A/N: Massive thanks once again to symphorophilia for betaing this chapter! It wouldn't've turned out half as decent as it is now is without you - so thank you so much! :D

Trigger Warning: Drug abuse.

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

She had been high when her face had been taken for the 56th Games.

It had been a good idea then. Thyia had suggested it to her, right after their final day at the Academy, whilst they were all lucid in the high: you've got to look all good for the Capitol, don't you? Good! Get this girl some molly!

She'd gotten absolutely hammered. She was floaty through it all, and she was so stupefied that maybe she was actually happy then. Did she smile? Must've. Her mentor didn't even bat an eye at how so much more gleeful she looked that day. Glee was for the Games!

But the comedown is… fuck.

Hera tilts her head back against the bathroom tiles. She'd closed the lights, before she stumbled in, and ended up spewing all her vomit in the toilet. And even though the shit's all out of her system, Hera still feels like shit.

(She wouldn't usually go for ecstasy. But her usual drug dealer got eviscerated in the Games. She's only trying new things.)

Besides. Wasn't it like Thyia said? You gotta get high till you can't get high anymore! Make most of the time you've got, Hera! Till you're a winner!

At least the pictures were over with. At least the procedures were a blur. At least she didn't have to deal with everyone touching her, with everyone bombarding her with questions and orders and questions, why do you look like that why have you done up your hair like that weren't you supposed to be here ten minutes ago what took you so long come on we don't have time left—

— dress-up is quick don't worry about it don't worry about time time's fine here take this one no actually that other one looks better on you change now no that's horrible no stop touching that bow you're not choosing I'm the professional I'm in charge so stop won't you you don't know anything—

—Don't look away what did I tell you stare at the camera look right in what do you think you're doing stop twitching like that control yourself you're supposed to be a Career aren't you strong fierce able ruthless remember so sit up make this easier for us I said smile Hera smile.

There's the drip-drip-drip of something making a puddle. It smells of sewer water and the aftermath of her day-old sandwich.

She'll have to clean that up later. She'll have to clean herself up. Or else she'll have to deal with Dad and Mom seeing all of this, and no, they can't find out. She can't even imagine how their faces would look. Dad's face would crumple. Mom would clasp her hands over her mouth and choke, oh, my little girl, why?

(What could she say to them? They'd ask her questions and she would be speechless. And what could she say? It was them? Blame them? For wanting the best there was for her? No, she couldn't. Of course she couldn't. It wasn't their fault. It was her problem, she was just so unable, to meet their expectations, to be what they wanted her to be, to be so charismatic, able, vicious—)

Hera breathes in; she breathes out. Fuck. It's the last time. She didn't mean to get so high. And she won't. Again. She's a bag of bones and she's sloshing in misery. She won't do it again. She'll remember the feeling of this particularly bad crash and never do it again. Easy.

She breathes in; she breathes out. Concentrate, she tells herself, focus. She's in her Dad's toilet, she's in the dark, she's covered in her own vomit. She's shaking, her eyes are blurry, her heart's strumming wildly and she's exhausted and she's so tired. She needs—makeup. She needs to cover herself up. She can't let them see her anaemic skin, her sweat, her hollowed-out cheekbones. Foundation. Powder. Eye concealer. Mascara.

She's a new person in front of the mirror. She stares at herself, and slowly, a bit of a smile forms by the corner of her lips. Hera Dalenka is not a drug addict. Hera Dalenka is the volunteer of District 2. Hera Dalenka is a winner.

(Cheater.)

And sure. Hera can't hide some things, bruises and saggy skin and ugly yellow streaks that wreck her chestnut skin, but she'll blame it on training. They'll understand training.

There is the clack of a lock, the click of a key that she hears. And her stomach shrinks, because they're back, they're back and there's still sops of vomit on the toilet and on the floor and the stink's everywhere— no, oh, no, no, no, no—

Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.

