Chapter Seventeen.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Kit Kaur
District Five, 16 Years Old
After Kit and Everett's argument – it was brief, with empty insults and threats spewed at each other – they didn't say a single word to each other all night. Everett wasn't mad at Kit, nor was Kit mad at Everett. They just didn't know how else to channel their grief, their anguish, their frustration, their disappointment, so they kept their mouths quiet.
Internally, though, Kit spent the night berating herself. She couldn't forgive herself for what she did. She couldn't even blame Everett, either. She put the tainted ointment on Gunnar. It was her fault.
She looked at Everett, his back to her, and she felt confused. He was her ally, he was all she had left. She wasn't ready to say goodbye to her parents, to her best friend, Volt, when she did in District Five, and she wasn't ready to say goodbye to Everett, either. Kit opened her mouth to speak, to get Everett's attention, for him to look at her. She felt ignored and that confused her even more. Why was Everett mad at her? Why was he so distant all of a sudden?
It's because I killed Gunnar.
Kit should've known better. She knew what she was doing – or she thought she did. She skimmed all of the books in the training center, she trained with survival skills. Kit was smart – in District Five, at least. She knew how to code, how to troubleshoot a glitchy computer. She knew how electricity currents worked, how District Five single-handedly kept Panem up and running. She knew a motherboard like the back of her hand.
But, when it came to the Hunger Games, perhaps her intelligence didn't translate. She didn't know how to nock an arrow, how to fish with a spear, how to throw a knife. Technically, Kit was smart. Smarter than her peers, her classmates, even some of her parents' colleagues. She was what people in District Five called booksmart.
Maybe that's all she was – just booksmart.
Not the type of smart that won the Games.
Caspian De Ponte
District Four, 18 Years Old
"Anyone in the mood to go hunting?"
Caspian yawned, rubbing his eyes and stretching out his arms. The sun was slowly rising over the arena, peeking through the clouds and casting a shadow of the Cornucopia over the frozen lake. He grabbed a backpack, slipped it around him, and then grabbed a spear. He felt antsy all night, knowing that in a few hours, things would be very different for him and the Careers. If all went according to plan, they'd be down two members by the end of the day. Caspian looked forward to some alone time with Cleo.
"Hunting?" Hardy asked, jumping to his feet, looking like a curious toddler. He approached Caspian, eagerness in his eyes, and Caspian threw him a club. Hardy caught it, weighing it in his hands, and nodded. "Like for tributes?"
"Yep," Caspian said. He struggled to continue his sentence, as he was hoping that they wouldn't actually come across any tributes, that he would prefer to simply lure Hardy deep into the forest and take care of him without encountering anyone else. He hadn't made one kill in the arena yet and he wanted to keep it that way. "For tributes."
If only it was possible for Caspian to win – to return home to his sister, to buy a boat and take her far away from their father – without killing. If only.
It was clear that Hardy was desperate to be a real Career, to go hunting and do whatever the glamorized Careers do on the television. He valued the screen time too; he figured all of the eyes of DIstrict Six were glued to their screens, watching him. Caspian, on the contrary, wasn't as enthusiastic as Hardy. He hadn't thought how he would execute his part of Cleo's plan – to get rid of Hardy, somehow – but it would come to him eventually.
"I'm in," Nereida said, her eyes locking with Cleo's. "We can catch them while they're sleeping."
"When you put it like that," Georgia said, nodding in approval. "Cleo?"
"I'll stay back," Cleo said, waving her hand in the air, gesturing at all of the supplies in the Cornucopia. "Someone has to watch all of this."
"Suit yourself," Hardy chirped. Caspian nearly rolled his eyes at how quickly Hardy became comfortable in their alliance. Ordering people around, acting as if it was his idea in the first place. He shouldn't even be here.
There was something about Hardy that bothered Caspian that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was how self-seeking he was, how he was only in their alliance for the optics. He wasn't a real Career. He was a buffer, a bodyguard, for Georgia.
"Should we split up?" Nereida said, her eyes flicking from Cleo to Caspian. "We can cover more ground that way."
Georgia hummed. "Let's make it a girls versus boys competition. Losers have to cook dinner tonight."
Caspian shifted uncomfortably. "Sure."
