Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.
Note: Two things. First, I have a favor to ask. Somewhere in the ambiguous world of most people's minds, there's a line between a T rating and an M rating. I'm not always entirely sure where that is, but I feel like I've drifted pretty close to it in this chapter. If you think I've crossed it, let me know, and I'll bump the rating up. (And please let me know before you inform the powers that be that I'm violating the ratings guidelines.)
Secondly, thank you to BamItsTyler, District11-Olive, klismaphilia, necrotizing fasciitis, Bigpapi1234, and Lazy Owl for Presley, Nadine, Cordelia, Paget, Alexi, and Delvin, respectively.
District Six
Break
Nicodemus Ford, 32
Victor of the 26th Hunger Games
At least now they would be ready.
Nicodemus carefully set the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Only a moment. He'd earned that much, at least. Thanks to Misha's warning, he and the other Victors would be prepared for what awaited them at the reaping.
But being prepared was different than being ready. He wasn't ready at all.
Mentoring two tributes was manageable. For all intents and purposes, he'd been mentoring alone ever since his own victory. And he'd managed. Sometimes he even found it comforting. Healing. Though he'd yet to bring a Victor home himself, mentoring two tributes, giving them a little comfort and guidance in their last days … It helped. It helped make up for his own Games.
But six…
Nicodemus took a deep breath, trying to clear his thoughts. But, every time he did, the pain returned. Constant, jarring agony – always there in the back of his mind, but, whenever he tried to just sit and think, it came bubbling back to the surface. The only way to force it back down again – to ignore it – was to stay busy. But staying busy enough to block the pain was exhausting, which led back to moments like this – moments where he simply wanted to sit and rest for a few seconds.
But a few seconds were all he could afford, because he had to make it to his own district's reaping in time. And he still wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to face them.
He might never be ready again.
Ready or not, though, there was no avoiding this. Nicodemus wasn't sure what they would do if he simply didn't show up for the reaping – as he was quite tempted to – but it certainly wouldn't be good. Especially after what had happened last year. And with extra tributes. Six tributes. He couldn't simply abandon them.
He had a job to do.
He could do this for them. For everyone who had lost someone last year. Every innocent person who had died. Every life he'd been powerless to save.
After the executions in Three and Four were broadcast, it didn't take District Six long to figure out that they would be next. So the family of the twin brother and sister rebels decided to take matters into their own hands. Rather than face whatever horrific deaths the Capitol had planned for them, the parents quietly smothered their three children, then took their own lives.
Nicodemus had never blamed them for what had happened next. After witnessing the executions in Three and Four, how could any parent simply stand by and wait for the same to happen to their children? What they had done was merciful.
But only for themselves.
Robbed of their chance for direct retribution against the five of them, the Peacekeepers rounded up twice as many people at random. Old and young. Men and women and children. Ten prisoners were led to the stage in the center of the district square, where ten large, spoked wagon wheels lay before them. The Peacekeepers chained nine of the prisoners in place at the back of the stage.
The tenth, a young woman who couldn't have been much older than the rebel tributes themselves, was dragged to the front. At first, she fought. Then she began to cry. Nothing did any good. The Peacekeepers stripped away the girl's clothes and, after a struggle, laid her face up on one of the wheels, her arms and legs outstretched along the spokes, her wrists and ankles bound in place along the frame.
Then one of the Peacekeepers stepped forward with a sledgehammer, and the girl began to scream. The screaming almost drowned out the sound of cracking bones as the hammer came down against one leg, then another. Once, then twice, each leg was broken. Then her arms. Her hands and feet, wrists and ankles, elbows and knees. Each was struck in turn, until her body seemed no longer a human body, but, rather, a tangled mess of blood and flesh, splintered bones breaking the skin at odd angles. All the while, the poor girl pleaded for mercy – and then for death. But no one gave her either.
Finally, the Peacekeepers unbound her, rolled her limp body over, and brought the sledgehammer down hard against her back, breaking it in several places. But she was still alive. She was still alive as they turned her face-up again on the wheel and wove her limbs through the spokes, her whole body contorted into an unnatural shape. She was still alive as they bound her tightly to the spokes – not for fear that she might somehow escape, but simply to prevent her broken form from slipping out of place as they hoisted the wheel up onto a pole and fixed it in place above the other prisoners' heads.