"Dinner's in the kitchen," Kiernan tells his mom. She's still hunched over the dinner table, as she had been for three months going now. His eyes momentarily linger on her back.

There's a tightness in his chest, that binds him together, as harsh as rope. His mom is a husk of a human, and there is something that moulds on the tip of his tongue at the sight of her.

He knows what is going through her head. Replays of the Games serve the countdown to the Reapings. They would be blaring, outside and here, even in the discontented streets and discontented people.

(What are they showing? Usually, it would be heroic. Bloody blades to blades, male crusaders and female charades, fading highlights to their games. Screens devoted to their brigades, their grenades, their parades. And then their remains.)

(Their murders would be serenaded. Their deaths would be celebrated. District Two is the home for the Victors, after all. Kiernan thinks, they have little material to work with for the last Games. Unless clips of his sister making out with some other girl were inspiring somehow.)

And of course, it is him that will go next. Him, twelve, no training under his belt, neither a willing volunteer or a Career. But his mom is not thinking about that. Her brain's still in the same place it's stayed in since the 55th Games began.

He should scoff. He should glare at his mom like he has a dozen times before. Stop thinking about her, is what he usually tells her, but that earns him nothing from his mother but a sob. She isn't here anymore, he'd continue, balling his hands into fists as he keeps from adding, I don't know why you still care.

Maeve had been long gone before she'd left for the Games.

But it doesn't matter what he says; his mom is spellbound, always somewhere else in her head. She'd disappeared into her thoughts, lost herself to one of those fantasies that he's too old to make up now. Her eyes would glimmer, she'd shake her head, and she would lean back in her chair, a sad, faraway smile lining her lips. Oh, Kiernan. There is - there's just so much you don't understand.

It's comments like this which make him snap because she's treating him like a child, like he's eight, and he'd say, what don't I know? Why don't you tell me? I'm twelve. I know what I'd seen. I live here. Or d'you think I wasn't here for the last four years of my life?

But that same sad tinge would stay on her lips, and she'd look at him with glazed eyes like he was a figment of what a twelve-year-old should be rather than a person at all, and she'd murmur: you act so much bigger than you are.

He forces himself to clamp his mouth shut. He's not having another argument with his mother. Even though he really, really wants to. At least he'll be able to yell, able to smash something with an excuse, able to make his mom cry without regret simmering in his chest.

It's Maeve's fault, not his, that his mom's stuck in the thoughts that spin a fantasy out in her head. It's Maeve's fault, not his, that his mom's head's half in the clouds and soaked in the times before.

It's Maeve's fault… it's Maeve's fault…

(Why is it so hard for Mom to understand that she'd lost Maeve long before she'd gone into the Games?)

Kiernan stomps into the corridor and flings open the door to his room. His room, now, and he grabs the ruddy bag hanging from the crooked nail in the wall, throws the bag against the metal ladder of the bunk bed, once, twice, thrice, and then the dust bursts off the bag's surface. He tosses it on the bottom bunk, disrupting the sheets there.

(Sheets that had gripped the bed's edges so tightly that it had stretched, like grey tarp, and made an ashen slab of the bed; one that covers a body in a coffin.)

(A death bed.)

Mom had insisted they keep it like this; in the same condition it was before Maeve left, almost as if she believed his sister was going to come home and reclaim her bed— because they couldn't find her body in the morgue, and that had meant something, right?

But Maeve hadn't bothered. Not in a body bag or in a coffin of red-yellow or hell, or even as spectre; never came, so keen to forget about them. Her picture-perfect bed remains untouched as it always had been, save for the crease that's been left behind by Kiernan's bag.

Kiernan laughs as he grabs the next thing on he sees — Maeve's denim jacket, scavenged from the dumps and hanging on a hook, worn out and broken down — and throws it onto the bed. He grabs their picture frame, that one that had sat on their shelf for five years, preserving their grinning faces; grabs the sculpture he'd made of her when he was six, one of clay that he wanted to throw away, but Maeve had said to him, smile's mine, and so he'd kept it there; grabs the wind-up toybox with a broken spring and a jester's spectre that they had shared, before, because Mom was too busy to make toys for them, so they'd found their own instead; grabs the rock that she'd given to him as a birthday gift because it reminded her of him. And he smashes them all on the bed.