The other Careers nodded in agreement, and as they grabbed their weapons and backpacks and went their separate ways, Cleo leaned back against the Cornucopia, flicking the string of her bow and arrow. Caspian led the way as Hardy trailed behind him, dodging the protruding tree branches and slipping occasionally on the ice as they navigated the forest. They walked silently in a straight line, their teeth chattering from the cold the only distinguishable sound.
Caspian opened his mouth to speak – he was usually the chatty one, the one who would make some snide remark that came across as an innuendo, making Nereida roll her eyes while Cleo giggled – but he pressed his lips tightly together. Hardy wasn't his friend. He barely considered him an ally. It would be an easy kill with no remorse, no guilt, nothing.
"Did you hear that?" Hardy asked, and Caspian snapped out of his trance, surveying the trees around him. He was mostly mad that he didn't hear any voices or any footsteps. "It came from this way."
Hardy took the lead, his shoulder bumping into Caspian as he passed him. Caspian groaned and followed behind him, hoping that Hardy would get himself killed. Caspian didn't actually want to kill him, but he saw merit in Cleo's argument; Georgia was still a threat and Hardy fortified her.
In the distance, two figures darted past them, and Caspian rushed towards them, now his shoulders bumping into Hardy's more forcefully. Hardy only had a club, while Caspian brought his spear, and he rolled his eyes at Hardy's incompetence.
"You need a weapon that's good for distance," Caspian ridiculed, shouting back at him as he followed the figures' trail. "Follow my lead!"
They were still far ahead of him, but he caught a glimpse of their metallic numbers on the back of their jackets. It was the two girls that Caspian ignored during the bloodbath. The two he essentially let go. The girls who reminded him of his sister.
3 and 12. Shit.
Hardy ran past Caspian, their competitive side overwhelming both of them, and they tried to out run each other, to reach the two girls first. Hardy had a club, while Caspian had a spear, and the thought of Hardy bludgeoning them made him somehow feel worse about the situation. He pictured his sister, crying out, begging to not die, while Hardy struck her in the head with a club. A spear was quick and he could do it from a distance.
They entered a clearing in the trees, and as the two girls struggled to reach the other side, Caspian raised his arm, weapon in hand. Caspian watched the spear whirl through the air, spinning as it crept up behind the girl from Twelve, and as it impaled her in the back, she face-planted into the snow.
The girl from Three shrieked, and she turned around, dropping to her knees beside her ally. Caspian abruptly stopped, his boots digging into snow, and he looked around him, trying to find where Hardy went in the midst of Caspian killing Marcella, but he couldn't find him.
"Hardy, go after her!" Caspian shouted, pointing his spear in the general direction of where Cassia went. Where is he?
It was ominously silent; there was no footsteps, no crunching of snow, no rustling of the trees. Caspian turned around slowly to see Hardy standing closely behind him, raising his club and swinging it, the blunt object colliding with the side of Caspian's side.
"Har–"
Aedan Vidar
District Nine, 18 Years Old
Aedan snapped out of his slumber at the sound of a shrill, piercing scream, followed by a thundering cannon. He spun his head around, scrambling to kick the sleeping bag off of him, Avena nowhere in sight. All of her supplies were gone, and when Aedan looked down at his feet, she noticed her blue ribbon covered in a light dusting of snow.
"Avena!" he shouted, picking the ribbon up and stuffing it in his jacket pocket. "Avena, where are you?!"
Grabbing whatever he could, Aedan ran speedily towards the general direction of where the scream came from, shouting Avena's name over and over. His heart was beating out of his chest, his palms were sweating, his legs were nearly giving up, but Aedan couldn't stop running. That scream and subsequent cannon could've been Avena's.
"Avena!" Aedan shouted, stopping abruptly, gripping his hands on his knees, hunched over. He breathed in and out, his vision going blurry from all of the running. "Avena…"
Aedan forced himself to keep running, to find wherever that scream was, to find out who was killed. Then, in the distance, he saw someone slouched on the ground – Aedan swore it was Avena by the color of her hair, her small frame – and Aedan rushed over.
When he approached the figure, he let out a sigh of relief.
It wasn't Avena.
