Author's Note

I do not own the Hunger Games.

Chapter Forty has now been updated to include Shelley's eulogy. Looking through my document, it was originally written to appear in the chapter she died, and then I forgot to move it to the end of that arena day, which is my mistake.


Hyperion didn't bother climbing up to see the Capital seal and the faces in the sky. He was much too sore for that, and he knew who it had been.

Make sure that one dies.

He hadn't broken his word.

"Ten of us left," Four said.

They hadn't really spoken to each other beyond a few scarce words and grunts of acknowledgement. It wasn't much of an alliance, but a situation of mutual benefit, strength in numbers.

And there was still Ten of them left.

Seven of them were in their way.

Seven tributes that could try to kill him or Luciente at any point.

"Why'd you do it?" he grunted at last.

"What?"

"You volunteered. Why?"

She balled her hands into fists. "Because fuck the Careers, that's why. I'd have taken Cairne and Livia out in the bloodbath if your damn sister hadn't distracted me."

Hyperion snorted. "Sounds like her."

She stared at the ground. "Aros didn't deserve it."

"Aros?"

"My District partner. She killed him you know."

He shrugged. "That's Luciente."


Nightfall brought their silent walking to a halt. Hyperion could have continued, he was no stranger to navigating woodland in the dark – but he didn't really feel like running into a tribute or a mutt or a trap in the dark.

So he and Four picked a place, a gap between the tight trees that was slightly bigger than other gaps, and hunkered down for the night.

When he was young, he would huddle with Luciente amongst and in the trees, listening to the life around them, the coyotes snuffling below them, and she would whisper half formed words about ghosts and things that would be and could be and might be and fairies and freedom.

Hyperion had never questioned her.

They had had each other.

They had each other even now, with all this distance and these trees between them.

They had each other.

Four pressed herself up against a large tree. She had cut strips from her torn jacket for bandages, and some sponsor had sent her antiseptic and a spray bottle of some luminous blue liquid that clung to her skin when she sprayed it over the wound. Hyperion still doubted she would get far before blood poisoning set in, unless there was something in the medicine or some sponsor sent her something.

Why hadn't he killed her?

Hyperion was unsure.

Perhaps he should kill her tonight, drive the spear through her chest like the boy from Twelve had intended or take one of the knives and drive it through her eye.

It would be quick and relatively painless.

It wasn't like she was in much of a state to fight.

And still he didn't.

It wasn't the company. He had no need of that. He could go on on his own; he had never needed or wanted an alliance, that had been Luciente, and even then only because she was determined to have Nathaniel.

And yet still he hesitated.

Luciente had liked this girl, called her pretty, called her 'not a Career' – which, given her spite towards them, could be true.

But it wasn't that.

It was the queasy feeling.

No, not at the thought of killing her. The feeling that something was wrong. An odd feeling of being hunted, tracked, haunted, a soft prickling at the back of his mind that said you don't want to be alone out here.

It was a black, cold, evil feeling, and he couldn't shake it.

Luciente would have known, he thought bitterly.

He would have to ask her in the morning.

And once he could, once they were together, he could get rid of Four, since he'd have Luciente again.

They'd have no need for her.

He leant back against the tree and closed his eyes. Neither he nor Four really trusted the other not to kill them in their sleep, so they were at an uneasy truce where neither wanted to back down or sleep.

He was still considering it.


Come to me brother.

Find me.

Stay with me.

It's not safe out there for you alone.


Hyperion jerked from his sleepy half daze with the thought in his mind.

It had sounded so clear, so near.

Luciente.

He would know her voice anywhere, anytime, after all this time and all these years.

It had been her, he was sure of it.

Come to me.

Like she had said before, when he was at the stream, a lifetime ago.

Find me.

He would; of course he would.

Stay with me.

Always.

It's not safe out there for you alone.

This was the Hunger Games and they were tributes in the arena.

It was never safe.

It's not safe.

Not safe from what, he asked the ground, digging his fingers into the soil, not safe from what? Other tributes? Mutts? Gamemaker traps?

Or something else?

Luciente had always been able to see things other people couldn't, those big pale eyes of hers cutting through to the truth of things.

It's not safe out there for you.

it's not safe out there for you either, he thought, perhaps her even more so because he was big and muscular even after the years in prison while she was small and lean and wiry.

It's not safe out there for you alone.

Except he wasn't exactly alone.

He had Four.

But maybe she had meant alone as in without her, not without anyone.

Four eyed him. "What's up?"

"Thought I heard something."

She reached for the spear she'd taken from Twelve with her good hand, wrapping her fingers around the shaft. "I don't see anything."

"Animal maybe."

And yet-

Hyperion stood.

It was cold.

Colder than it had been when they stopped to rest.

Colder even than when he had first opened his eyes.

Cold like it was burning, crawling, alive.

His skin prickled and he shuddered.

He had never shown a single sign of having whatever it was Luciente had – but he was her brother. They were blood siblings, pack – and if ever he had felt it, he felt it again now.

"You alright there Ten?"

"Four," he said slowly, climbing to his feet. She struggled to stand, likely unwilling to remain on the ground while he was above her.

"What?"

"How fast can you run with that shoulder?"

She rolled her arm experimentally. "Fast enough I reckon. Why?"

Hyperion tore his gaze from the inky black darkness of the trees behind them and hefted his spear in one hand. "Run."