the line Peacekeepers locking sets of goggles onto the tributes at the beginning of the line. The lenses are completely black. This can't be happening! My throat constricts even further at the thought of my sight being taken away from me, all control that I have left being thrown out the window as I am transported to the arena. I start blubbering and back into Bolt.

"True bravery is not lack of fear, and it is not keeping your fears bottled up. True bravery is facing your fears and coming out on top."

Bolt gasps in shock.

"Bolt?" I call out.

I am panicking even more than before, spiraling into hysterics as Bolt's words float around aimlessly at the surface of my brain. But as I turn around, I see one jarring flash of white, and then nothing, coupled with the cramped, intolerable feeling of having a set of the army goggles strapped onto my head. The Peacekeeper moves onto Aleyn.

"I believe in you, Raihan," Bolt declares, just a voice in a sea of black. It is eerie how it echoes. "I'll see you soon."

A harsh set of gloved hands claps me on the shoulder, and we are steered down the ramp.

I am terrified. I am about to be sent to what is probably my grave, and now I cannot see, and I do not even have my allies as comfort. But I have to do what Bolt said. I have to be brave in that way, by facing my fears instead of eradicating them. But I have so many fears.

I feel myself being led to the left. We keep on going for what feels like an eternity.

"Bolt?" I cry out.

No response.

I let out a pitiful whimper. I cannot be whimpering now. Whimpering is for children. I am not a child anymore. And I will not try and kid myself into thinking that I am not petrified, because I am. I am petrified, blind, alone, and maybe about to die. I cannot let any of that deter me.

I feel a shove, and suddenly there is light again, albeit depressing fluorescent. This is the launch room.

Everything passes in a blur. My stylist dresses me in thick wool coat on top of another smaller pullover, and then a tee-shirt, complete with cargo pants. She is rambling on and on about how excited she is, and how missing the Bloodbath parties is totally worth it to be able to dress me and attend the stylist's viewing party. I don't care, because all that I can think of now is Bolt's advice:

Bravery is facing your fears.

I want to be brave so badly, to prove everyone wrong, to prove myself, and to prove to myself that I am not just some valueless baby to be kept around for cuteness. Cuteness and niceness will not cut it any longer.

Bravery is facing your fears.

I get a jolt and nearly vomit when I realize that I am in the tube, and I see my stylist waving cheerfully up at me before she and everything else vanishes for good. Everything is dark brown, now, an intimidating color.

Bravery is facing your fears.

I will see Bolt and the rest of them soon, but, until then, I will just have to stay steady on my own. I can do this. I can be valiant, plucky, lionhearted, and all of those other words that Daddy read to me in books. I can fight my fears.

The dark brown gives way for blinding yellow.

"Sixty, Fifty-Nine, Fifty-Eight…"

Bravery is facing your fears.

I can fight.

---

Celestius Uniov, 23, Capitol Citizen and Head of Inter-District Cooperation

I do not belong here.

I cannot help but feel like the odd one out among these titans of industry. Eight of us are seated around the colossal, circular table made of white marble, I have somehow ended up right in the line of fire, straight across from President Nero. The laser beams that come from his unnerving yellow eyes burn right through my chest.

Just my luck.

It has still not yet set in that I am staring him in the face, that I am this close to him, and this ingratiated in mortal peril. I miss those days when I was just an assistant, back when I thought my workload then was tremendous and the only eyes on me were Mother and Father's, back when I lived with them instead of an inhospitable and chilly penthouse all alone in the center of town, back when I could sleep in my own bed without worrying about the bitter ghosts of my predecessors that prowl and try to warn me every night. Those were simpler times. But now, by some fluke I have the coveted position of Head of Inter-District Cooperation, because everyone else in the department was too scared to take it and my thick skull took the slowest to catch on. I am just a minnow who was peacefully swimming upstream, harming no one, plucked from the warm shallows and made to fraternize with the sharks.