It was the girl from District Twelve, and a few feet in front of her, the boy from District Four was on the ground, motionless, his arms and legs sprawled out. There was a large, red circle of blood in the snow beside him, and Aedan stepped over his body, looking for the source, and when he located the blood oozing out of a gash in the side of the boy's head, Aedan looked the other way and lightly kicked the boy, who didn't even flinch. Aedan couldn't even tell if he was still breathing, if there was any life left in him. Aedan started to walk away, but he stopped in his tracks, looking back at the boy. He could've been dead, but he almost could've been alive. He was a risk, not only to him, but to Avena. Wherever she was.
The boy from Four was a Career. He'd kill both of them if he got the chance. Without second guessing himself, without any further debate, Aedan plummeted the knife into Caspian's skull. It cracked through the bone, piercing directly through, and Aedan left the knife buried deep inside of his head. His cannon sounded soon-after. Just like Amias, it was the right thing for Aedan to do. He had to kill for his own sake, for his own survival. For Avena, too. One less Career meant one less threat for the both of them.
Aedan had to find Avena.
He didn't want her to be alone.
He didn't want to be alone.
Nereida Beck
District Four, 18 Years Old
"Two cannons? I wonder who."
Nereida shrugged. "Could be anyone."
"It could be anyone," Georgia echoed. "By this point, I'm not surprised by anyone's face in the sky anymore. Not after Drachma."
Nereida closed her eyes. She was expecting their conversation to turn into a more serious, more grave, discussion. Georgia seemed too eager to pair up with Nereida, to go hunting only with her, without even offering for Hardy or Cleo to come along. Georgia must've had a plan of her own.
"Oh, no, don't worry. I don't blame you for killing him," Georgia said, catching Nereida off-guard. She flicked her head around, looking at Georgia out of the corner of her eye. "I really couldn't care less."
"What?"
"He was unpredictable," Georgia replied. "I'm glad he's gone. Now I don't need to worry about anyone betraying me like he did to Cleo."
Nereida nodded.
"Right, Nereida?" Georgia said, looking over her shoulder, a sweet smile on her face. Nereida raised an eyebrow. She knows. "You wouldn't pull a Drachma on me, would you?"
Nereida shook her head.
"Would you?" Georgia repeated. This was a mistake. She knows.
"No," Nereida said, her voice cracking. She considered what her options were in her peripheral vision; she could run, but Georgia was fast. There was nowhere to hide, since Georga would see exactly where Nereida was running. "No."
Nereida's fingers tensed up around the shaft of the spear, feeling Georgia staring at the back of her head. Georgia lurked behind her the whole time they were hunting, and that alone made Nereida suspicious. Georgia was smart – she must've known they were up to something.
It's now or never.
Nereida spun around and swung her spear at Georgia, nipping her shoulder before she leaped backwards, instantly bending her knees and raising her weapon. Georgia was ready to fight the whole time they were hunting and it was clear that her opponent, her target, was Nereida all along. Georgia lunged at her, but from her motions, her attacks, she looked as if she was sparring with a trainer. It didn't look like Georgia was intending to hurt or kill Nereida. Their weapons collided, Nereida flicking the bottom of her spear into Georgia's knee.
"Let's not be stupid, Nereida," Georgia said, taking a step backwards. "I know you want to kill me, but now isn't the time."
"When will be the time?"
"I can see it now," Georgia replied, waving one of her hands in the air, her lips curling into a smirk. Nereida was angered by Georgia's apparent amusement. "You and me in the final two."
"I'd kill you then like I'm going to kill you now."
"There we go!" Georgia exclaimed. "The fire inside of you I've been dying to see. Why have you been so quiet this whole time, Nereida?"
That's how Nereida was trained. To be robotic. To do what she was trained to do; nothing more, nothing less.
"You killed twice, for crying out loud!" Georgia shouted. "That's the Nereida I want to see more of. Not the one who falls for Cleo's bullshit."
Georgia's words resonated with Nereida. She did fall for Cleo's bullshit; Nereida let her convince her and Caspian to do her dirty work for her. Those two cannons could've been one, if not both, of them, while Cleo was relaxing at the Cornucopia. Tributes rarely tried to visit the Cornucopia after the bloodbath, so there was nothing for Cleo to protect it from.
"She could be the third cannon today," Georgia offered. "We can pick off the deadweight of this alliance, if you know what I mean."
"Who?"
"Cleo, Hardy, and Caspian, of course. It could just be me and you."
"You recruited Hardy."