He's panting and his breathing's shallow - too, too shallow - and he realises he's roused up a dust-storm. Kiernan's coughing before he knows it and panic seizes his chest and his veins because he's gonna have, he's having an attack.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. He's holding his breath, he's trying to keep them slow, he's letting air expunge from his nose. His hands rummage for his rescue inhaler, and he puts it to his lips, he presses on the button, and he forces himself to calm down. He does not remove it from his lips. Until he is breathing again.

He closes his eyes. It had been a waste, his mom would berate him, that was preventable, Kiernan, what have I told you, you need to be more careful, we don't have much more we can spend on inhalers, keep your feelings under control.

He would've felt guilty then, but he doesn't care now. He opens his eyes. There's still dust that tinges the room, but there's less and less now. His hand falls back to the side, as he heaves out his rage.

And Kiernan stares at his creation.

It isn't anything but an imitation of life, a mosaic, of what-had-beens. Of odd-little trinkets and lopsided creations and of bits of style here and there, of that ragged blue and cherry red that was her colour, of sculptures with broken necks, of cracked picture-frames. Of what, if haphazardly put together, had once made up Maeve.

He wants it all burned.

(Like she deserves. She deserves it. It's the least of what she deserves, really, for all she's done to them. She's fucked them all up, forced Kiernan to grow up before his time, and—)

He salvages his bag from the travesty, stuffing it full with the supplies he'll need to survive over the next few days: inhalers, snacks, gloves, maybe, he'll probably need that in the Games. He slings it over his shoulder when he's done. It weighs on his shoulders. Heavy, but it's enough.

Is it really enough for him to survive?

He wants to laugh, again.

And that is precisely when his mom pushes his door open, clasping her hands to her mouth as she stares at the mess he's made of a room that had once been theirs.

(His and Maeve's.)

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

"Are you ready for the Games, Hera?"

Dad's voice is heavy from across the table. It drags across her, like the screech of a scythe against steel.

Hera's eyes widen. And she tries a little smile by her lips. His words surprise her. His eyes, even more so. They sparkle, and Julius Dalenka's never do. Never when it came to training; this is for your future, Hera, do as you are told. Never when it came to excursions; his eyes, weighed by ceaseless business negotiations, told: that will disrupt your preparation. Remember what is more important now. Never when his vocal chords, rasping in dust, ordered: you'll become a Victor, Hera, and you'll not worry another day in your life.

She supposes, now, his eyes have reason to glisten. She will enter the Games now. It's what's best for you, Hera. You'll have a good future, now. Remember that I love you.

Hera looks at him now. It crushes her, a little bit more. His words. His eyes. So much trust in her, so much belief, so much pride. She wants to wither.

Unable, useless, unsuccessful, you can't do anything, not like how they want you to, you're weak, you're pathetic, you're the worst of them, you know, a failure and a liar and a cheater, that's who you are, won't be anything more than that, what do you think you are—

"I'm sorry about the stomachache, sweetheart," Mom says. There's a frown on her lips as her fingers run over the booklet. "I made sure that there was nothing bad in your diet yesterday—and you never throw up my lemon meringue! I don't see what it could've been!"

Hera leaves her smile on. It strains against her. But Mom doesn't notice. Just like how she doesn't notice Hera's excessive makeup or her clenching teeth or her shivering fingers.

"I've planned out your day tomorrow!" Mom chirps, far too happily. "I've already laid out your volunteering dress! I've packed your water canteen, your token—it's my silver bracelet, I'm sure you'll love it, two apples—none more, though, I don't want you eating too much!—and double sandwiches, because you'll need those calories for the Capitol! I haven't cancelled your activities— it's important for you, Hera, you have to keep your activity up—and…"

After her mom lists every single thing she'd written for Hera's schedule, she gazes at Hera expectantly. It's ceremonial, and Hera forces out a thank you.

