The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 1: Post-Mortem

District 10

2 months after the end of 74th Hunger Games

It was the last day of winter. For many, this would be celebrated with the sharing of drinks and the exchange of jokes. Winter's on the wing, they said, and that meant that the cows would stop getting sick and the chickens would freezing. It meant that less stables and coops needed to be repaired after the beams gave way to the chunks of ice piling on the rooftops. It was meant that like the snow, tensions in the District too would dissolve when the spring came back, washing clean their sins from the eyes of the Capitol.

But while the departure of snow was greeted with joy by most, there was a troubled child who could not quite view it that way.

Now Emma Overland was no foolish child. She had been brought up by a very sensible mother, thus she had enough common sense to know that stories did not equate to realities. Santa Claus did not deliver presents down chimneys, the Easter Bunny didn't have a secret lair of egg-making machines and the Tooth Fairy did not give you quarters in exchange for the teeth you hid under your bed. She knew for a fact that magic didn't exist at all, but that didn't stop her from believing all the same.

Just before the sun dipped itself down the horizon, she would venture out into the snow. This was a task that she had committed herself to since the very beginning of winter. She would be careful to dress warmly in snug woolen gloves and thick woolen stockings – splendid clothes that she hadn't had till her mother had purchased them two months earlier. She always had to take great care when wearing them, for wool was frightfully expensive. You'd think that as sheep-rearers, the District 10 folk might get their own products at a discount. But as they said, the sheep belonged to the Capitol in the first place, so give onto the Capitol what was the Capitol's.

Grateful as was she to have these handy little garments, her prized possession still remained the large brown poncho that sat on her shoulders now. She had not grown that much since we last saw her, so the matted fabric continued to sweep the ground with every step she took. Yet she wore it religiously to the point that she even refused to let her mother wash it, for she did intend to wear it every single day and every moment she could spare. It was as if that ragged thing provided her with covering and safety that nothing else could, and perhaps it was so.

There was a wooden picket fence built around the field and the gate was locked, but Emma, having practiced it so many times by now, scurried up the planks with ease, jumping over the barring and landing on her feet. As usual, the lengthy poncho caught onto the wood splinters, so she yanked on it hard to set it free. Scanning around her, she was relieved to note that no one had found her out yet. With a quick breath in, she pulled the poncho towards her chest, bundling the loose fabric in her arms. Turning about, she darted straight into the forest.

The lonely treks down from the Overland house to her destination were often quiet and eerie. The barren branches of the pines would rustle against each other in the wind and strange sounds would carry themselves over the field. Occasionally, she'd halt in her steps just to glance around and assure herself all was well before resuming her journey. Sometimes, just to drive away her fears, she'd hum a little song to herself. It was never too loud, for she was afraid that the Peacekeepers would catch her.

Ever since those horrid fights that broke out at the square, a strict curfew had been imposed on all workers. More soldiers had been stationed around the whole district, even the outskirts. Walking around here was definitely breaking the rules. She wasn't supposed to be out here so close to evening, certainly not at her age and certainly not for the objectives that she wished to fulfill.

But this was the only time that she could spare. There was always school in the morning, the dreaded routine she might have once found tolerable but now was inexplicably detestable. The afternoon would be when her mother busied her in chores. Right before dinner, her mother would leave the house to deliver back the dry, laundered clothes that she had washed. Washing in winter was horrible, for the cold water was unkind to raw fingers, but Ma insisted that she'd take work and washing was the one thing no one else wanted to do in winter. They didn't earn much from that, but somehow Ma kept the house together. If it wasn't for the scabs on her mother's hands and the harrowed crease over her brow, folks wouldn't have known that the Overland house had lost its breadwinner just two months ago.

Tucking her hands into the fabric of the poncho, the little girl sang breathily and softly,

"Are you, are you, coming to the tree?-"

A strong breeze swept her way, spraying snow into her face. No, wait, it wasn't snow. It was just dirt. She coughed, brushing the soil grains from her lips and cheeks with a sleeve. Most of the snow was already starting melt away. She had heard her friends say come tomorrow morning, all of it would evaporate like the morning dew. She hoped that to be untrue, but she wasn't taking any chances.

With a sniff, she continued in a broken, almost tuneless manner,

"-They strung a man,

they say had murdered three.

Strange things did happen here-"

She heard a strange noise – was that a howl? A shudder attacked her body and she drew the poncho around her tighter, even though something told her it might not be enough. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the chilling sound, she resumed singing the way she knew how to, though she had perhaps forgotten where she had left off,

"If we met, at midnight,

At the Hanging Tree.-"

And the rest of it dissolved into a jumbled murmur.

Finally, she did come to a stop at small lake. It was still frozen, but barely. Cracks now marred the shimmering face, and the ice was now more blue in appearance than white. Fortunately, Emma had no intentions of skating today.

The snowman that she had sculpted yesterday was gone, probably buried below another snow drift or melted in the morning sun. But she hadn't complained of this before, so she didn't complain of it now. Quietly and patiently as always, she stooped herself down and gathered as much snow as her small arms could scoop. Of course, the snow was all watery now, and all the bits and pieces kept sloshing together. She dug her hands into the sides of trees and into the trenches of their roots, trying to widdle out some frozen lumps before packing them into a ball of snow. It took some time to smoothen out the cracks and to round out the curves, but she didn't mind doing it. Sometimes, it would make her happy even. That was, until she remembered that she was building these snowmen alone now.

Frosty the 72nd was completed after she had done up three of those snow balls, each smaller than the last and stacked upon one another. She bore two holes in his head to be the eyes and added a twig for the mouth. She added a hole for his nose too, but there was no carrot to put there. Despite all the 'rebelliousness' that her mother had berated her for, Emma knew better than to waste food. Two long, fallen branches were stuck on this snowman's sides, making his bark-covered palms raised towards the sky.