"I don't care about Hardy," Georgia deadpanned. "Now that I see what you're capable of, I care about you, Nereida."
"No!" Nereida said, rushing forward, raising her spear in the air, but Georgia dodged her, jumping to the side, taking a few strides back to put more distance between them.
"We can kill Cleo!" Georgia pleaded, slowly raising her shortsword as Nereida prepared for another attack. "Together!"
But, Nereida didn't listen, barreling towards her. Georgia plunged the sword through Nereida's stomach. She crumbled forward, the blade digging through her stomach and out her back, and Georgia released the weapon from her hands. Nereida's body thumped on the ground and Georgia flipped her body over with her foot. With both hands on the sword's hilt, she yanked the sword out of Nereida's body.
There were clear differences between their fighting styles. Nereida fought regimented, like how she was trained, while Georgia fought dirty. Nereida saw Georgia as a dummy, as one of the trainers from the Capitol and District Four, but Georgia didn't move like them. She was more unpredictable than the stationary, lifeless dummies that Nereida trained with. She was more agile with every moment, more ferocious with every strike.
"I didn't want to do that," Georgia said, looking down at Nereida. "You gave me no choice."
Nereida opened her mouth, trying to force words out, trying to scream for help, but nothing came out. She twitched in pain, a burning sensation overwhelming her body, and as Georgia walked away, she stared up at the sky, a tear rolling down her cheek. It wasn't that Cleo manipulated her or that Georgia betrayed her. It was because she lost. She lost the one thing she committed her whole life to. The early mornings and late nights in the training academy. Never letting herself take a break. Skipping meal after meal to train.
All Nereida knew was the Hunger Games.
Without them, she was nothing.
Cleo Halston
District One, 18 Years Old
Cleo's stomach dropped as Hardy emerged from the trees. There were three cannons, and clearly, one of them wasn't Hardy like Cleo intended. Ugh.
She reached for her bow and sliver of arrows, slowly sliding one out as Hardy slowly walked towards her. His arms were lowered, dragging the club through the snow, leaving a trail of bright red blood behind him.
"Where's Caspian?"
Hardy shook his head.
"Where's Caspian?!" Cleo shouted, her voice cracking. "Hardy!"
Once again, Hardy shook his head, still slowly approaching her, club in hand.
Cleo huffed; Hardy wasn't supposed to be her responsibility. As Hardy witnessed Cleo raise her bow and nock an arrow on the string, he started to run towards her. She blinked rapidly, picturing Drachma during the bloodbath, where she failed to kill him. Where Nereida had to save her. Cleo wouldn't let that happen again. She was in charge. She was strong. She didn't need to be protected, to be saved. She was Cleo-fucking-Halston, daughter of the Halston wine and spirits empire. She was the best District One had to offer.
District Four was useless, and now, Cleo had to take matters into her own hands.
Cleo released the arrow and it pierced Hardy with a thud.
Hardy fell backwards, his fingers letting go of the club, and he slammed onto the ice, his head tilting back. The arrow stuck out from his chest, the metallic rod catching the sunlight. Suddenly, Cleo heard ice cracking coming from behind her, and she slowly turned around, hoping to see Nereida or Caspian. When she saw it was Georgia, it clicked that two of those cannons were District Four. Georgia walked towards Cleo, slowly clapping her hands mockingly, the short sword clipped in her belt just as bloody as Hardy's weapon was.
"Where's Nereida?" Cleo asked feebly. She's dead. Caspian's dead. "What happened?"
"Nereida was stupid," Georgia replied matter-of-factly. That's all Georgia had to say about it. "That's what happened."
"You killed her?" Cleo asked. Cleo was impatient with asinine, rhetorical questions, yet there she was, asking Georgia a rhetorical question she knew the answer to. Both of District Four were dead. "Like Hardy killed Caspian."
"Not what you wanted, eh?" Georgia said, inching closer and closer to Cleo. Cleo reached for another arrow, but Georgia shook her head. "Truce?"
"Truce?" Cleo repeated, aghast.
"The Careers are already outnumbered," Georgia explained. "If we fought each other right now, and assuming I would win, that would mean there's one less Career here."
"Why are you acting so friendly?" Cleo asked. "Four actively tried to get rid of you and Hardy."
"And they failed," Georgia snapped. "You will fail too."