Her mom smiles back. But her fingers trace down the booklet as if she were wishing for more days to plan. More days to list and make and control.

Hera's stomach clenches. Heat pushes up her face. Because yesterday, Mom had told her to spend an hour before pictures, remember, be punctual, give them what a proper District Two Career should be.

Ten minutes, too busy getting kite-high, so proper, aren't you, so proper you'd destroyed your house's plumbing and blamed it on your mother's pie, so conscientious, so vicious, so perfect, little perfect Career girl.

Her muscles tense. She grips her fists. Her teeth won't stop shaking. And Mom and Dad are staring.

Waiting.

Hera grits her teeth into a grin. She needs to close her eyes, she needs to imagine herself in front of the mirror, ruthless, charming, Two girl of the hour, make a crowd proud, make the Capitol roar, make the world wild, make them revel not revile, smile, smile, smile.

She smiles.

"You are ready," Dad says, and there's a finality, a smile in his words. His calloused, dark hands press onto her shoulder. His eyes, so believing, dig into her, under the gelid of her eyes and under where she shivers inside and—

Two girl of the hour, why would she cower? She's the Career that'll volunteer, they'll cheer and she'll persevere. She is a proper District Two Career, drug-free and a Victor is what she'll be.

(Isn't she?)

"Oh, she very much is," Mom says. A smile flitters upon her lips. "We're so proud of you, Hera, aren't we, Julius?"

Her heart's ramming against her ribcage. Her breathing's speeding. Sweat's tracing down her forehead, rolling her makeup off, stripping her foundation, her powder, her concealer. She's breathing, her heart's beating, because her face will peel apart and they'll see. They'll see.

District Two girl you are, a face so fake you wouldn't need to see to believe, a brain so broken you wouldn't need drugs to deceive, abilities so shitty you need to cheat to actually breathe.

"Of course," Dad says. He reaches over to put a hand on Mom's shoulder. That glint stays in his eyes. It'll die any moment. Because he sees her eyes, doesn't he, he knows what goes through her mind, any moment now he'll shake his head and sigh, he knows, he's acting, he has to be, he knows and he's with so much pride it makes her sick because he knows it's all a lie.

"You're our perfect District Two Victor," Dad says. And Hera can barely breathe. His eyes seek hers. His eyes drop deep into hers. He knows who she is. Perfect District Two Victor, a sneer, his eyes seethe, it has to be.

"This is all for you, Hera, remember," he says, but she can barely hear him. She's shaking, she's trembling, she's barely breathing. Control, control, keep it down, know who you are, do as you're told, stop moving like that, control yourself. Focus, there's your Mom's eyes and there's your Dad's, keep it in, keep yourself boxed, focus, focus, control yourself.

She inhales; she exhales. Her room; she needs to go to her room. She wants to bury herself in her bed and her covers and never come out again. But she is a District Two Career and she must smile, smile, smile—

She smiles. And Mom and Dad grin back at her, just the same, claws of a puppet's grin, frozen in that same state as she, they know, don't they, they must know, no, no, no—

Hera needs to go. But she smiles, she smiles, she doesn't stop smiling.

(Just like how a District Two Career should be.)

Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.

"What have you done, Kiernan?"

He shrugs. He can't bring himself to meet her eyes; her shimmering eyes would seem desolate, inconsolable, so close to breaking.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Kiernan, you've…" and there's a cry in her throat, the same pitiful sounds she'd made anywhere she went; beside the dining table, on their broken-down couch, in the kitchen and in her room. Sounds that had wracked her and made her more a mourner than a mother.

Kiernan looks up. His throat tightens as he watches his mother dash towards the bottom bunk. As she takes in what had been thrown away.