She kneeled in front of the snowman, biting inside of her lip, staring at her handiwork. Frosty the 72nd returned her gaze as coldly as a creature of ice could, the crooked twig of his mouth making his demeanor seem even more unpleasant.

"Well, hello," she greeted him nervously.

The snowman eyed her contemptuously, his pout seeming more downturned than ever.

"I'm really, horribly sorry to keep disturbing you every day," Emma went on, fingering with the wool on her gloves.

Frosty's response was only frosty silence.

Despite the uneasiness she felt in her heart, "But tomorrow's the last day of winter. It won't be next year till I can see you again."

If Frosty could move, she was certain that he would sniff scornfully at her and turn away. How many times had he needed to listen to her silly prattling? How many times had he had to put up with her whiny pleas?

She swallowed, her words coming out shakier than ever. "But please, Frosty, sir, I have to know where he is, and you're the only one I can turn to."

The snowman would have rolled his eyes at her. 'Silly girl!' he would exclaim in disgust. 'Your brother's in a wooden box! Six feet under like all the other tributes! You're wasting your time."

"No!" she almost shouted back, though there was certainly no need. She wrung her hands together, her eyes downcast, yet there was strength in her voice - conviction even. "He's not there. I'm sure of it."

'Oh?' She was glad that she didn't draw him any eyebrows, for she was sure that he would knit them together in sneering fashion. 'Have you looked inside?'

"N-n-no," she stammered, jerking herself away slightly.

'Hmm!' The snowman snorted. 'Then how would you know?'

"I-I just do," she answered, though the hesitation was evident. "I feel it. I-I know it."

The snow was quick to catch onto that. 'Wrong! You THINK that you know, but you don't. You just believe what you want.'

"But isn't believing the most powerful force in the world?" she pleaded, wringing her gloved hands together. The world had been slowly turning darker each second, but she didn't notice. Her eyes were focused on the hollow ones belonging to the crusty snowman.

'Only if it's true and complete belief!' the snowman declared. 'It must be PURE! It must be BRAVE! It must SELFLESS! If not,-' the graveness in the snowman's tone increased tenfold '-it'll never work!'

The accented words sent shivers all over Emma's body, her glazing over it all. "I-I'm not very brave," she admitted, staring down at her small, wiry arms, "I'm not that good, but I can try-"

'Try is not enough!' the snowman shouted, making her curl back in fear. 'If you really do believe, then you have to show it.'

"How then?" she asked, leaning forward eagerly. "What can I do?"

'How much are you willing to sacrifice? Hmmm? How much are you willing to give up just to find your brother?'

"Everything," was her immediate reply.

'Really?' The snowman sounded disbelieving. 'Alright then. Give over your gloves. Lay them in front of me.'

"My gloves?" she repeated in surprise. "But Ma paid so much for them." She peered down at the woolen garments, pressing them to her hands. "And your hands are all wood anyway. You don't need them."

'I thought so,' the snowman spat out the snide. 'You don't actually believe. You don't DARE to.'

"No, no, I do believe!" In anxious haste to prove him wrong, she tore off the gloves. Her palms met the chill immediately, but it wasn't as bad as she feared. The sensation surrounding them was more wet than icy. She laid them together in front of Frosty. "There."

'Alright. Now give me your stockings.'

"Stockings?" She looked up and down at Frosty's round body. "But you don't have legs."

'That's because you're such an inconsiderate girl. You never thought of building me any,' the snowman grumbled. 'But that doesn't mean I don't need them. Come along. Don't you want to see your brother again?'

With the drooping of her shoulders, Emma sat herself down on the wet ground, propping both her knees up. Unstrapping her boots, she rolled the stockings down both her shins before carefully folding them together. She was about to slip the footwear back on, but then the snowman said, 'What good are stockings without shoes? Give your boots too.'

Unwillingly, she took the two boots and laid it before the snowman, alongside the stockings. Her bare heels pressed against the ice and she had to clench her teeth to bear it.

'Alright,' the snowman sounded satisfied with the progress. 'Now the poncho.'

Those words made her cling onto the brown cloak frantically. "I can't give this! It's Jack's!"

'Well, what would you rather have - your brother or his cloak?'

Her heart was heavy as she slipped the cloak off – the precious cloak that had by this time become of a nest of dirt and grime, but was no less precious. She folded it up and too set it before Frosty the 72nd.

"It's that all?" she queried timidly. Her arms were wrapped tight around her body and her legs were huddled together, all to keep as much of her body heat as possible. All she had left was her skirt, her blouse and her coat, all which she would need for school tomorrow. She wouldn't be able to part with those even if she wanted to.

Fortunately, the snowman made no further demands for her belongings. 'This will do,' he intoned gruffly. Unfortunately, it did not mean the end of the demands altogether. 'Now, gather up your things.'

She took up the items and stacked them on over the other, the stocking and gloves under the boots, and the poncho tucked on the bottom. These she took up with her two arms.

'Alright, you see the frozen lake over there?'

She spun around, grimacing as her toes nudged against a stray twig. Adjusting herself carefully, she peered at the place in question, though perhaps it wasn't as frozen as described. "Yes."

'bGood. What you need to do bring all of these to centre of that lake and put it down onto the ice.'

"Onto the ice?" Her eyes widened. She stared at the glassy stone sitting over the water below. The lake was not that large, but it was certainly big enough for Jack and her to skate around it almost every winter. There was no way she could slide the pile of clothes onto the ice and hope that it'd reach the centre of the lake. The only way that she could do it was by walking on the ice.

"But the ice's already starting to break!" she pointed out in alarm, taking an involuntary step away from the lake's shore. Indeed, glaring lines along the glittering face seemed to glow despite the darkness.

'Then that's it then,' Frosty spoke unsympathetically. 'You'll never see your brother again.'

That was an ending Emma could not accept.

Sucking in a tight breath and sticking her chest out, she moved towards the lake, each step feeling like a dozen needles piercing her uncovered feet. Pressing the bundle of clothes against her chest, she tried to feel brave.