President Nero catches my eye and I hastily look away, passing over the room for something worthwhile to pretend to have been looking at. He chose me for a reason, I know he did. I just cannot comprehend what that reason may be. It seems so random. Why would he want someone as forgetful and anxious as me? For my impressionability? Neither Florian Cromwell nor Crassus Falcata, the other two heads, of Finance and Capitol Affairs respectively, are in any way impressionable. On the other hand, Odysseus Pennyworth and that wide-eyed, snake-like woman sitting in the corner with a notepad beside Doriana (I finally got her name!) are both younger than me. Maybe he wanted some fresh blood. But why would he select someone as inept as I am? I know the idea that I, the two-year personal assistant to Palmyra Minx, was the closest person to the job who would not refuse after her mysterious disappearance is bullshit, because President Nero easily could have transferred someone else over or forced them into the position. Now, I only have to decipher why.

I feel like there is a blaring target painted in neon across my forehead for how many glances I see out of the corner of my eye directed my way, talking about who knows what. Maybe even speculating that I will be murdered next. And the boy on the other side of Amalfi Belfast, Odysseus Pennyworth, is the only one who can relate to the feeling of total lack of qualifications to be sitting in the room, but he is the murderer! At least, I think that he is, but it could be any one of the people in this room. Any one of the people in this room could be killed next, but it will probably be me, considering my history with misfortune. And it is the fear and paranoia and dread of that grisly fate that is causing my frosty blue hair to turn wispy and my skin to turn from red, to green, now to gray, and my rib cage to poke further and further out of my skin, much more than exhaustion from the new job. Overthinking things is a fatal flaw of mine, one of many, but I know that I am not overthinking this, even though I probably am overthinking this, but if not, better safe than sorry.

It amazes me how none of these people can be concerned about the looming threat hanging over them. They are all somewhere on the spectrum of disinterested, aloof, and chatty. Once again, I am reminded that I do not belong here. I survey the seven of them:

Florian Cromwell on my immediate right, acidic and lecherous in an old man of high-society way, almost eccentric. The white makeup caked on his face and currant red lipstick and eye liner create a toxic image. His eyes, a poisonous green, are alight with excitement for the bloodbath, still fiery even at sixty-seven years old, but I, unlike him, cannot feel anything short of foreboding about the coming minutes.

"Aren't you just giddy?" he asks me, out of the blue. His tired old body gives one enthusiastic jiggle.

"Oh, yes," I respond awkwardly. "Ready to get all of this talk over with so we can get to the good stuff."

We settle into an uncomfortable silence, and I sniff an acrid smell, somewhat like pickles. It burns my nostrils.

"You little upstarts always entertain me," Florian remarks. "I was like you one day. But that was long ago."

The hideous old man before me knows that his place in the world is higher up than all but a select few in the single digits. Florian Cromwell can get everything he could ever want. It is ironic, yet disturbing and embarrassingly intimidating, to be under the weight of such a small and silly looking man as him. Florian Cromwell thinks that he has made it past the final stretch and it into the golden zone of infallibility.

On his right is Crassus Falcata, the Head of Capitol Affairs to his Head of Finance, engaged in jovial teasing with the Head Peacekeeper, Titus Sentinum. He is much less adorned, though somehow not nearly as intimidating. His chin is more of a flabby neck than a square jaw, and his belly pokes unflatteringly through his robe. It is no secret that Crassus Falcata envies Titus Sentinum for his job, and there is something about him that exudes bitterness, resent in every syllable that passes through his barred teeth.

I have nothing in common with either of the two other Heads. We have already had to sit in one meeting with President Nero together, and it was torturous in itself, let alone the dozens of convenes in which I have floundered over my subordinates in the Inter-District Cooperation field. The idea of having to face more of them terrifies me. If not for Doriana feeding me notes from her clipboard, I would be a laughingstock by now. I probably still am.

I try to block the thought from my mind unsuccessfully that there are mini-riots springing up in Districts Four, Six, Seven, Eight, Ten, and Eleven right now at the murders that somehow leaked themselves out to the farthest reaches of Panem. Little groups are going on rampage after the disaster of last year, at having lost all twenty-four tributes, because of-course that was not covered up as cleanly as I presumed, and of-course the natural punishment for Palmyra Minx would have been death. I am afraid that if things go much farther, I will get the axe as well, even though I know in my gut that there is a bigger, much darker plan for me. If things get out of hand, I will not be able to handle the districts. President Nero must know that. Is that why he appointed me? As some sort of way to prove myself, or, worse yet, a pawn set up to fail? The truth is that I have no idea what I am doing, and no amount of deep thinking that devolves into scrambled, senseless worrying is going to help me there. But if I do not let my mind race and try too hard to find any sort of solution or cheat out, then nothing will happen, and I will die just like Palmyra Minx.