"Kiernan, don't you remember any of this? Of… of…" and her fingers brush over the picture-frame, a relic, another, of all the times past. She stays there, swaying, because she'd like to invigorate herself in memory, to forget about their world and their woes - because what else is better than making up a tale?

"I do." he says, and glares at his mom. "And you know what? I should've done this a long time ago."

The next sob shakes her chest. "Kiernan, why?"

It grates on him, the way his mother cries; like she's fresh from watching Maeve's death on screen, like everything in their life had been lost with her death. Kiernan makes himself breathe. His mother is torn in grief. His mother is in pain. His mother is processing.

But his mother is not Maeve. She does not live in a land of snow in her head. She does not create delusions and pretend they tell a tale. She does not foster stories and stay so blissfully unaware. She does not act as if the world around her is a fairytale.

Kiernan can't help it. He snaps.

"Seriously? I'm dying! I'm dying, tomorrow, and Maeve's still the only person you care about? Come on!"

His mom's lips quiver. Regret shrivels in his chest, but he doesn't relent. He keeps his glare up; fixes them on her glinting eyes.

"You shouldn't be so—so harsh on your sister."

Really?

"Don't give her special treatment! Maybe she's cuckoo, but you don't get to act like she's special! And she's dead now. So stop it. Stop caring about her so much."

His Mom shakes her head. Her lips press together. In that way that is lined with a sigh. In that way that tells Kiernan that he should shut up, because she knows so much better than him.

"I think… it's time I told you the truth, Kiernan. Your sister volunteered. For the tesserae." She nears closer to him; she takes his cheek in her hand, she looks at him and the wrinkles on her face ease, and she whispers, like it is a dream: "Two years' worth, Kiernan."

It's so ridiculous it's almost funny.

Kiernan exhales. He closes his eyes. She can't be serious. He opens his eyes. His Mom stares at him, that uncertain, hopeful light in her eyes, that twists and twirls inside.

He lets out a breath. "Mom. It's been two months. You can't seriously still be thinking that."

"It's only been two months—"

"No! Has Maeve ever even taken tesserae back home from the Academy? To us? No. You know that, Mom," and the light in his mom's eyes are faltering, but he gnashes his teeth and presses on, "She doesn't train for the tesserae. Do you think we'd still live here if she had? Do you think that she'd spent days and nights away for us? Do you think—" and this, he almost laughs, "—do you think she volunteered for us?"

His breath's heavy when he's done, and his mom's eyes are wide, but he exhales out what's left in him. "You can't seriously believe what she says."

The light dies. But there is still a frail smile that lifts his mom's lips. "No, Kiernan, you don't know how your sister is."

Oh, he knows. His mom knows he knows and he knows she knows too. He wishes he doesn't. He wishes he wasn't the most level-headed one in this house. He wishes that Maeve hadn't been so fucked up in the head. He wishes that his mom wasn't so caring. He wishes so many things.

"Mom," he says. And his mom's face crumbles. That smile stays, of course, but it is not hers. It is a puppeteer's. One that pulls up a facade and forces a too-wide grin, so artificial and so pitiful, across her lips. But he knows. He knows from the pain in her eyes and the stiffness of her stance. He knows she understands.

He's never been so mad before.

"You know what?" Kiernan's fists tighten on his bag straps and he glares at his mom. "Believe what you want. But I'm dead in a week's time, and then maybe then you'll care about me when I'm dead, but at least I won't have to deal with this stupid shit anymore!"

He pushes past his mom. He'll be early to the Reapings, but what the hell, he's the star there, isn't he? Volunteering, twelve going on eighteen, the Capitol's chosen because his sister's fucked up her Games so much that they need her family to pay for her mistakes, her family that she hadn't even cared about in the first place, so, why not? They expect him to. He's ordained to.

His mother grasps his arm before he can go, and he sees the shattered ceramic that is her face, the porcelain mask of before lost. She holds her head in her hands. As if to rescue the pieces of her face that are still left. Chokes.