If she thought stepping on snow hurt, stepping on ice was much worse. It felt like walking on burning coal, and she immediately retracted the first foot, teeth chattering furiously. She glanced back at the snowman, who decided at this point not to give any comment, observing her actions with cool disinterest. Heaving her shoulders back and letting loose a misty breath, she tried again. The icy pebbles and the brittle fragments bite into her soles, but with determination beyond her years, she pressed down her other foot. The ice platform below her feet did not break.

Emboldened, she advanced forward, her eyes still glued fiercely at the frosted surface. She tried to walk only the areas that were still an opaque shade of blue, avoiding the fragile glass areas. Her breath misted in front of her face and her uncovered legs wobbled. She tried to steady her shaking arms by gripping hard on the folded clothes in her arms.

It was only twenty steps, but they seemed to drag on forever. Every time she moved, her body was attacked by jitters from cold and nervousness. She always wondered if the ice would give way underneath her the next moment and when it didn't, she let out a breath in relief. When she reached the centre of the lake, she realized that the night had fallen without her noticing and the moon was already up, its perfect circular face gazing down on her. Gingerly, she bent her knees, dropping her bundle on the ice surface. Emma arranged the items neatly in a row; the stocking next to the boots, which were next to the gloves, which was next to the folded poncho. Slowly, she straightened her reddened legs, then spun around. Keeping herself on the balls of her feet, she retraced her steps carefully.

She was halfway to the shore when she heard a crack below her feet. Warily, almost not wanting to look, she glanced down. Sure enough, there was the slightest fracture underneath her left foot and she lifted that foot quickly, only for another 'hiss' to be heard under the right foot, revealing that it too stood over a frosted fissure.

"Oh," she whimpered to herself, gripping her elbows. She scanned the length to be crossed before the shore could be reached. It was a good ten steps, each large strides and on slippery, brittle ground.

Turning her head to the snowman, she called out, "What should I-I do?"

Frosty the 72nd didn't answer.

Emma gulped, eyes glued to the ground. She peered around, hoping that they might be some stray branch for her to grab on, but there was nothing in sight. She raised her head to sky, hoping that the moon might offer some advice, but too it chose to remain silent in her time of needed.

Needless to say that her freezing feet were shaking and following small hisses as the fissures grew made her more frightened than ever. She tried to remember everything her brother had once taught her about breaking ice, but somehow nothing helpful came to mind. All she could think of was getting off the ice.

So she did only what an incredibly foolish and desperate eight year-old would do. She ran.

The heavy pounding of her feet against the ice accelerated the cracking, rising from 'per-plukkk!' to 'thaaaaww-waaaacckk!' in seconds. The lines on the ice surface spread their branches gleefully, more than ready to rip the crystalline apart.

Emma prayed, oh how she prayed, that she would make it in time. There were only two steps – no, two hops – more. She prepared to throw herself forward, to make one last desperate grab for the shore.

But as fate would have it, she slipped on surface.

When her body collided with the ice, the platform gave way. The shock of cold speared her limbs first, then her chest. Emma groped for anything that could save her, even the sharp shards of ice dancing on the surface. But the dark waters below her were stronger, grabbing hold of her coat and her skirt, dragging her head under the water too. She flailed her arms desperately as the surface disappeared in the distance. The cool liquid rushed into her ears, nose and mouth. They too were stabbing her eyes, so she squeezed them tight together and prayed that she could be somewhere else instead. Her throat and chest started to hurt as bubbles escaped her lips and nostrils. She struggled and writhed.

Then, she stopped.

Everything suddenly went quiet and dark.

There were flashes of images running around her head, mixed with sounds and voices she didn't recognize. She saw a beautiful castle made out of crystal – or was it ice? She saw a snow-line cavern collapsing over her. She saw furious faces and felt sharp stabs in her ribs and chest. She remembered feeling so horribly cold, and feeling so horribly scared. Out of the fuzzy images, there was a recurring image to all of them; the face of a beautiful woman. Sometime she looked kind, other times she looked sad, but there were also some where she looked horrifying angry. At these times, She was cold, haughty, unrelenting and cruel, and her scorn was channeled into the simple glare directed towards her victim.

And Emma woke up with a sharp pain in her chest and water spluttering from her mouth.

"You're alive! Ha-ha! Thank goodness! I was so afraid!"

Emma let herself cough before she opened her eyes. The blurry contours eventually melded back into sharp images and she found herself looking at brilliant violet eyes.

"This is the only second time I've ever saved anyone, would you believe it?" The owner of the purple eyes chattered on enthusiastically. "It's pretty exciting, actually."

Emma, in her dripping wet rags, pushed herself slowly off the ground. The stranger, a bony yet muscular young woman, immediately scuttled over to help the girl. "Steady now. How do you feel?"

A breeze decided to brush them by, sending Emma quaking like a leaf. She entirely soaked through, and sitting on the snow-covered ground didn't help. "Cold."

"You poor dear!" the lady exclaimed in pity. "Of course you must be! Falling into the lake must have been a nasty shock."

The little girl shuddered at the memory, blearily glancing over to the lake. Part of the lake was still frozen, but the part near the shore had its surface ripped apart, leaving nothing but a pool of dark water lapping against the bobbing chunks of ice.

So it hadn't been a bad dream, then. She really did fall through the ice. She had lost her nice clothes, her shoes and Jack's things too, just because some snowman told her too.

"Frosty?" Emma peered around her. The snowman was nowhere in sight. Had he melted already? But the snow under her suggested that this couldn't be true.

After the girl let out a violent sneeze, the lady told her, "Come, we have to go back to home. You'll catch an awful cold at this rate. Wouldn't you like to dry yourself by the fire?"

As nice as a fire sounded in her state, Emma hadn't forgotten her task, "But what about Jack? Frosty told me that if I believed I'll see him again!"