"No, I won't," Cleo mumbled, her voice wavering. "I'll kill you."
"You want to kill me, blah, blah, I want to kill you, blah, blah," Georgia teased. "Don't be stupid like Nereida."
"I'm not stupid."
"Prove it," Georgia snapped. "So, what do you say? Truce?"
Cleo sighed. She had no choice. She was at a disadvantage; before she could reach for another weapon, Georgia would already be there, slipping her sword through Cleo's back. If Cleo tried to shoot an arrow at her, she'd find herself in another Drachma-like fiasco. Cleo had to play along with Georgia's game.
"Fine," she mumbled, and Georgia cupped her hand around her ear. "Truce."
"Smart girl."
It was clear that it wasn't Cleo's Games, after all. She thought she had it all figured out – a foolproof plan with District Four as her pawns – but it was clear that they were all fools. Cleo, too. She was the biggest fool of them all. The Halston daughter cowered inside of the Cornucopia, plopping down in the back corner of the structure. She brought her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
What would come of the spoiled, pampered, privileged girl from District One? The one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth? The girl who had nannies, maids, and chefs to clean up her messes? Would Cleo die a disappointment to the Halston family name?
Cleo was witnessing her own downfall.
Her own demise.
Avena Raiden
District Nine, 14 Years Old
Avena lurked in the background, hiding behind the trees, following the lingering sounds of muffled sobs and crunching snow. When the sounds got closer to her, she threw out her hand, reaching for something – someone – that wasn't there. She hid behind a tree, scared to see two tributes in front of her, only the girl with a weapon in her hand. Avena didn't know why she followed them so closely, but she was drawn to the voices, the possibility of being in someone's company again. She missed Aedan and without him there, her heart started to beat faster and her hands started to shake.
"Cassia!" The boy shouted, stepping out into the small clearing of trees. Cassia looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy, and swiftly grabbed her knife with shaky hands. Orion held out his hands in front of him, showing that he had no backpack, no weapon, with him. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Cassia exhaled, slouching her shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard someone crying," Orion mumbled, kicking the snow and tugging at his fingers. "And here I am."
"It was me," Cassia replied, smirking and rubbing her eyes. "I didn't even know her for that long… but it could've been me."
"Who?" Orion said, and his eyes widened as it clicked. Cassia lost someone too, just like Avena. "Marcella. Oh no."
He's still alive. I think.
I hope.
Orion plopped down next to Cassia, a few inches in between them, but when Cassia didn't react, Orion scooted closer to her. They sat there, whispering to each other, and Cassia tilted her head back, wiping away the remaining droplets of tears. Avena wanted to step out from the trees, to approach and talk to them, but she couldn't. Even though they seemed friendly, she left Aedan for a reason. She didn't want to be a burden on anyone else. She slowly walked backwards, watching Orion and Cassia's every movement, and when she was far enough away, she started to run away.
To where, Avena didn't know. All she knew was that she couldn't ally with anyone else.
Avena had to endure the Hunger Games alone.
Renour Malvigne
District Two, 18 Years Old
"Boom!" Renour shouted, throwing his hands up in the air, shattering the silence that Denali was starting to enjoy.
Denali flinched, dropping the packet of crackers in her hand, and glared at Renour. She forced a smile on her face – which Renour quickly learned was her trademark, but he wasn't bothered by it – and continued chomping on her measly, tasteless snack.
Renour laughed at his own joke. He'd grown to appreciate that he could be himself around Denali.
He could laugh. He could smile and joke. He could express every emotion he felt pressured – he was taught – to suppress. He didn't have to be so proper, so rigid, so inhibited. Even in District Two, he found himself having more girl friends than boys; it was always a competition with the boys in District Two, to see who was the strongest, who was the fastest, who would be the next victor of the Hunger Games. He distanced himself from his male peers not only because of his own insecurities – he was not the strongest or fastest, nor did he aspire to be – but also because he lacked any common interests with them.
There was more to life than the Hunger Games. At least Denali saw that. With her, they could just talk. Be normal. Given the circumstances, that is; when Renour ignored the knife in his hand and Denali's disheveled hair, it felt like they were just hanging out somewhere in the outskirts of District Two.