Doriana is a life saver. I twist over to watch her, head buried in her notepad, and find it oddly soothing. Yes, I know that she obviously intends to try and usurp me at some point, but I want her to if it means this hellish tenure as a head will be over.

Titus Sentinum shakes the floor with every booming laugh and tremendous stomp of his foot. Frightening is the best word to describe it. Unrestricted and yet calculated as well, as if at any minute his howling could morph into the dangerous tantrums that have paved his reputation. He is a beast of a man thinly guarded in white armor.

Beside him, wedged in the small space between him and her husband, is Meda Rose-Nero. She looks unassuming, and, as immature as it sounds, I have hope that there might just be some good in this room aside from Doriana. She certainly looks nice enough, in her white dress and shawl, complete with hair of the same shade. Her red lips are the only bit of color on her. For a woman in her forties, she looks my age, but has an air of maturity to her. I curse myself for how easily I become infatuated with someone, one of the many reasons that I am so gullible.

Nero is checking his watch, an action that should be normal, but everything he does is somehow impressive or emasculating. The seat beside him on his right, my left, is vacant.

"Ms. Velveteen, do you know of anything that could be holding up your superior?" he asks the overzealously curious looking woman seating beside Doriana.

"No, sir, I don't. But Ms. Obsidian is not exactly known for her punctuality, is she?"

I do not know if I should be awed or distasteful at Velveteen's daring. Most people are not bold—or stupid—enough to make a joke out of teasing their superiors behind their backs to the president of the nation.

"No, she is not," Nero agrees, with a fond smile that looks out of place.

"Would you like me to go and fetch her, President Nero?" she asks.

"No, Ms. Velveteen, you may stay here and fill her in later on whatever she has missed."

"Thank you, President Nero."

The girl shakes with poorly concealed ecstasy. She looks around the room with an avaricious eye behind electric blue glasses, a glutton for facts and dirt, I can tell. I feel uneasy with Doriana beside her. I catch a knowing wink she gives Odysseus Pennyworth, who swallows but is otherwise surprisingly unemotional.

That is just proof that he is the murderer. But no, that is exactly what the press wants us to think in lead up to whatever their big reveal is, so no, he is just a decoy. But that is exactly what he would want me to think of him! If I could, I would take a seat right by Doriana and become an assistant with no pressure on myself. But no, I have been thrown into this position, so there is no going back now, no matter how much I would love to be done with it all. All that I can do I scoot nearer to Florian Cromwell, but that also is not appealing, given the creepy, spine-tingling look of amused, withdrawn fixation that he exudes. I will just have to stay put.

Directly to my left is Amalfi Belfast from District Four, the Victor of the One-Hundred-Forty-Third Annual Hunger Games and Victors' Liaison. She seems out of place here, but she is everywhere now, in every meeting, so I do not question it. The first time that I met her, and every time since, I have always gotten a little more disenchanted with that beautiful-but-formidable-blonde routine. Every day I see her, her veneer of smiles gets thinner and thinner, and that special, magnetic energy depletes more and more. There is probably something wrong in her life, a breakup, or a death in the family, or something like that. Or, maybe squashing the rebels back in District Four is stressing her out, or, maybe she is one of them and kept up late every night inventing different plans to bring down the Capitol, plans that I should be crushing but will have completely failed to if and when they come to fruition. Or, maybe she I the murderer, or one of the murders, since she is from a district, District Four, of all places, the worst of the career districts. But all of that is just random, unhelpful speculation that could run on for hours, and before I know it, I will have spent another day wasting the hours away worrying and daydreaming and napping at my desk, and then wake up at sundown and face the harsh reality of having gotten absolutely nothing done.

Then again, I am not just wasting away under my fears today. I cannot ignore President Nero's hard stares forever, because he knows that I see them, and probably thinks that if I do not return them, it is disrespectful, or maybe that I am a rebel in disguise hoping to bring down the Capitol from within. He clears his throat, and I look up at him reverently with the other six, plus the four interns.

"Since Ms. Obsidian has yet to make an appearance and the Games will commence in precisely half an hour, we might as well proceed without her."