"Well, I don't who this Frosty is, but if he's the one who told you to walk on the ice, I don't think you should talk to him," the lady said disapprovingly, helping the girl gently to her feet. "He sounds like a nasty fellow."

"But what about Jack? Will I see him again?" Emma's voice, so full of hope, also revealed how near she was to the brink of tears.

The lady was kind. She kneeled down, wiping away the stray tear that leaked down the little girl's cheek. "Of course you will, but not tonight." Straightening herself up, she took a business-like tone. "Come then. It's time for you to go home."

Emma shifted uncomfortably, pressing her stiff toes together. "But it's so far and cold. And I have no shoes."

"It's alright. I can fly you there." It was then that Emma realized that the kind lady had a pair of wings – shiny and sparkly like the stain glass that she had seen in shops, but never owned. The lady also didn't have hair. Instead, she had gorgeous feathers of deep green covering her entire body, and crown of yellow and purple feathers over her face.

"Are you a fairy?" the girl whispered, fearing a loud voice would scare this magnificent creature away.

The lady smiled in reply. Then, she nodded.

Emma gasped. All along, she had thought fairies were just in stories, but now…

Well, if there were fairies in the world, then there was certainly a chance that she would see Jack again.

"Now, are you ready?" the fairy asked, holding out a hand. "We should go soon. Your mother must be dreadfully worried."

Emma paused, peering at the lake. She didn't miss losing the shoes, or the stockings, or the gloves, but she really wished that she had never given up the cloak. By now though, all the items would have reached the bottom of lake.

She took the fairy's hand.

Flying was surprisingly easy, since the fairy did all the work. Her strong wings carried them quickly into the sky, basking them in the moonlight as they soared over the trees. Emma would have wowed at the sight if she wasn't so frightfully cold and her head didn't hurt so much. The fingers clinging to the fairy's cool palm felt numb, and Emma felt rather sleepy.

"No, don't!" The sharp tone jerked Emma. The fairy was watching her in alarm as they soared through the clouds. "I know you're tired, but you can't go to sleep. If you do, you won't wake up."

Emma nodded, valiantly trying to keep her eyes open, but a yawn escaped her mouth just as shiver attacked her spine again.

It was fortunate the journey by flight was short and the landing was easy. By then, Emma's clothes had already frozen themselves to her skin and she could barely walk forward. Teeth rattling, she staggered forward, rapping on the door.

It swung open almost immediately and Ma stood there, a fluster of anxiousness. "Emma! Thank God! I thought the Peacekeeper caught you and took you away. The curfew has started and oh -"

Her mother pulled her into the house, into the happy, safe warmth. Emma's feet was thankful step onto that didn't pierce her soles so awfully. "What happened to you? Where are your clothes?" The woman fingered her dripping hair. "Why are you all wet?"

"I-I fell into a lake," she chattered, as her mother led her towards the fireplace, where a welcoming fire danced for her pleasure. "But it's okay. The fairy lady saved me."

"Fairy lady?" Her mother sounded disbelieving as rolled the frost-covered garments of the girl.

Emma made a stiff nod as she pried the soaked shirt of her skin. "She's outside now. Could you let her in? She must be cold too."

Her mother seemed about to say something, but decided instead to go over the doorway of the house instead, peering outside. Then, she closed the door to shut the night breeze out, before returning to the fireplace.

"Didn't she want to come in?" Emma asked in surprise.

Her mother hesitated, then she said slowly, "Emma, dear, there was no one else when I saw you at door, and there was no one when I checked again."

"But-" Emma protested, but this was quickly silenced by her mother laying the back of her hand against her daughter's forehead.

"I think you might be getting a fever," she declared grimly. "Well, you're going to get dried up, young woman, and it's straight to bed for you."

Emma was in no mood to complain, so she handed all the wet clothes over to her mother and took a towel to dry herself. Once Ma fit into her bed clothes, she was sent to her room. Ma followed into the room to tuck her in, making sure that the blankets were thick enough to keep her warm.

"I lost all the nice clothes, Ma," she confessed sadly after she lowered her head to pillow.

Her mother just shook her head. "You are a silly, careless girl, Emma, but I'm just glad you're safe." She kissed her daughter on the forehead, as all mothers do to protect their children from the shadows in the night. "Goodnight, dear, and I hope this would be the end of these adventures for you."

Emma shut her eyes and waited for the click of the door. Her lids then pop back open and she scrambled out of the cover. Her now warmer toes barely like made a patter as she scurried over to the window, pulling back the curtains. The moon, bright and blue, shone through the dirty glass.

"Dear Mister Moon," she spoke in full seriousness with her hands clasped together. "Thank you sending the green fairy to save me. She's very nice, but it's a pity she flew away. Ma would have liked to meet her." Emma scrunched her face up in a frown. "But if you see Frosty, I think you should punish him. He should learn to be as nice as the snowman in the story that Jack told me about."

"Oh, and please,-" she screwed her eyes tight, "-please protect my brother. I don't know where he is, but you do. You probably can see him from where you are. When you find him, tell him that we miss him very much. Tell him to come home."

She sniffed, wiping her dripping nose with the back of her hand.

The moon said nothing to her, but she knew that the moon was very far away and it took a long time for messages to get there and back. So Emma headed back to her bed, snuggling herself under the sheets for the meantime. She told herself that she would stay up to wait for the Moon's answer, and kept herself busy by saying the most magical words she knew. As always though, she fell asleep before the reply arrived, her last dozy utterance being 'I believe, I believe…'

District 2

3 months after the end of 74th Hunger Games

When the Hunger Games were first implemented, Victor Villages were constructed in every district. To be the luxurious homes of the triumphant, each bungalow boasted a spacious porch, a plot of land for a garden, and two floors of large, airy rooms. Twelve bungalows were constructed in each district at first, but as the number of victors started climbing in District 2, more homes were hastily constructed to accommodate its growing population. Unlike some districts where this prime land was like a ghost town, the Victor's Village in District 2 was busy bustling pad full of cheerful neighbors.