Although he let himself get distracted at times with her, he didn't lose his focus. He was there to win and so was Denali. What was so wrong with a joke here and there, though? He relished in the moments where he could enjoy himself. In the Capitol, he dealt with the bickering Careers, and even in District Two, he dealt with his overbearing parents. With Denali, he could relax.
Denali hummed along to the national anthem of Panem as it sounded throughout the arena.
Renour wasn't surprised by the first face in the sky, the girl from District Twelve. He didn't know her well, or at all, and he ignored whatever Beau said about her. Renour figured that Beau was just mad she wasn't falling head-over-heels for him, that she wasn't another one of his admirers from District Twelve.
When Caspian's face appeared in the sky, though, he cocked his head, staring at his curly locks of hair dangling in front of his face, his goofy smile plastered on his face. Now, that was interesting. He was even more shocked when his face was replaced by Nereida's. He bowed his head, reminiscing on the few words they exchanged with each other. Hardy, the tribute that replaced him in the Career alliance, was next in the cue of deceased tributes. Renour didn't even pity the boy. Hardy should've expected to die. He willingly got himself wrapped up in the drama that Renour so carefully and intentionally absolved himself from.
"What do you think happened?"
Renour didn't have an answer for her. Renour genuinely didn't care what happened to the Careers. Three of them were dead, leaving only Cleo and Georgia, and he wondered if they went their separate ways or were in the midst fighting one another. He didn't dwell on the details, on who killed who, on who might be injured, because it didn't matter.
All that matters was that he was one step closer to being a victor of the Hunger Games. To being the change he wanted to see in District Two. In Panem.
He had to win not for himself – he wasn't on some soul-searching, self-validation mission. Rather, he was on a journey to ensure that the other children of District Two, of the other Career Districts, don't follow in Renour's path. There was more to life than the Hunger Games.
There was more to Renour's life.
Cara Waycrest
District Eleven, 16 Years Old
Cara gnawed on the bone, picking off the remaining pieces of meat, and when she was content, she tossed it to the side. She gulped down water, washing away the unpleasant taste of fox meat, a belch slipping out of her lips. Fox was a peculiar choice for dinner, but it's all she could find. Her supplies were running low, so she had to play it strategically. If she wanted to survive, to not die from starvation or dehydration, she had to eat fox.
If it meant she would be one step closer to winning, she wouldn't complain.
Such is life.
The cannons that day reassured her of her chance at surviving, at winning. There were four cannons, four faces in the sky. The third day in the arena was the first time where Cara wasn't responsible for any of the cannons; on the first day, she killed Ciana, and on the second, she killed Donegan. She was grateful that her day was spent hunting, cooking, and eating foxes. No tribute encounters, no life-or-death situations. It's the least the Capitol could do for her – she was participating in their game, after all. She killed two tributes, while the majority of tributes couldn't say the same.
What more do they want from me?
Cara unclipped the sleeping bag from her backpack, rolled it out, and placed it down on the ground. She slipped herself into it, snuggling up to the thick, warm layer of fabric and cushion inside of it. She closed her eyes, inhaled and held her breath for a second, and then let out a deep exhale.
For the first time in the arena, she felt calm, like she could actually close her eyes and fall asleep that night without waking up at every muffled sound of an owl flying over her or a fox crunching on a leaf. Tonight, she would rest, knowing that she didn't kill anyone else. That, for the time being, she was safe.
Cara survived another day in the arena, and she would continue to do just that – survive.
Survive until the end.
Marcella Carter, District Twelve – Placed 15th
Caspian De Ponte, District Four – Placed 14th
Nereida Beck, District Four – Placed 13th
Hardy Ellidan, District Six – Placed 12th
Author's Note:
A four death chapter! Crazy stuff. Not much to say, but I do have a random anecdote to share. I'm back home in New York this week and I'm in my childhood bedroom and it's so… weird? This is where I started writing fanfiction in 2012 and if someone told me when I 'quit' that I would be writing again five years later I would've been like… wtf no? But here we are. Crazy stuff x2. Hunger Games fanfiction is so fun LOOOOL
Idk I don't have any questions. Who do you think will die next? Obviously someone will? That's a bad question. Let me know what you think.
Uhhh… what else… I'm probably going to write another SYOT. It's not 100% confirmed but I feel it deep down in my core that I will. It'll be a Quarter Quell (125th Hunger Games).