Here we go! Another chapter!


Jet Beaumont, District 1

"Warm,

So warm

Screaming in the field

As I was born." -

Big Thief, Terminal Paradise


Jet and I have always been close, as close as you'd expect for identical twins. When his name was called at the reaping, it had felt like half of me was being torn away.

Now I'm getting him back, whatever's left of him.

The last time I saw my brother, he was writhing in agony in the arena sand, badly wounded. The entire left side of his face was blood-red. Watching my twin slowly die on the other side of the screen, separated from me by miles and miles of TV signal, I couldn't tell how much of it was still there. I'd moved up so close to the TV trying to figure out how severe my brother's wounds were, I'd been able to see individual pixels. I'd had a headache for hours after the broadcast had ended, as my eyes had adjusted to not having blood, suffering and death being fired at them in streams of light.

But I'd been fine with my headaches because my brother had survived. The last other kid, the scrawny one who must've been from Three or Eight or somewhere else far away, had bled to death first. My brother had beaten all the others, all the vicious-looking kids from the farms and the quarries, and won the Second Hunger Games.

Which makes me the second luckiest kid in District 1.

I can barely contain my excitement as I stand on the train platform, waiting for the train that will bring Jet home. I crane my neck, squinting into the sunlight, eager to see movement on the horizon. I've been here all day. Loads of people have been giving me strange looks. One kid had even asked for my autograph and his mother had explained to him that I wasn't the new victor, Jet Beaumont, just his brother, Alabaster.

I find it slightly amusing how my twin - my quiet, shy brother who spends most of his time in his room making model trains - has become a local celebrity overnight. Growing up, I'd always been the one who'd wanted to be famous. I hope it won't be too overwhelming for him.

Finally, a train pulls into view and I almost jump for joy. Only a few minutes and he'll be here! The train jolts to a stop in front of me and the doors slide open.

"Jet!" I cry.

"Aaaah!" My brother jumps back in shock. Then he sees my face and relaxes. "Oh, it's just you, Al."

He looks different to before. There's a massive scar slicing through one of his eyes, making him look tougher. There'll be no mistaking us for each other now and I feel a stab of disappointment. Switching places with Jet had been one of my favourite pranks to pull on unsuspecting friends, relatives and teachers.

His other eye has changed as well. It's always darting around, like he's scared of something sneaking up on him.

Jet steps down from the platform. Even though it's July, he's shivering. He takes in the people crowding the station.

"Well," he says, hoarsely, "I'm back."

We walk home together, through the streets of District 1. Cleanup after the war is going well. Most of the rubble has been cleared away, the damaged buildings are in the process of being repaired or rebuilt and someone has planted flowers in the beds in the square.

"Have those flowers always been there?" Jet asks, one of his hands in mine. His grip is uncomfortably tight but I don't want to complain, not when I'm so happy he's here and alive.

"I think so," I say. I have vague childhood memories of before the war, when the square was alive with colourful blooms. I used to walk past them every day without ever stopping to look.

"I never noticed them before," Jet lets go of my hand and walks over to examine the flowers. He cups one with delicate, orange petals in his hand. "They're so pretty..."

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, a smile lights up my brother's face.

When we get home, both of our parents are still busy at work. I remember they'd been so upset when they hadn't been able to get the time off work to see Jet at the station. I'm relieved that Jet hasn't asked about them yet. Maybe he already understands that they're busy and their bosses are busy and the whole damn district is busy trying to get back on its feet after the war.

"I'm home," Jet mutters, wonder filling his single good eye, "I'm really home. I never thought..."

He never thought he'd survive. To be honest, neither did I. Last year, the boy who'd won had been so big, so aggressive. He'd been nothing like Jet. But this year, all the bigger tributes had targeted each other, which meant that Jet had been able to grab that knife and...

I'll never forget the sight of the massive lumberjack from Seven dropping to the ground, a red stain blooming on his chest. His killer, dead-eyed, pulling the knife free. It had taken me a second to recognise my brother. I'd never known that Jet was capable of murder.

But I'm grateful. I'm so grateful he survived.

"What was it like?" I ask, quietly, giving Jet's shoulder a comforting squeeze. I'm asking partly because I think it'll help him to confide in me and partly because I'm scared I'll have to go into the games. I still have three more reapings, reapings that Jet will never have to go to.

That's the biggest benefit to winning the Hunger Games, the knowledge that you will never be in that arena again.

"Hell," Jet whispers. I can see all the things he'd suffered in the arena written in his eyes, one full of nightmares and the other blinded forever. Damaged beyond repair.

I pull my brother into a hug and don't let go for a long time.