"Morning, 'strid." A bald man bobbed his head in greeting.

"Good morning," she answered politely before passing him by. She knew his face well. She had studied old videos of how he had used a scimitar to behead his rivals during his year of Games. It was a quick, efficient method of kill that left the slayer plenty of time to launch subsequent attacks on other tributes standing around. On the other hand, he only knew her because she was the most recent Victor to join their merry ranks. In time, he would probably forget her name and existence. There were other victors closer to his age and maturity, so there was no need to chat with the young one.

The blonde girl, who was carrying the bundle of firewood under her arm and an axe on her back, did seem slightly taller than the last time we saw her. Rich foods had strengthened her body, and the strenuous physical regimes she put herself through everyday kept her fit and trim. There was no longer any real need for to do them, her new neighbors had told her often enough, but after training so rigorously for the Games for such a long time, she wasn't prepared to change her habits.

She had truly won the Games. At this point though, her lifetime dream still felt like a dream. Sometimes, when Astrid was alone, she would wonder if all of it - the smell of blood on the grass, the screams of children, the swell of terror in her own heart, the announcement of her victory – was real.

But there was too much evidence to suggest otherwise. She did have a home in the Victor's Village, for one. She was also immensely wealthy, or at least, as wealthy as anyone in District 2 ever needed to be. Her name had been added to the Victor's roster – a bronze plaque at the Career academy listing the names of every District 2 Victor that had ever won. Career Trainees would stop her along the road and beg for instruction. They too desired to be like her – a superstar, a celebrity, a model citizen of Panem. They yearned for the honor of representing the District in the Games.

They had no idea what they were asking for.

With parents and close relatives all dead, the house of Hofferson had only one occupant. The large rooms echoed too loudly of loneliness and the darkness brought up unpleasant recollections, so Astrid strove to keep it walls as populated as possible. She invited her closer peers to use the grounds as often as they pleased, giving them access to every room save her sleeping quarters (she didn't really need to describe what she did to Snotlout when she found him in there, but let's just say he couldn't walk for a while.) This offer was accepted with much enthusiasm, and Astrid was glad to hear the amicable chatter of the youths emerging from the living room as she pushed the front door open, though she would never admit it aloud.

Kicking the door shut with a foot, she followed the sounds down the corridor.

"No way that's happening." That was definitely Snotlout. She could smell his arrogance a mile away.

"Why not?" The drawl belonged to Tuffnut, which meant that the twins were here. While Astrid was thankful for any company in the house, the Thornsten twins were a hit-and-miss acquisition – mostly a miss. They had attempted to set her house on fire too many times for her to fully appreciate them.

When she entered the room, none of them bothered to greet her. There was no offense to be taken in this. After all, they saw each other in the same place so often that formalities were quite unnecessary at this point. So she headed straight over to the fireplace and began stacking the firewood pieces by its side, letting the other youths continue their discussion of decreasing intellect.

"Because people who are smarter get higher ranks," Snotlout told the other boy in a smug tone. "And I am smarter than you."

There was a skeptical sniff from Fishlegs, who had retreated himself to the window-side couch. Out of all the day-residents of her home, he was the most tolerable. For one, he possessed above-average intelligence (which was a precious gift, considering the rest were definitely of below-average intelligence.) Secondly, he had basic common sense – a trait Astrid found to be surprisingly scarce amongst those her age. She used to find his timidness annoying, but for some reason, that no longer bother her.

"You know that that's not exactly a difficult achievement, right?" Ruffnut, the female twin pointed out. The scrawny girl was sitting on an armchair, but being Ruffnut, she was upside down, her feet sticking up from the headboard of the chair and her head hanging off the seat cushion.

"Thank you!" Tuffnut beamed, before taking a pause. He turned to the closest person to him, who happened to be Astrid, and asked in a low voice, "Was that an insult to me?"

Straightening her knees up, Astrid assessed the boy critically. Deciding that she didn't need a Thornsten-twins' morning of stupid, she told him with a straight face, "No."

"Oh, okay." The skinny boy reverted back to his happy daze, grinning at his sister. "Thanks for supporting, sis."

"Don't mention it." Ruffnut herself didn't bother to correct the misconception.

"Soooooo, Astrid," Snotlout began in what he had once described as his 'not-girl-can-resist-this' voice in which all girls did resist it, "I was wondering-"

"My house has twice the space of yours, Snotlout," she growled at him through clenched teeth, grabbing hold of his shirt. The boy gulped. "For the last time, I don't need to work out in your basement, and I certainly don't want to."

"Whoa, whoa!" The blocky boy raised his arms in surrender. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to enlist with us."

"Enlist?" She let him go in her surprise. "To be Peacekeepers?"

"Haven't you heard? They've lowered the enlistment age to sixteen," Ruffnut supplied, kicking her legs back and forth in the air idly.

Astrid absorbed this information in astonishment, then shook her head. "I'll only be fifteen next month on."

"Great! We can all enlist together!" Tuffnut pumped a fist into the air, but as an afterthought added, "Wait, is fifteen more or less than sixteen?"

"Why did they change the age limit, anyway?" Astrid ignored the male twin, who decided to occupy himself with counting fifteen off his fingers, only to realize that he couldn't, and he would try again only to repeat to his failure. "I thought the point of keeping it at eighteen was that you could join after your tribute-" the word tasted bitter on her tongue "-opportunities expire." After all, one's chance to join the ranks of victors – or fall with the losers - lasted only from twelve to eighteen years of age.

"Oh, they've amended the rules to accommodate that," Fishlegs answered before Snotlout could do so, for which Astrid was grateful. Her immunity to idiocy had been waning recently. "Peacekeepers or Peacekeeping trainees eighteen and under will be sent back to District 2 for every reaping, so their chances of becoming a tribute are

the same as everyone else."