She lived for almost twelve hours.
Only after she was dead was another wheel brought forth, and a second prisoner selected. Then, after he had died, a third, and so on. Some lived for hours, some days. Blood dripped down on those still awaiting their turn. Birds and insects fed on the dead and dying alike. Execution after execution, as the Games dragged on.
The ninth prisoner was nearly dead by the time Nicodemus returned from the Games. The Peacekeepers 'invited' their two Victors to come and witness the last execution. Nicodemus held his tongue until he saw the final prisoner – a little boy, no more than five years old. The boy had tears in his eyes, but he made no sound as the Peacekeepers announced the ninth prisoner's death. The child was in shock after the brutality of the others' executions.
And he knew he was next.
Emotionless, the Peacekeepers chose a small wheel – still much too big for him – and dragged the boy forward. Nicodemus tensed as they bound the boy in place, tears starting to spill from the child's frightened eyes. Beside him, Vernon laid a hand on his arm. "Don't interfere. It's what they want. You can't do anything."
But Nicodemus hadn't listened. There was something he could do. He couldn't save the boy's life, but he could spare him a torturous death. So as the Peacekeeper lifted the sledgehammer, Nicodemus sprang forward and grabbed the shaft, redirecting the blow. The hammer struck the boy's skull full-force, killing him instantly.
It was over.
Or so he had thought. The Peacekeepers had to keep their pretense of emotionlessness, he knew, but, inside, they had to be thanking him. They hadn't actually wanted to bludgeon a little boy half to death and leave him to die slowly, agonizingly, in front of his family and friends. They hadn't actually thought that, somehow, the small child had done something to deserve this, that this was somehow right.
Had they?
He didn't have much time to think it over, because, before he knew what was happening, one of the Peacekeepers jabbed him in the stomach with a club. Caught off-guard, Nicodemus didn't even have a chance to fight back as they grabbed hold of him and flung him down on top of a second wheel. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles firmly in place along the frame of the wheel as his clothes were torn, ripped, sliced away.
He remembered the cracking sound as the sledgehammer came down hard against his right leg.
He remembered the pain.
Agony. Deep and sharp and brutal. Filling his limbs until every bone was shattered, every joint out of place. Blood. Warm and wet and sticky. He remembered screaming, crying out in pain until his throat was dry and his voice hoarse. Then they untied him, his body too limp to resist at all as they rolled him over. Pain coursed through his back as the hammer struck once, twice, then three times along his spine, shattering it.
Then they turned him face-up again, where he lay helpless to do anything but watch as his arms and legs were twisted, wrenched out of place, woven in and out of the spokes. Thick, coarse ropes bound him firmly to the wheel, but every jolt still convinced him he was going to fall, still sent agony coursing through his body as they fixed the wheel in place above the stage and left him there, on display for all the district to see.
He remembered hanging there, waiting to die, broken and helpless and alone. He remembered the looks of pity from the crowd – pity for him and for the others who hung rotting alongside him. He remembered the pain and the thirst and the longing for death – all of which seemed to drag on for days, but all of which, he later learned, lasted only hours.
He remembered passing out.
He had woken up in the Capitol, with no idea of how or why he was still alive. It was only later that he learned that Silas Grisom – now President Grisom – had personally ordered that he be taken down, kept alive, and given the best of care the Capitol could provide, as a symbol of their mercy.
Mercy.
If they were merciful, they would have let him die.
The Capitol surgeons could heal, but they couldn't perform miracles. He would never walk again; his back had been too badly shattered and contorted. His legs were useless, his arms weak and badly twisted, his fingers crooked and clumsy. He had a wheelchair, but the effort it took to wheel himself around was exhausting. So, for the most part, he didn't go far. Truth be told, he hadn't left his house for more than a few minutes at a time since the Capitol had returned him to District Six.
And now he was expected to mentor. To mentor six tributes. Because there was no one else who would. No one else who could.