President Nero flicks on the holovision. A muted Apollo Vanahara and Livia le Champe discuss the career pack, all five of them on screen, impatiently.

Because that is what this really is, a high-end Bloodbath viewing party for the elites of the elites wherein I am the odd man out.

Nero continues, "And while we kill time, you three Heads will give your brief summary of your field." He gestures to me, Florian, and Crassus.

It is complete with the meaningless title of Summary by Heads, but the last one of those was two days ago. But even so, I still pored over research and live feeds with Doriana day in and day out to try and come prepared since everything leaves my head so quickly. None of it stuck, though, and once again, I would be left to drown in the icy black ocean if not for the inter-tube that is Doriana. I browse my mind for anything to remember before I have to turn to the notes in my white leather briefcase out of shame, and come up with nothing. Why must my mind be so filled with thoughts at some times and so barren when I need them most?

Crassus rises first.

"As Head of Capitol Affairs, as you all know, my position—"

He is interrupted by Cassiopeia Obsidian busting through the door before the Avox has a chance to open it with about as much pizzazz as a cannonball. She is wearing her Gamemaker clothes, a departure from her black pantsuits, and looks positively frazzled. The woman looks sheepishly at all of us before shuffling to her seat and mumbling an apology. Purple rings circle her pronounced eyebags, skin paling and worn thin to the bone even worse than mine. They say that she was a genius once. She has fallen on hard times, even before last year's catastrophe. Part of me wants to wonder why she was kept alive, the same part that endlessly speculates on the reason for her demise, but I cannot let my mind waver… I have to pay attention here.

"You missed nothing, Cassiopeia. We were just getting started," says Nero.

I look back to glance at Doriana for a source to channel my focus and see Velveteen stare at the floor sourly.

"As I was saying," Crassus resumes, "my position encompasses Capitol morale, business, culture trends, and safety." He makes sure to nudge Titus Sentinum as he says 'safety', letting his true pettiness show. "Many citizens have taken an interest in the upcoming Hunger Games—" he pauses, waiting for the celebratory cheer he thinks he is entitled to and getting nothing but dead air, "but almost as many have become enraptured with the string of high-profile Capitol murders. Because of this, there has been some unrest, but more intrigue than fear. We Capitolites do love ourselves a good story." Crassus laughs brazenly at his own joke to rally a few unenthusiastic chuckles from around the table. "Though, after the Hunger Games has finished, I do think this whole plot should be uncovered and foiled to protect out people."

Crassus grits his teeth and gives a sideways look of frustration to Titus. He is a hypocrite. One minute he is laughing along with his adversary, the next full of envy and trying to claim his domain entails that of the Head Peacekeeper, then shifting the blame onto him.

I try to listen, I really do, but if I do not brush up on my facts, then I will make even more of a fool out of myself when it is my turn. I unzip my briefcase stealthily and slip my tablet into my lap. I read my notes and recite them in my head to no avail.

District Six has worst riots of any district, convicts acting unruly in jail. Trains routinely pickpocketed for valuable goods and imports skimmed off the top.

Train exploded on tracks in District Nine delivering food, killing five. Bad season is limiting the amount of tesserae available. Tesserae up eleven percent since last year, nineteen since five years ago.

Major riots in Four after strong tributes cheated out of win, threats of discontinuing academies.

Contagion passed from stray mutts killing sheep in Ten, causing wool shortage in Eight—

"Let us all listen to what Mr. Falcata has to say."

My face goes from a flustered, nervous pink to an ashamed red.

Nero looks at me, unimpressed. Crassus Falcata fumes petulantly before starting back up on his rant on inflating fabric prices in the Capitol, glaring down the whole table. Meda winks at me, and it is as if a noxious wave of some flowery poison has washed over me. I blink back black spots and feel nauseous. Not that different from a normal nine thirty o'clock in the morning.

The rest of Crassus's speech, which he morphed into more of a dramatic monologue, goes on and on. He hogs the spotlight until the very last moment before Nero wraps it up:

"I believe we have heard enough for now, Crassus. Let us give Florian a chance to speak."

"Thank you, sir," Crassus says with badly masked resent.