And Kiernan's anger crumbles.

Kiernan moves towards his mom, and hugs her— tight, as tight as he can. As she sobs over a ghost that was never there. As she sobs over the bones and ashes he'll soon become, too.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I know," his mom murmurs. "I'm so sorry, too, Kiernan. I'm sorry."

(In that moment, he hates his sister—for letting her lies spread, for letting her fantasies encircle his mom's throat, for letting them choke on it, even after her death. In that moment, he wishes that she had died by strangulation instead, so she knows what it's like to live in the hell that she had left for them, not quite alive and not quite dead, suffocating in the past that bleeds in the present, only alive because she's waiting for the moment her breath'll go.)

"Kiernan."

Kiernan looks down from his bed. Maeve looks up at him, tight-lipped. Coldness sweeps through his heart. What does she want?

(She hasn't said his name for months, yet when she does, it's natural; never butchered, never changed.)

"What is it, Maeve?" His tone is fast, harsh, clipped. It's only half-intentional, so he can watch her struggle for her words.

(He wouldn't have played this game with her before. But, Kiernan figures, it's an asshole move for her asshole moves. They're on an even playing field now.)

"I was wondering. About… about what you. Thought. If I…"

He bites back a remark. When have you stopped being able to string a sentence together? Oh wait. It's on the tip of his tongue when he notices Maeve's eyes.

Wet. But she couldn't've been crying. Not Maeve.

She's not trying to get the words out of her lips anymore. She's faltered, now. It frustrates Kiernan beyond belief, because she hadn't spoken to him in ages, and of course it's now that she starts and stops.

He scoffs. "What is it?"

Once the word exits his lips he's angry at himself. It's not as if he cares about what she had to say. Not as if he cares about her at all. Even if he's giving the impression that he does. Pretending it doesn't matter that she wasn't at home half the time, that she'd forgotten there was such thing as home and him and Mom, that she'd thrown down her responsibilities and let Kiernan pick up the pieces.

So before she can work the words off her lips, he scowls. "You know what? Save it. I don't—" and a cough rattles his throat, but he keeps it down, not now, "—I don't care about you, alright? You've stopped—"

Another short.

"—stopped caring about—"

And another.

"—about us so long ago. So—"

And another, and another, and another.

"—so don't say anything. To— me. To us. Because you—you don't get to act like you'd said a word—"

And his throat shorts. His lungs are shrinking. He can barely speak.

"—to us—"

It's tight, tight, so much tighter.

"—at all. And pretend that—"

His chest. His chest encloses. He's wheezing.

"—what you do—"

He's shorting. His breath.

"—matters to—"

His throat. He can barely speak.

"—to me."

He can't breathe. He's choking. He's coughing. He can't breathe.

Maeve's eyes are wide. And that is what he hates the most. That there is concern in her eyes.

(He hates that there is concern in her eyes because of her one-track mind, because her brain can't comprehend anything else except for what is in the moment. He hates that she isn't sorry, isn't pained, isn't guilty, because those feelings don't click in her head.)

"I'll… I'll get…"

"Go away," he says, even in a wrack of coughs. "You're— you're not gonna help me. Not—not after you've done nothing for me."

Maeve's eyes are wide, as she takes him in, convulsing, coughing, choking. His hands fumble for his inhaler in his pocket. He presses and he breathes.

Maeve leaves.

Kiernan breathes.

She volunteers. The next day. He sees her from his sector of twelves. She strides on stage, a smile wreathing her lips and a too-bright beam when she skips on stage. False or real; he does not know what to believe.

But her eyes are stills of mirages, of glassy facades; as if she is all too aware of what she parodies.

Her eyes are the same when she dies; haunted and empty, blank and lost, and if Kiernan forces himself to look, he can almost see regret in them.

(This is Kiernan's problem: he does not know what to believe. False, real, Maeve is just as much a fantasy as the insanities she makes up in her head. She was family. Maybe. But he doesn't know how to interpret her fairytales. Hasn't tried.