Because it was his job.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in!" Nicodemus called without a second thought. The door was never locked. It simply wasn't worth the effort of going over to unlock it whenever someone came to call. Which wasn't very often, but occasionally Vernon would stagger over when he got particularly drunk. Sometimes he would mistake Nicodemus for one of his sons. But Luke was dead, and Matt and Erik had left him.
Nicodemus never had the heart to remind him, though. So he would pretend to be Luke, or Matt, or Erik, for as long as Vernon needed him to. There was enough pain in the world to go around without reminding Vernon of his. If he had found a way – any way – to forget that pain, even for a moment, then Nicodemus could hardly fault him for that.
But it wasn't Vernon at the door. It was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. Her chin-length, icy blue hair marked her as a Capitolite. "Phoebe Trenton," she offered before Nicodemus could ask. "District Six's new escort."
Nicodemus nodded. That made sense, at least. A new escort, wanting to make a good impression, certainly wouldn't want the district's Victors arriving late, drunk, or, worse, not coming at all. So she'd come to collect them before the reaping.
Nicodemus mustered a smile. He had no love for the Capitol, but that was no cause to be rude. "Nicodemus Ford."
"Oh, I know," Phoebe assured him. "I came to warn you that there are going to be four extra tributes this year. Two for each of the … the rebels. I thought you'd want to know."
Nicodemus nodded. "Thank you, but I already knew."
Phoebe's face turned a light shade of pink. "How?"
"I couldn't sleep, so I watched the other reapings this morning," Nicodemus lied. No sense involving Misha in whatever mess might ensue when the Capitol realized they'd lost the element of surprise.
To his surprise, Phoebe actually smiled. "Well, then, I suppose the Victors in the other districts already know, as well. Have they told anyone else?"
Nicodemus shrugged weakly. "That's up to them. I just reasoned that anyone who's going to be mentoring extra tributes this year has a right to know more than a few seconds in advance." He eyed Phoebe curiously. "And, apparently, you had the same notion, so thank you for that."
"You're welcome," Phoebe smiled shyly, blushing once more. "Is there … is there anything else I can do?"
Nicodemus blinked, considering whether or not he should ask for her help getting to the square. After a moment, however, he decided against it. He could manage on his own. "Actually, if you could find Vernon – and make sure he actually makes it to the reaping – that would be wonderful. I'd find him myself, but—"
Phoebe nodded eagerly, obviously happy to be useful. "Right away. He'll be there." She flashed him another smile. "And, Nicodemus?"
"Yes?"
"Remember Byron," she whispered, then turned and hurried off without another word of explanation.
Byron. Of course he remembered Byron. Byron was the name of the boy. The boy who was about to be executed. The boy he had spared. The boy he had killed.
But why did she care?
Nicodemus shook his head. It didn't matter. Not right now. Now, he simply had to get to the reaping. Slowly, carefully, he wheeled himself out the door and through the streets. A few people glanced his way – some with looks of pity. Most averted their eyes, not wanting to associate themselves with him.
They remembered.
And how could they not? As Nicodemus reached the square and saw what awaited them there, he froze. There, still fixed in place above the stage, were ten wheels. The bodies were long gone – taken down or simply rotted away, he didn't know – but the blood remained, staining the wheels and the stage beneath them. A few of the poles seemed to be charred black at the bottom, but they were otherwise intact. A reminder.
A warning.
Still a good distance from the stage, Nicodemus froze. One of those wheels had been his. Everything came rushing back in an instant – the pain, the terror, the humiliation.
He had thought he was ready for this. He had thought he could do this. He wasn't. He couldn't. Nicodemus closed his eyes, trying in vain to calm his ragged breathing. Breathe. Just breathe. Maybe it wasn't too late to turn around and go back home…
But suddenly, without warning, his chair began to move again. Nicodemus opened his eyes to see a Peacekeeper wheeling him quickly and none too gently towards the stage. There, a second Peacekeeper lifted him roughly and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs to the stage, where he dumped Nicodemus in front of a chair.
For a moment, Nicodemus simply lay there, catching his breath, fighting the pain. He could see Vernon and Phoebe, already in their places. They glanced at him but dared not interfere – not with the Peacekeepers standing there, just waiting for something of the sort. Nicodemus' gaze strayed to the chair behind him.