Beside me, I hear a sharp, indiscreet sigh of what could be relief, or fear, or pain, or tranquility, or—it does not matter—from Amalfi. She is watching the silent feed, and I see that the odds say that at least one career and one anti-career in the Bloodbath. I could not imagine having to be a mentor two months ago, but now it seems like so little work.

"Yes, thank you, sir," Florian trills.

He stands up, but the hardened curls on his vermillion wig only rise a few inches. To him, it is as if he is on top of the world, invincible. Oh, to be Florian Cromwell. The man is a sea of bright greens, some pastel, some eye-popping, but all with a certain poisonous, acidic quality, but nonetheless carefree.

"We have seen a general depression in wealth in the districts. Nothing too out of the norm, all good for us. Import prices have climbed a fair amount, especially in career districts, and a harsh winter last year has launched the North-Eastern districts into a depression." He wordlessly overrides the hologram, which now displays his own research. "In the Capitol, general wealth has had a very minor decrease and gambling prices have been significantly lower since last year."

His snake-like fixation finds Cassiopeia, who matches it forlornly. Her hands tremble with withdrawal, and I am perplexed as to how she is still alive, or myself, for that matter.

"Actually, the Pennyworth Betting Center has been facing a very sharp spike, even better than last year, for the Hunger Games, presumably because of the strong crop of tributes," Odysseus Pennyworth remarks proudly.

The dark circles under his eyes are still present, but they have faded a bit, and he has lost his pitiful skinny, sweaty, grimy look. Pennyworth says it with newfound pride.

"Nevertheless, amongst the noblest parts of our city, money has only been trickling up, as it should," Florian finishes with a gleeful crescendo. He flips to his next slide.

"In our newest expenditures…"

I cannot hear Florian—which is probably for the better—over the sound of my own beating heart. I am so unprepared. My whole life has been one circular saga where that one word, "unprepared", is always there, no matter how much I study, or work, or set myself up for success with optimism. Whether it is a forgone conclusion or the pit under the bottom when it drops out at the most important moment, it is inescapable. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try when it would be so easier just to be complacent, to let Doriana do all of the work, which always ends up being the case anyway, why I even got up off of Mother and Father's couch and deluded myself into thinking that I could make something out of my life. But my precious, horrible life is on the line now, so I have no choice.

I quietly flip back open my notebook, scrambling for some way to memorize

Rebel faction in One leaking information to Rebels. Spilled over from Eight.

Or was it Three? I don't know! I know absolutely nothing!

I check as I bite back a whimper and squeeze panic onset tears back into my eyes.

Animosity between two districts at border with trade. Six taking side of… Five? Leaving Four unassisted.

No. Two and Four. Six is helping Four.

I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I was never born for anything like this, just days spent winding the hours away living on the seat of my pants, not with any schedule or rigorous curriculum or anything. Why did I not pursue painting? Because I felt some sort of bizarre call to duty, a call coming from inside the house. But now I hear nothing, and without any buffer to be supported and to do all of the work for me, I am nothing.

I look to Doriana for help. She only points to her matching notepad and mouths, "You got this, Cel."

I do not have this. But she called me Cel, my nickname, and at least that is refreshing, especially on her lips.

But, too soon, Florian has concluded his data, and it is my turn.

"Celestius Uniov, show us your findings on Inter-District Cooperation."

My name sounds the opposite of calming coming out of Imperius Nero's mouth.

I stand up, and am suddenly conscious of every eye in the room trained on me for the first time. Cassiopeia Obsidian looks like she would rather be anywhere else. Titus Sentinum and Crassus Falcata are completely, apathetically unimpressed. Odysseus Pennyworth and Amalfi Belfast show mild sympathy. Florian Cromwell and the Velveteen girl are like vampires, chomping at the bit for fresh meat. I look to Meda for some sort of warmth, but I find nothing but coldness behind her winning smile, harsh snow where there should be heavenly white light. And, still right across from me, is Nero, expectant, almost bored, and so, so deadly.

It occurs to me that I have not even prepared a visual representation of my numbers, just a jumbles mass of ripped and torn out notebook papers that I must decipher to present anything intelligible, let alone satisfactory. In my head I am darting from possible outcome to even worse possible outcome, and none of them are desirable or helpful in any way. I look to Doriana again, but she only taps her notebook. I am falling into my same trap again, but this time, there is no safety net.