But Maeve's dead. She might be mentally unwell, might be off-kilter and insane, but she's dead. And that should be the end to that.

He's in her fairytale, now. He's the sequel to her crazy. Because hell if Maeve let anything end. Hell if she'll let him become anything else than what she makes of him.)

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

Hera slams her door shut. Her heart's jagging in her skin a dozen times a second, her mind's going wild, she's breathing and her heart can't stop beating. She throws her Reaping dress aside, tosses her closet open, rips through the fabrics, the leather, the clothes. She tears through the scents of lilac and metal and salt, she needs, she needs—

You need what, Hera, sweetheart? I've ordered all of your clothes, colour-coded, I've put your Reaping dress out, you don't have to look, what is it you need, here, let me see—

She ransacks, she yanks out sleeves and strips of frills, she drags herself in, deeper, submerges her hands, deeper, like she's dragging sand and dust apart, she's unearthing, she needs, needs—

Gold? Gold is not enough, Hera. Gold won't make you survive. Practice. Do as you're told. You won't be a Victor if you act like that.

She's breathing, she's breathing, she's breathing, shallow, it's just so shallow, her chest's convulsing, she's heaving, she's digging, she's crying, she's crying. Where has she put it she needs it she needs it—

And her fingers strike plastic. It sinks into her fingers, swathes her in snow. A chill runs down her skin. She breathes, and she stills.

Her fingers aren't chattering anymore. Her teeth's released from their grind. Her jaw isn't shaking anymore. They've slowed. They've slowed.

Her eyes focus in amid the swarm. She heaves as she drags the bag out. White shimmers back at her, steals the gleam out of snow and gathers in, here.

Her gold.

She unzips the bag. It wafts against her, chemical and lilies and water, and she takes a moment, to take it in. Her nerves soothe, and her shoulders relax, and her mind goes quiet, for a moment.

Hera reaches for her pocket. She's always kept a note with her at all times, and Mom had always laughed, she's scared she won't be able to make it home.

Her stomach squashes. She rolls up her banknote, between her shaking fingers, why are they shaking, they aren't watching her, nobody's watching her, she's alone in her own room and she'll be on a stage soon—

Her fingers fumble for the bag, and she shakes the snow out in a line ahead, she needs, she needs, it's a dove's feather, sugar and salt and everything pristine, oh, best District Career indeed, instead of being preemptively mentally fucked, that's what you choose to be, so vicious, so proper, so charismatic, so strong—

Shutupshutupshutup—

She inhales.

And she lets herself drop back. She lets herself close her eyes. She lets her hands fall back to her sides. Lets her knuckles graze the floor. She breathes. She doesn't hear anything. She's free. She's free.

It's spellbinding, the faerie substance, the angel dust, the snow pearls and the candy powder; her life and her life again evaporates, melts, dies. It is then, when, finally: Hera smiles.

A/N: Firstly, thank you guys so much for your reviews last chapter! They made me so happy aah. c':

What did you think of Kiernan and Hera? I feel like these two are similar, but in different ways - what do you guys think? I ended up writing way more than I projected I would for both of them, but the research was so intriguing and it was also necessary in order to get their stories across! :') Kiernan's story will mostly continue down a thread from They That Are Broken (aka Maeve's Games), which should be interesting to explore; especially since there's quite a bit of fallout to discuss. I'm gonna keep an eye on word count for every tribute; so there'll be an even amount of POV screentime across the whole fic!

Do you think they'll get along? Any similarities/contrasts with the D1s? How's the Careers shaping up to be so far?

Also, on a little bit of an unrelated note — have you guys read Ballad? If so, what did you think about it? I've finished it recently and I… need someone to talk to aaah.

Our Discord's always here, too, if you'd like to talk! Link's on my profile as well :D - discord .gg/sAKRnau

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought; I appreciate your reviews immensely! :D