Part of him was more than tempted to simply stay where he was. But then he saw Phoebe mouth something. Get up. She nodded a little in the direction of the crowd. They were waiting. Waiting to see what he would do.
Fine.
Nicodemus gritted his teeth and worked himself into a seated position, then slowly dragged himself to the chair. His arms protested, but he somehow marshaled the strength to pull himself up and into the chair. He nodded slightly in Phoebe's direction as he slumped over, thoroughly exhausted. All right. I did my job. Your turn.
Phoebe nodded, plastered a perfect smile on her face, and turned to face the crowd. "Thank you, people of District Six, for your warm welcome! I'm your new escort, Phoebe Trenton, and I'm delighted to be here!" She paused, waiting for an applause that never came. Unfazed, Phoebe dipped a hand in the first reaping bowl. "Cordelia Astier!"
The fifteen-year-old section parted, but not quickly enough. Chaos erupted as the girl began to thrash and scream, lashing out at anyone who happened to be close enough. The Peacekeepers quickly moved in, but not before she had wrestled two other teenagers to the ground. One of the Peacekeepers scooped her up, tearing her away from the others and dragging her to the stage. She kicked and squirmed and even bit him, but he didn't let go until they reached the stage, where he dumped her unceremoniously at Phoebe's feet.
Phoebe offered her a hand, but the girl swatted it away and scrambled to her feet on her own. For a moment, Nicodemus was afraid she might try to run again, but, after glancing at the Peacekeepers who stood poised at either side of the stage, the girl lowered her light blue-grey eyes, resigned to her fate.
Only then did Nicodemus get a good look at her. She was about average height and a bit willowy, with a few freckles and a tangled mess of long, red hair. Her light cream-colored dress was wrinkled and torn from the struggle, her knees and elbows scuffed and scraped.
She looked like a tribute already.
"Paget Astier!"
Nicodemus cringed as the fifteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a boy who was undoubtedly the girl's brother. Twin, probably, from his appearance. The boy had the same red hair, the same blue-grey eyes, the same pale skin. He quickly clenched his fists and made his way to the stage, where he slipped a hand into his sister's and glared out at the crowd, his expression cold and sullen.
Nicodemus watched wordlessly as the boy's anger simmered, just below the surface. It was hard to blame him. This was too much to be coincidence. Rigged reapings were far from unheard of, especially in Six. Recently, more and more tributes were 'coincidentally' those the district wouldn't mind being rid of. Pickpockets, drug dealers, prostitutes. Some were criminals, some simply considered troublemakers by those in authority.
For the most part, people went along with it, because it made the reaping safer for those who, in their minds, didn't deserve it. But the implication, the idea that these teenagers – these children – had somehow done something to deserve being sent to their deaths … It sickened him.
Phoebe's voice interrupted his thoughts as she reached into the girls' bowl once more. "As the first replacement for Taryn Renshaw … Presley Delon?" Phoebe's voice faltered for a moment, as if surprised by the name she was reading. Her eyes scanned the crowd with apprehension – almost fear.
All eyes turned to the thirteen-year-old section, where Peacekeepers surrounded a small girl in a grey wool sweater with a black collar, a black skirt, white stockings, and black shoes. But it was the handcuffs that caught Nicodemus' eye as the girl took her first steps towards the stage, with two Peacekeepers on either side.
The girl herself was smiling contentedly, her grey-blue eyes alight with something that was almost excitement. Her strawberry-blonde hair was lopsided, as if she hadn't been willing to sit still long enough for someone to cut it properly. She was still smiling as she took her place onstage, curtsying towards the audience. "Hello! My name is Presley!" Her voice was hollow and airy, almost a whisper.
As one of the Peacekeepers took a step towards Nicodemus, it was all he could do to keep from shrinking away. But the Peacekeeper simply held out a small key, looking from him to Vernon and back again. Nicodemus reached out a hand, and the Peacekeeper dropped the key into his palm. As Nicodemus' crooked fingers closed around it, the Peacekeeper chuckled a little. "Careful. She bites."
Nicodemus clenched his teeth. Did they think that was funny? After what they had done to him, they expected him to be scared that a little girl might bite him?
But, of course, he said nothing of the sort as Phoebe reached for another slip. "As the second replacement for Taryn Renshaw … Nadine Olliston!"
The fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a dark turquoise blouse and a black skirt. For a moment, she simply stood there, shocked. She took one step forward. Then another. Meeting her friends' eyes. Trying to look brave. Trying not to cry.
But, after a few more steps, the façade dropped, and the girl burst into tears. Peacekeepers were at her side in an instant, dragging her to the stage and dumping her alongside the others. For a moment, she simply lay there, weeping, trying to stop the tears, until Phoebe knelt down beside her. The girl cried into the escort's shoulder for a moment before allowing Phoebe to help her to her feet.
Perhaps an inch or two taller than Presley, Nadine still looked small. Her skin was pale, with a somewhat reddish tint. Her straight, bright red hair hung past her shoulders, but even the locks that hung around her face did little to hide the tears that still fell from her grey-green eyes.
After a moment, Phoebe managed to disentangle herself from the little girl and made her way back to the boys' bowl. She forced a smile as she drew another name. "As the first replacement for Turner Renshaw … Delvin Flynn!"
The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a well-worn blue jacket, stained blue shirt, and faded grey pants with holes at the knees. For a moment, shock colored the boy's expression, but his face quickly hardened as he took the stage, his fists clenched and his jaw set.
He was only about average height, but he still towered over his four younger district partners. His shaggy dark brown hair hung loose and tangled. His skin was sickly pale, his blue eyes dull and tired. Despite this, he had a few muscles, and his body was lean. Nicodemus could see a few scratches on his cheeks and a bruise over his left eye. He'd clearly been in a scrape or two.
Nadine took a step away from him, and Cordelia and Paget looked the other way, but Presley simply smiled up at her new district partner. "Welcome to the show."
Delvin didn't seem to know what to make of that, so he simply turned his attention back to the audience as Phoebe drew one last slip. "As the second replacement for Turner Renshaw … Alexi Merista!"
The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and black pants. The boy stood there for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief, staring at the five tributes already onstage. At last, he took a few hesitant steps forward, but then he stopped, still shaking his head.
Finally, one of the Peacekeepers grabbed his arm roughly and began to drag him towards the stage. That seemed to snap him out of it, and he stumbled forward, barely keeping up with the Peacekeeper but managing not to fall. Once onstage, he took his place beside Delvin without protest.
He was a little shorter than Delvin, with caramel-colored skin, curly black hair, and deep brown eyes. There were tears in his eyes as he glanced out at the crowd, then over at Phoebe. Six tributes. His gaze sent a silent, pleading message. Please let that be all.
Phoebe nodded. Six tributes. "Shake hands, everyone!"
A few clumsy handshakes ensued as Presley tried to shake hands with everyone at once despite her handcuffs. Cordelia and Paget lingered at the edge of the group. Delvin eyed Alexi curiously as the boy eagerly shook Presley's hand. Nadine watched, unsure, waiting for some direction. Cordelia edged her way back towards Nicodemus, maybe hoping for some comfort or protection.
He wished he had some to give. Wished there was something he could do. For her. For any of them.
Maybe there was something. A little thing, but something, nonetheless. "Presley!" he called softly, and the girl came padding over, eyeing him curiously. The crowd went silent as he beckoned her closer. Once she was close enough, he reached out with clumsy fingers and unlocked her handcuffs.
Presley cocked her head a little as the cuffs clattered to the stage. "You're not … afraid of me?"
Nicodemus considered that for a moment. If the girl truly wanted to harm him – handcuffs or no – he wasn't in much of a condition to resist. He never would be. But what could she do to him that hadn't already been done? And, after all, she'd made no move against him. Against any of them. "No," he said quietly, placing a shaky hand on the little girl's shoulder. "I'm not afraid of you."
"We're not afraid of you," a girl's voice echoed, and Cordelia held out her hand. Presley shook it gladly as the other tributes gathered around Nicodemus.
One by one, he shook hands with each of them, taking in their names, their faces, their tears, their terror. Six tributes. In a few weeks, at least five of these children would be dead. He couldn't change that. He couldn't save them all. But he could give them a little comfort, a little reassurance – if only for a moment – that they weren't alone.