"Isn't that great?" Snotlout was excited – why wouldn't he be? "Instead of studying about the stuff we're supposed to kill, we can actually kill stuff and still have a chance of entering to enter the Games."

"It's not as wonderful as it sounds," a voice murmured, but the enthused cacophony that erupted thereafter drowned her out easily.

"Do you think they'll let us carrying guns? M-16s? Bazookas?"

"Duh, doofus! They'll have to train us first though."

"I don't need training. I have natural talent! I'll kill all the peace-breakers out there as easily as I'd kill a tribute."

"Do you think they'll let me throw grenades? I love grenades!"

"You've never killed a tribute, Snotlout. Astrid's the only one of who has killed anyone."

"So? It doesn't mean I can't."

"Do you think they'll let me drive a tank? A ship? A plane? Please, please, please, I want a jet fighter-"

"You don't even know how to reload a gun."

"I don't need to. I can just, well, kill stuff – with my face!"

It was then that Astrid concluded that the conversation was no longer appealed to her. She swung around and left the sitting room, heading straight the door corridor when she had come and left the house. She had done this often enough over the last three months, so her peers had grown used to her erratic behavior. Mood swings, they explained it to themselves, and they no longer bothered to run after her. For if Astrid Hofferson wished to be left alone, no force on Earth could stop her from being so. No force, but the Capitol.

Fortunately, it was still a good three months before the Victor's Tour began, so there was time enough for the bony blonde girl to soak in the solitude – if that was what she desired. Company was insufferable, but it was sometimes better than the haunts loneliness would bring.

Since her victorious return to the District, Astrid found herself often strolling down the victors' houses, watching as the older victors conversed amongst their friends and family. They still heartily shared the tales of their victories, showing off their injuries as trophies, and ruffling their children's hair and saying, "Don't worry, son. You'll get there someday."

She wondered if they had ever wandered the lonesome darkness; if they had ever seen the shadows crawling on the corner of the roads and dart a glance back in fear. She wondered whether they had slept with dreams full of fearsome faces and awoke with startled gasps echoing in the emptiness of their rooms, unable to pinpoint how or why they felt that way, but still incapable of shrugging off the clamminess of their own skin. She wondered if she truly was alone in such experiences.

If she walked far enough through the Victor's Village, she would reach the familiar hill sloping up towards the Mayor's Manor. The path had never been unfamiliar to her, for she had climbed it back when she was starving orphan trekking through the rain and wondering if death would have been kinder. Now, she was walking the space path on the brink of spring with the sun beating down, wondering why life had to be so unfair.

The Mayor's Manor in District 2 was possibly the most luxurious complex she had ever seen after the sights of the Capitol, and it had good reason to be. Despite it being technically a residential area, its rooms were often used for discussions amongst the upper crust of District 2, particularly those with connections to the Capitol. The Justice Building at the City Centre was still used for the common day-to-day, but the future of the District 2, and possibly Panem, lay within the walls of the Mayor's Manor.

Her knowledge of all this had not been discovered on purpose, but due to her accidentally overhearing those discussions. Given the number of times she visited the Manor, it was an eventuality that she would learn their importance.

All these visiting had not come out of nowhere though. It had just been that after her victory at the Games and after she had returned to District 2, a banquet had been held in her honor at the Manor. She had encountered the Mayor after trying desperately to avoid him, for Stoick 'the Vast' Haddock spoke to whomsoever he wished to speak to. After he had nailed her down to deliver a string of obligatory congratulations, she had blurted out, "I'm sorry for what happened, sir. I tried. I really did."

He had not been shocked by her words, but the brightness in green eyes – green eyes that she had seen on the boy who had followed her into the Games – dimmed into sorrow. "I know you did, lass. He just tried harder."

She had never truly found out what he thought of it all: of the threat of the ice mutant; of the rebelliousness attitude of the last few tributes; of his own son who trained –no, befriended – a muttation, of all things. Other than that exchange during the banquet, Stoick had never spoken a word to about the Games. He did however speak to her of other things, such as how she should spend her time now, how she should spend her winnings, how to plan for her future and so forth. She had ever confessed to him about how restless she had felt, as if winning the Victor's crown from the deadliest Games of Panem was not satisfactory, and asked if he thought she should join the Peacekeepers.

"For many, being a Peacekeeper is merely a job. A source of income to keep mouths at home fed, and it pays better than masonry work," he had told her grimly on one of the fire-lit nights in the Haddock Manor. "But for victors like you and me, we needn't choose to spend our lives in the force. However, I chose to serve all the same. For in my eyes, serving my people – serving my nation, aye, there is no greater privilege. I started out a soldier, at the lowest of ranks, presenting myself as a humble tool for the preservation of our nation's sovereignty. When I gained popularity amongst my peers and those in Capitol, I eventually moved into politics, for there was where I was needed most. In the end, lass, our purposes comes down to necessity."

So did the Peacekeeping force need an axe-swinging fourteen, going on fifteen, year-old? He had told her that it would be three years before she needed to make such a decision, but now, it was just one.

Despite, or perhaps because of, her personal conflict, she found herself spending more time at the Mayor's Manor. Mayor Haddock had no objections to her visits, actively encouraging her lengthen her stay and dined with her whenever he could fit it into his busy schedule, which was sadly rare. Whenever she had the pleasure of his company, she enjoyed listening to his thoughts, whether they'd be about gossip in the town, matters from the Silver City or his fervent passion about the ideals of their nation. But the more she spoke to him, the more it occurred to her that how different he was to his scrawny, self-deprecating son whose interests lay in mechanical craft and apparently, dragons. She pondered on the dinner conversations that the two could possibly have with one another, or whether they even had dinner together at all.