And magically, out of nowhere, it comes to me in a flash of brilliance. All of it, firm and concrete in my head. This is some sort of miracle!

"District Six has had the most harmful riots of any district, and there has been an outbreak of convicted felons becoming uncooperative in jail. Trains are being regularly browsed by thieves and some of their valuables stolen," I state, no stuttering or stammering.

I am no stuttering or stammering! A smile cracks on my face, and I keep it. I cannot let this go.

"A train exploded while passing through District Nine. It killed five and destroyed hundreds of tons of food and other resources. Head Peacekeeper Crimson currently has it ruled as a gas explosion and not a rebel attack."

The irony occurs to me that I am reporting overwhelmingly negative events, but nothing can pull me down from my adrenaline high right now.

I make it through the rest of the speech flawlessly.

"Thank you, Mr. Uniov," Nero says, and my flutters in relief.

Doriana gives me a thumbs up from her seat against the wall. I am so happy I could kiss her! She stares up at the holo intently. Apollo Vanahara and Livia le Champe are signing. It cuts too Panem's Seal, and President Nero cranks the volume up to play the National Anthem. Everyone in the room stands and places their right hand on their heart and stares forward.

I am almost too lightheaded with joy and pride to stay still for long. Never before in my life, have I actually followed through or succeeded to my fullest potential with anything. It feels so foreign, yet so wonderful, this sense of self-accomplishment. And suddenly, my horizons have expanded, past just squeaking by for as long as I can under the constant threat of death, to thriving.

I give another shake in my chair as the cornucopia clearing is revealed. The Hunger Games are irrelevant now, just little cherry on top. I am different from the man I was ten minutes ago, and this new me does not feel empathy for the tributes' plight because he has gone through it too, he feels sympathy but cannot relate. I am rising up, and I have the daring to recline in my chair as the clearing is revealed.

The cameras never show much at the Bloodbath, instead focusing on the tributes. They grass is green and lush, and the sun finds a hole in the clouds to light up the grass and dainty little flower patches spotted around the clearing. In the background, a thick layer of trees is the only thing visible behind an even thicker layer of fog. But the trees are not normal. They all look distorted somehow; the ones to the South bubbly, windy, and curvy, almost whimsical looking, as if drawn by a five-year-old; the ones to the North and West top heavy, sturdy, and majestic; the ones to the east somehow petite and blooming with all sorts of fantastical looking flowers.

"Oh, I just love flowers," Florian gushes, poking a pea green colored rose on his breast pocket. He is still stuck in his childish and silly yet terrifying mood, just like the arena. "It's in the name."

The tributes are in a semicircle around the horn, which is abnormal. The camera rotates slowly from pedestal to pedestal, showing each tribute's reaction.

60, 59, 58…

Sierra Hay-Fields, the girl from Eleven, is on the end nearest the flowery trees. She cuts an imposing figure, chest held high, but her expressive face does her façade in. She is nervous, and her head shakes as she searches for her allies, some of whom are blocked by the massive metal horn. I notice that the clearing is much larger than the usual this year.

The boy from Six, Carroll Heinback, is also looking across for his partner, but he cannot seem to find her. But maybe he does, because he zeroes in on something or someone in the distance and puffs out his chest.

The boy from Nine is next. Coleus Yarrow. I remember his name not because he was bombastic or anything like Sierra, but because I see myself in him, another paranoid, stranded, awkward boy who bungles everything, like the Chariot Parade or Interviews. But that is not me anymore, and this boy also looks like he has a new resolve. He stands on his podium ready to pounce. His eyes are trained on one tribute heavily, but the camera blocks them.

After him is Marvel from One. He licks his lips, smiling devilishly at a spear just in frame. This is a departure from the polite but self-assured boy in the Interviews. This boy is out to hunt, and now looks around for his first prey.

50, 49, 48…

Konani, the lover girl from Five, is the first tribute to be openly crying. Tears drip down her eyes as she tries to calm herself and sets her eyes on a pack not too far from her. Her hands shake, and she presumably locks eyes with her partner and mouths words of comfort to him.