It was only a brief moment, because the Peacekeepers quickly led the tributes away. Nicodemus leaned back, gripping the arms of the chair tightly, forcing the pain back down – just for a little longer. "Nice going, Nic," Vernon mumbled, his speech slurred by whatever he'd already had to drink. "Ya let a murderer loose." He shook his head. "Of course, I suppose you wouldn't know. Ya missed all the … fun."
Nicodemus glanced from Vernon to Phoebe, then back again. Part of him didn't want to ask. To pry. But didn't he have a right to know what he was getting into?
Fortunately, Phoebe stepped in. "It happened while you were … away. A boarding school—"
"Orphanage," Vernon put in. "Call a spade a spade. Orphanage, all burned down, the headmaster murdered. And his wife. And two … no, three, teachers?"
"Three," Phoebe agreed. "When the Peacekeepers investigated, there she was. In a pool of blood. Giggling."
Nicodemus nodded. "And the Peacekeepers—" They certainly hadn't thought twice about killing Byron, who had done nothing wrong at all. What had stopped them this time?
"Oh, they wanted to kill her on the spot," Vernon assured him. "Half the district, too. But I had a better idea. Told 'em to reap her, instead."
Nicodemus clenched his fists tightly. He had suspected for a while now that Vernon was behind the rigged reapings. He hadn't wanted to believe it. But it made sense. His son had been claimed by the Games. If he could ensure that those who were reaped in the future were those who 'deserved' it, instead … It made sense. It was terrible, but it made sense.
"An' now here she is," Vernon finished, shaking his head impatiently. "And you let her loose, just like that."
Nicodemus shook his head. "So maybe she's a murderer. So are we, Vernon – and that's exactly what they'll all be, soon enough, if they want to come home."
Vernon shrugged. "Sounds like you've got it covered, then, Nicky." He rose unsteadily. "If you need me, I'll be…" He glanced around, maybe looking for the train. "That way," he decided, stumbling in the wrong direction and off the stage.
Nicodemus cringed. He would get no help from Vernon – not this year. Six tributes, and they were all his responsibility. Six…
He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice Phoebe until she was at his side. "Let's get you offstage," she suggested. "May I…?"
Too tired to protest, Nicodemus nodded, expecting her to ask a Peacekeeper or two to help. But Phoebe simply slid an arm around his shoulders and the other beneath his knees. "Sorry," she whispered, anticipating the pain that coursed through his body as she lifted him from the chair. But she was gentler than the Peacekeepers would have been, and carried him steadily off the stage. "You're lighter than you look," she offered as she eased him into his wheelchair.
It was probably true. He was lighter now. Light and weak and broken. Or so they would think. So he would let them think. Let them think they had broken him. But he was still alive. He was still here.
And he had a job to do.
Cordelia Astier, 15
They still hadn't broken him.
Cordelia finally let the tears fall from her eyes as she and her brother held each other close. He was shaking, too, but he managed to hold himself together as she buried her face in his chest. He'd always been the stronger one. The one who would stand up for himself. She'd secretly envied that about him.
He deserved to make it home.
Chances were, of course, that neither of them would. It was no coincidence, after all, that they were here. They hadn't been reaped because those in authority thought they would have a shot at winning. They had been reaped so that they would die.
They would die. Just like their mother. Lynched and burned when they were only nine years old because a mob accused her of witchcraft. They'd been known as the "witch's children" for years, but when a body turned up in the streets, drained of blood, without any visible wounds, the mob needed someone to blame. She and Paget had been sent to live with their aunt and uncle, and Cordelia had dared to hope that would be the end of it.
The end of magic.
But Paget was undeterred, and kept studying their mother's books in secret. For her part, Cordelia did her best to avoid attention, but it followed them, anyway. Other children would taunt them, pelt them with garbage. One night, they had tied her to the fence and shaved her head like the district's criminals. It had been hours before they had grown bored with the sport and left. Paget had come to cut her down. He'd held her then and comforted her.
Just like now.
But this was different. There was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he could do to save her. They were both going to die, and it was all her fault.
She had never meant to start the fire. She had been careless. Upset. A group of older teenagers had threatened to string her up on one of the wheels above the stage in the square and leave her there to die. She had only meant to burn the wheels, so that they couldn't. She hadn't meant for anything to happen.