The Manor was quiet when she pushed opened the door, but that did not mean that there was no company today. There were some Peacekeepers stationed around the meeting rooms and corridors, donning full armor; a security measure to protect visiting officials, be they from the Capitol or the Hall of Justice. Astrid had no fear before the stern white sentinels, knowing full well that behind each suit was just a fellow District 2 citizen, so she strolled past of all them, not even bothering to hide the axe strapped to her back. They had seen her here many times, so they knew full well that she was no threat to the officials, letting her pass through the main halls and climb up the stairs, up where the living quarters were.

For the grandiose appearance on the outside, the upper floors of the Manor were plain, but it was clear that the design was more functional than actually decorative – grey granite walls for ease of cleaning and thick rugs to keep the ground warm. The meeting rooms and studies all lay to the left of the stairway, and the residential areas were on the right. She went towards the latter, where she was greeted by the sitting room at the end of the corridor. It didn't have much, only a larger chair just the right fit for the Mayor's massive body, a fire place, and a wooden table surrounded by three chairs.

Astrid dropped the firewood next to the fireplace, but didn't light them, since there was no one but her to savor the warmth. The Mayor would see it later at night and he would have known that she came by.

Idly, she dusted the mantel over the brick-lined structure with a hand, pulling a face at the amount of cinders she had found accumulated there. The sole ornament that sat on the sooty shelf earned a much needed beating, and she replaced the stuffed dragon back where she found it. She had seen it many times during her visits to the Haddock house, but somehow never got around asking for its story. Sometimes, she would hold the dirty little creature between her hands, examining its wool-knitted eyes and the rounded spikes on its crown. She never had any toys herself, but she liked imagining how a younger Hiccup would have played with it. Perhaps his affinity with these terrifying, yet magnificent creatures grew from those times.

Eventually, she grew bored with playing Cinderella, so she wandered her way into Hiccup's room. She had no doubt that the Mayor would have locked up it like a miser locking up his gold, but she had asked to see it once, so he had never stopped her from visiting it since. In respect for Stoick's wishes though, Astrid did her best to leave anything she touched back where she had found it. Let the books and notes and papers and pens lay scattered over his sheets and table the way they had on the fateful day that both of them were called to the Arena.

Before the Games, she had never been much of reader, but now that she had the time, she had begun to peruse through one or two of the Mayor's recommendations. Of course, nothing was quite as interesting as reading Hiccup's things. He rarely wrote about of his daily life, filling his books instead with complicated blueprints of mechanisms and their parts. Little notes were scribbled along the margins, with equations and lingo she didn't understand, but read nonetheless.

For now, Astrid contented herself with sitting on the crumpled sheets and flattened mattress, finding another book of sketches to admire. She tried visualizing how he had intended each machine to work, and noted that surprisingly, or perhaps not, none of them were lethal. He was remarkably talented and she didn't doubt that with clearer focus and the right encouragement, he would have been a remarkable inventor.

But 'would haves' and 'could haves' didn't change the fact that he was no longer here.

It wasn't fair. She was supposed to be the hero. She was the one who was supposed to save him. He just had to do all the work. Pay the ultimate sacrifice. Give her everything she had ever wanted while making her feel as if she had nothing at all.

What was it that the nasty redhead from District 5 had said? 'There are no victors – only survivors.'

Sometimes, when she lay in her big empty house alone at nights, fighting demons that couldn't be slain by the blade of her axe, Astrid wondered indeed how much she had truly lost by leaving the Arena alive.

Capitol Undergrounds

Butterfly Room

4 months after the end of the 74th Hunger Games

She was acutely aware that she was supposed to be dead.

In a matter of fact, Rapunzel had first assumed that this world of bright white lights, polished surfaces and masked faces was indeed some kind of purgatory that she had been banished to. But as the sedatives were drained from her system and the haze settled in her mind, she learned to listen.

She was no longer in the Games. She was also not dead. She was in some place far worse.

In the first two weeks, she fought against the bonds around her wrists and the drugs they administered, doing everything she could to make their work difficult. For all her trouble, though, the bonds were strapped in tighter, and they increased the dosage of the sedatives. She hated being drugged. The dreams she had under that were often filled with horrible images and unpleasant emotions. She learned later from her eavesdropping that the sedatives that they stuck into her were precisely designed to this function. It apparently was a fear-conditioning agent they used on the other prisoners as well, instilling obedience and submissiveness in one stroke.

She was a prisoner to the Capitol. She knew that because they would often take her from the observatory back down to her own cell and she would note the National Crest plastered on every corner and door. They used to roll her down, bound to the hospital bed. After the first two weeks when she had become noticeably more subdued did they undo her bonds. They let her walk back and forth on her own, even within her own cell, with only her wrists cuffed together and her golden hair spilled behind her like liquid gold.

It was all because of her gift. Her curse. Her saving grace. Her deathly bane.

In the auditorium, where she would lay back in the reclined chair, she would listen to the scientists talk about her hair. They would take the long coils and lay it out on a flat operations table, the knots combed out and the strands lying parallel to one another. Glassy machines would run up and down the table as the masked beings with white faces looked on, occasionally glancing away to read the numbers of their screen. These doctors were quite fond of conducting their discussions loudly across the enclosure through their speakers and mouthpieces. They didn't care how much she heard, and perhaps it didn't matter, because as far as they knew, she couldn't use the knowledge she had gained.

Many times during their experiments, they would play the song – the sweet lullaby that was supposed to bring comfort to her heart and her healing to her body. The artificial voice that sang the incantation in the recording was anything but comforting. Yet, against her volition, the hair would still glow just as her captors wanted it to.

It was a visceral reaction, one of the scientists had theorized to his colleagues without knowing that she had overheard. The song had probably been sung to her when she had been very young and had come to be unconsciously associated to security in her mind. Thus, upon hearing the song, some reaction in her brain would kick off, causing her hair to glow. This was a special kind of radiation that when in close proximity to damaged or infected body tissues, quickened the repairs mechanisms in the tissues significantly, giving an appearance of instantaneous healing. It was a protective mutation that was meant to keep her safe and well.