Next is Nerissa. Near me, Odysseus perks up and begins typing rapidly into her phone. She, unlike her ally Sierra, is not focused on the ring of tributes. Instead, she eyes a serrated dagger laying in a clump of flowers. It is hard not to be wrapped up in the mood of excitement when, all around me, people perk up as they see Nerissa, look on intently, sometimes sadistically, but I do not even care anymore beyond my overwhelming relief.

Mystic Archeron is the first of the anti-careers and another favorite outlier. Shockingly, she is laughing, and not just that, but crying. It is tough not to be dragged down with her sorrow, but it is juxtaposed confusingly with carefree laughter that turns aggressive. Nerissa and her allies join in. So do some of the careers, derisively.

"Already crying, are we?" Imperia Crimson shouts from off-screen.

"At least I can feel something other than hate and entitlement!" she screeches back.

Tessa Oakhart is next, and she is truly sympathetic. She is trembling with barely restrained sobs, feet already positioned towards what must be her ally across the field. I feel dejected seeing her like that. But no. I cannot let myself come off of this happy cloud, because if I do, I might not ever be able to sustain it! Tessa Oakhart must come down from her little rainbow if she wants a shot at living. The feed catches me off guard, cutting off her small frame.

40, 39, 38…

Aleyn Garsow is a completely different person from the timid boy in the Interviews. His face is stone cold, with just a hint of a maniacal smile. Could this be the other identity he alluded to?

Now comes Imperia Crimson. She is the tribute with the most bets in the last decade, according to Odysseus. I can forget my distrust of him through her frightening yet awe-inspiring presence. She laughs, one booming, final laugh, almost like a cannon, and the noise is dead. Her whip is not on camera, but she sees it. I can tell from the look of eagerness on her face.

The boy from Three, Bolt, is already poised to run. His eyes land on item to item, ally to ally. All of his electric energy has morphed into fear. Now he jumps around on her pedestal in anxiety rather than spiritedness.

Turquesa from One flicks a stray black hair out of her face nonchalantly and glares up at the sky and at Imperia. She holds up her middle finger and readies herself to fight. As much of the room erupts in oohs and ahs, in cheers at this girls charisma, and apathy, and daring, but I can feel myself losing my hold on the mood. And in place of happy thoughts a gloomy ones, about how I can identify with the threat of death over the tributes, and the overpowering stress. But those are just my mind wandering again, random thoughts that I need to brush off.

30, 29, 28…

The District Ten Female—Rhiannon?—looks as mystical and unperturbed as always. She is completely unbothered by the circumstances. She truly is an oddity. She turns herself to face the wilderness, sits down on her pedestal, and begins untying her shoes.

The spoiled boy from Eight is the complete opposite. He practically throws a tantrum, as angry as he can through the unsightly snots dribbling down his face and tears that help to mar his babyish face. He also sits down indignantly, shouting out to his mother in some hail Mary. But there is no getting out of this. I hate to think that I would be like this repulse, a blubbering baby. I would not now, not after this surge in growth and confidence in just a few minutes.

Talisa Rowland is the model career of the bunch. She stands proud, smiling wide to the cameras and zeroing in on her weapon of choice and her prey. I realize that she has faded from my thoughts, from the public eye, and her hype has transferred over to the more compelling storylines. But she is far from far gone now. Amalfi beside me sits up and begins muttering unintelligible words of advice, or maybe prayer. It is odd to see someone here so… un-self-centered, so worried for other people.

The Twelve kid's angry schtick is wearing thin, and he knows it. It looks put on now, him pumping his fists and clenching his jaw. He lets out a guttural yell that draws everyone's attention to him, but it trails off and cracks. Crassus and Titus let out belly laughs.

"Fuckers!" he shouts weakly. His energy is nearly gone.

20, 19, 18…

Aquatico Espovera smiles at the camera charmingly and winks, do a little hop and dance on the platform. Amalfi scoffs in disbelief.

"Be serious, kid," she whispers.

He hears her and quits, finding a spear near a pack and his allies.

Scylla from Two is rambling to herself, eyes shut, hands flitting up nervously to her ears. She is not the most intimidating of careers in her prone position, but her eyes open wide and she scans her surroundings like a hawk.

Tabitha from Twelve quietly weeps as she stares longingly at her allies all the way across the field. She is only the third tribute not to face herself towards the horn.

The fourth is Raihan from Ten, who is right beside her, repeating one indistinct sentence over and over to himself. His eyes are shut inf ear, blocking out his surroundings.