But the fire had gotten out of control, and that was the excuse everyone needed. Even their aunt and uncle agreed that they should be reaped. It was her fault. Her fault they were going to die.
Her fault they were already dead.
Paget Astier, 15
They had already broken her.
Paget held his sister close as she cried into his shirt. She seemed so small now. So helpless. So broken.
It wasn't her fault, of course. She had blamed herself, he knew, ever since the fire in the square. But that was simply an excuse. Anything else – any small incident, any complaint – would have served just as well. Anything that could be blamed on the witch's children. Any excuse to send them to their deaths.
They were afraid. People were always afraid. Afraid of anything they couldn't explain, couldn't understand, couldn't tolerate. And it didn't take much for that fear to turn to rage. To hatred. To destruction.
Paget clenched his fists. They wanted to destroy him. Him and Cordelia. But he wouldn't let them. He would destroy them, instead.
And he would start with his district partners.
Perhaps it was a good thing – having extra tributes this year. Any other year, he and Cordelia would be the only tributes from Six. He wouldn't have the chance to strike at those truly responsible: the people of his own district. But this year, there were four others.
It was a terrible thing to think. But they deserved it. Maybe they weren't personally responsible, but their parents, their siblings, their friends … Everyone who had stood by while their mother was killed, everyone who had done nothing while he and his sister were attacked, beaten, humiliated. They were all responsible. They all deserved to die.
Every single one.
The thought brought a smile to Paget's face as he held Cordelia closer. She wouldn't understand. She had always been soft-hearted. Always made excuses for their attackers. They didn't understand. They didn't know any better. They were afraid.
So he would give them a reason to be afraid.
The whole district already thought they were monsters. It wouldn't be long before word reached the Capitol. Maybe the other tributes would target them. Maybe even the Gamemakers would. It was bound to happen, anyway. So maybe it was better to accept it.
Maybe it was better to embrace it. Better to be the monsters that everyone thought they were, anyway. Maybe it would be enough to keep them alive.
Or maybe they were already dead.
Presley Delon, 13
She had nothing left to lose.
Presley looked up attentively as the door opened and Dr. Loomis entered. Immediately, the doctor pulled up a chair and sat down across from Presley. "I was afraid this might happen," Dr. Loomis admitted. "Afraid this might be the reason they wanted you kept alive. Maybe I should have prepared you for this, but I thought … I thought they might wait a few years. Until you were older. To send you into the Games now…"
Presley shrugged agreeably. "It's all right, Doctor." It wasn't as if she had anything left to lose. She had lost everything – including her right to live – that night. The night she had finally struck back against those who had wronged her. Abused her. The headmaster with his false smiles and his presents – one of which, a pink bow necklace, she still wore around her neck. His wife, who had always been jealous of the attention her husband gave Presley. The other teachers, who knew and did nothing.
None of her fellow students had been permitted to see her since then. But, if they could, she knew, they would thank her. No one had been sorry to see the orphanage burn.
But she hadn't done it for them. She had done it for herself. Her life had been forfeit that night, but it didn't matter. She had done what she had set out to do. She had won.
And maybe she would win again.
"Presley?" Dr. Loomis leaned forward, and she gave him her full attention. He was one of the few people who had earned it – her respect, her attention. "Everything I've told you this past year – everything about channeling your emotions, finding non-violent ways to deal with your pain … Once you're in the arena, I want you to forget it. Every word."
Presley nodded. "Of course, Doctor."
"I mean it, Presley. There are going to be … I don't even know how many other tributes. If any of them know who you are – what you did that night – you're going to be one of their first targets. You're already a killer; that makes you dangerous."
"He didn't think I was dangerous," Presley noted, rubbing her wrists. It was the first time in almost a year that she had been free from any sort of restraint. "He let me go. Why?"
Dr. Loomis thought for a moment, then offered his professional assessment. "Because he figures he has nothing left to lose."
Presley nodded. She could understand that. She knew what it was like to have everything taken away. Hope. Trust. Dignity. There was nothing more they could take from her that hadn't already been ripped from her grasp.
There was nothing left for them to break.
Delvin Flynn, 18
He had too much to lose.