Rapunzel did note the irony.

All the theories about her were not spun out of thin air - oh, no. Never let it be said that the Capitol's people were shoddy-workers. They were thorough scientists - observing, hypothesizing, experimenting and analyzing. They sought to explain every step of the healing mechanism. On the days that they were not squinting at her hair, they were putting her through scan after scan, stabbing needles into her veins, making her swallow strange mixtures that made her throat burn and stuck camera tubes up her nose to observe her brain. They had learned to drug her every time they did the last one, given how she had almost deafened them with her screeching once. The only way she could tell now was if she woke up in her containment cell with no memory of arriving there with a bruise on her nostril.

They didn't mind how long it would take, and they didn't certainly mind ripping her apart to find what they needed. It wasn't as if she could die from the incisions, or the x-rays, or the sheer amount of toxins they loaded in her bloodstream every hour. All it took was a playback of that horrible, despicable recording and the hair would make her body as good as new. She was like a regenerative lab-rat. In a matter of fact, she had wondered when it would finally occur to them to stop merely examining her and start experimenting on her.

It took a sweat-inducing nightmare of them testing strains of tracker-jacker venom on her to awake her to the urgency of her situation.

After a few private trial and error sessions held within the confines of her darkened prison, she found out that the effects of the nightmare-inducing suppressant decreased significantly if she used the glowing hair on herself. On discovering this tidbit, she couldn't help but smile in triumphant. Obviously, the scientists, for all their intellect, hadn't worked out how her own healing radiation could help her in resisting the drugging.

Rapunzel was careful to keep this knowledge to herself, feigning mental incontinence on examination tables. She stared blearily at her examiners while actually taking note of their habits, how they used their equipment and where they hung their key passes.

Eventually, she made her move.

She chose a night-shift – or at least, she assumed it was at night, given how the number of people in the lab decreased drastically. She hadn't seen the sky for ages, it seemed. There was only one scientist on duty to observe her that night. In the time that she had become less violent a subject of study, the Peacekeepers stationed with her had been removed. The researchers had even forgone binding her all together as to get better results on her blood pressure. They had assumed that the relaxant accumulated in her body kept her compliant, unaware of their grievous mistake.

Tricking the doctor to leave his seat behind the glass was easy. Through the bars of her cell, she sometimes watched how unconscious prisoners would suddenly convulse in their beds, flopping about uncontrollably before medics would rush in. 'Over-dosage', she would hear them mutter to themselves, 'side-effects of the sedatives.' So she merely had to imitate that behavior to have the scientist rushing into the enclosure, hovering anxiously over her bed, unable to react before she shoved a syringe of the awful sedative straight into his arm. That glass tube had been swiped a day ago from a careless medical attendant who had complacently turned his back on her a day before, and it clattered onto the polished tiles. Her quivering but determined hands slapped themselves over the doctor's mouth, preventing him from sounding the alarm. After the sedative kicked in and he had crumpled up a heap on the floor, she scooped up her hair with her numb arms and darted out of the laboratory, swallowing her fears and worries.

It didn't work though, for she knew nothing beyond the walls of the lab. The maze of twists and turns had her hesitating every five steps. The Peacekeepers caught her within five minutes and hauled her back screaming to her cell. The scientists put her back on bonds and increased the drug dosage. The numbers of eyes watching her every move doubled.

But that didn't mean she had to stop.

Rapunzel continued to listen in on conversations, learning more about her own body while waiting for the next opportunity. As time slipped by, they would get complacent again and the minute they did, she would jump and run again. Each time she got caught, they would punish her. They cut down her meals, then her water, even cut her throat at one point – just lightly across the voice box - so that she couldn't sing to herself anymore. Shuddering alone in the cell and clutching her stomach while ignoring her burning throat was no fun. But no matter how painful it was, no matter how badly she suffered, the hunger, the dehydration, and the lacerations on her neck always disappeared every time they played that song in the lab. They could hurt her, but they couldn't cripple her.

Her hair – the same chain that bound her to this lifeless life - protected her.

And as long as it did, she would never stop fighting.

S/N:

And none of them are about main characters, save Rapunzel.

I promise that Emma's part would make more sense as time goes by, but I'll admit, it's the most un-THG thing I've written in this story before. No regrets though.

'The Hanging Tree' sung by Emma is from the Mockingjay Movie/Book. As you can tell, it's not the rally song in this version, but I love this song enough to give it a cameo.

Science-fiction! Making stuff about Science since Edgar Rice Borough! Now explains magic!

Up Next: Still debating whether we should return to District 13, or even whether we should go back to present time where Hiccup has awaken, or whether we'll see more of the outside stuff. Hmm… what shall it be? I don't have a definitive plan again.

A/N:

Still no beta! But I press on.

So, I'm pretty busy with interviews and applications and basic evils of life, so that's why the chapter took so long for me to update. Warning – I might not even upload the next one till the end of May due to all the prep. So…sorry?

I watched Zootopia. It felt like watching Inside Out again, except with a Disney after taste rather than a Pixar one.

It's Easter! Yay! It's a time for new beginnings, hope and healing! Basically, everything that this chapter is not.

Guest Mailbox:

Skyline: I think I shall bring in characters from the new movies, but only from those I've watched or deem suitable (that means Home and Good Dinosaur are out). I might bring in Kai from KP3 after I've watched the film and if I need a villain (eh, who doesn't need one?). Humanized Zootopia is possible, though Judy and Nick are better suited to my Superhero AU story than this. Riley probably won't appear in this story, but humanized versions of her emotions have a good chance of doing so. Thanks for the review!

Carebear: Thank you! I hope to see you around often.

That's all for now.

Review. Critique. Ask Questions.

"But he was wounded for our transgression; he was crushed for our iniquities; on him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and by his stripes we are healed." – Isaiah 53:5