"Raihan!" the Twelve girl squeaks. She points animatedly at their allies.

The boy's eyes open and pools of water run out, but he nods sturdily.

10, 9, 8…

Elior, the other half of the District Five couple, also stares at his ally, but in a different way, a stronger way, more gallant. He, unlike the children next to him, is focused on the horn, a plump and sleeping bag catching his eye. His eyes begin to water and he rubs them, then recoils in pain and nearly falls off the back of his pedestal. He must have sweat in them. I feel for him, and I feel nearly drained imagining myself in his situation, thrown into a deathmatch with a lover. I feel my attention waning and locate Doriana. It would be horrible.

5, 4, 3…

The cymbals start to ring and bring me back out of my thoughts. Arlo Maddox is stony-faced, eyes fixed in concentration on the mouth of the horn and only the horn, no tributes around him but for a split second when he nods at what must be his partner.

2…

Rowan Hunter shakes his arms to get out the nerves and look reassuringly towards his little ally. He is running towards her. His expression is optimistic, almost cocky, but still charming. It is nice to see.

1…

Keeley, the Six girl, wipes one final tear away, steeling herself for what is about to come. If anything could bring a low to my high, this is it. It feels weird to say. But it is heartbreaking to see someone so young look so lost, especially without her ally. Her feet are light, poised to run for her life. Silly thoughts and introspections will not matter now. President Nero will be annoyed if her catches me wincing or looking away at the bloodshed, so I oblige. Those thoughts were random, anyway. This is just another part of work that I do not want to complete. So, let the games begin.

"Let the Games begin."

0.

---

We made it. We fucking made it. After literally four days shy (or three days depending on where you are) of two years, we have made it to the end of the Pre-Games. I am writing this out at near midnight and am exhausted, so I will keep this up, but I would just like to say that I am so proud of myself for completing this and for all of you who have been faithful to this story through its ups and its down and reviewed every step of the way. Thank you, guys. I love you all.

This chapter, we saw Konani have a little pre-Bloodbath bonding session with Elior and contemplate her ideals. Carroll struggled to maintain his morale, especially when Keeley snapped at him, but they still have their tentative resolve. Marvel studied his competition aboard the hovercraft and was the butt of a few jokes. Raihan received support from his allies amidst his meltdown, and some important words from Bolt. Celestius came through in a random miracle in his board meeting after being disorganized and unprepared, but he found sustaining his adrenaline high surprisingly difficult when watching the countdown. And that was it! What did you think of it all? Please leave your lovely reviews as always. Our final round of POVs are done, and we are at the halfway point now, the big climax. We also have our subplot rounded out, as every major player for this story was in that room, aside from Apollo, who was commentating. I would love to hear your thoughts on the fifth POV especially.

Who sat across from Arlo?

Do you prefer subplot POVs to be at the end of chapters or in separate interludes?

Here is an alliance list just as a reminder if you need one:

Three Nice Kids, Marvel, and the Bane of Paradigm's Existence (aka Careers): Marvel Silver (D1), Arlo Maddox (D2), Scylla Frigard (D2), Talisa Rowland (D4), Imperia Crimson (D9)

Three Crazy Names: Turquesa Miracelest (D1), Aquatico Espovera (D4), Mystic Archeron (D8)

Nerissa's Band of Merry and Manipulatable Misfits: Bolt Dattery (D3), Nerissa Doppler (D3), Raihan Everstow (D10), Sierra Hay-Fields (D11), Tabitha Declan (D12)

Awkward Teen Romance: Elior Gobel (D5), Konani Sowka (D5)

Good Cop and Bad Cop: Carroll Heinback (D6), Keeley Axel (D6)

Wholesome Beans Who I Can Think of No Other Good Name For: Rowan Hunter (D7), Tessa Oakhart (D7)

Vibing off Alone for the Time Being: Cassius Heart (D8), Coleus Yarrow (D9), Rhiannon Castor (D10), Aleyn Garsow (D11), Rooker Hilt (D12)

I cannot believe I am about to have to say bye to so many of my children. This really is a bittersweet occasion, but I'll save the tooting of my own horn and sappy eulogies for next chapter.

I love you all!

(Also, 21,000 words?!)

-Mills