Delvin closed his hand around the gift his sister Megan had left him: their mother's wedding ring, attached to a necklace that Megan had woven herself. Their mother, her mind and body addled by her morphling addiction, had been too weak to even come and say goodbye. Megan had been crying, begging him to do his best to come home.
And, of course, he would. He would try his hardest. But standing there onstage, looking at his district partners – five of them – he knew the odds. And they were bad. There were more of them. And only one of him.
Delvin clenched his fists even tighter. He couldn't afford to start thinking like that. They needed him. His mother. His sister. They needed him.
They would always need him.
He needed to do this. That was what he had told himself years ago when he had started pickpocketing wallets and handbags just so that his family could survive. It was what he had told himself when people paid him money for odd jobs, not all of which he was comfortable at first. But he needed to. His family needed him to.
So when he and his friends, Lenitsky and Sasha, were asked to collect a ransom, or pick up a payment, or deliver a beating when someone failed to come through on a deal, he no longer questioned. No longer cared. Maybe he had a bad reputation, maybe he and his friends were unwelcome in the district's more 'respectable' areas, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Because his family needed him.
And now they needed him to do this.
Now they needed him to kill.
Delvin turned the wedding ring over in his hands. In all the jobs he'd been asked to do, all the fights he'd gotten into, all the beatings he'd delivered, he'd never been asked to kill. Never been pushed that far. Maybe the thought should bother him.
But it didn't. It didn't matter. It was just one more job. Just one more thing he had to do if he wanted to survive. If he wanted his family to survive.
And he did. That mattered more than anything. More than other people's lives. More than his reputation. More than his own conscience. Every rule he'd ever had, every line he thought he'd never cross, had already been shattered.
There was nothing left for them to break.
Nadine Olliston, 14
She didn't deserve this.
Nadine did her best to hide her tears as the door opened and her parents entered, followed by Uriah, Adalie, and Emmy. Her mother pulled Nadine close as her father wrapped his arms around them both. Her younger siblings gathered around the three of them. "It's not fair," her mother whispered.
Nadine swallowed hard. She wanted to say something brave. Something comforting. Something that would make them feel better. But the truth was that it wasn't fair. She hadn't done anything to deserve this. She wasn't a criminal. She wasn't a murderer. She wasn't a witch.
Nadine held her family close. She wasn't sure which she was more afraid of: the other tributes, or her own district partners. She didn't know any of them personally, but she knew the Astier twins by reputation, and the Hyde Boarding School Massacre was common knowledge. The older boy she didn't know, but he seemed tough. Hardened. The other boy … maybe she could trust him.
No. No, she couldn't trust anyone. Not once it came down to it. Only one of them could come home. One out of…
Forty-eight, probably. That would make sense. The extra tributes had been chosen in pairs to replace the two rebel tributes from last year. There had been twelve of them. Twenty-four extra tributes.
Nadine could feel the tears welling in her eyes again. Twenty-four extra tributes. But still only one of her. Not a fighter. Not a killer. Just a girl who wanted to come back to her family.
Just a little girl who wanted to live.
Okay. Okay, she could use that. Nadine closed her eyes. She was just a little girl. She didn't deserve this. And her district would see that. The Capitol would see that. A pair of witches. A murderer. Maybe she couldn't match their intrigue or flare, but, in the end, District Six didn't want any of them coming back.
They would want her back.
Would that be enough? Maybe not. Not on its own. But it was a start. It was something. And, at the moment, it was all she had. Something she could hold onto. She had people who loved her. People who wanted her to come home. They could rip her away from those she loved, but they would still love her. She would still love them. That was one thing they couldn't change.
One thing they could never break.
Alexi Merista, 16
They didn't deserve this.
Alexi shook his head, finally letting his tears fall as the door closed behind his family. They didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve to lose him. He didn't deserve to die. None of them deserved this.
The problem was, of course, that none of the other tributes deserved it, either.
There were people who would disagree with him, he knew. People who would say that the others – or certainly some of them – deserved whatever was about to happen to them. But there were things that no one deserved, no matter what they had done, or what they might do in the future.
No one deserved the Games.
Alexi swallowed hard, choking back tears. Last year, he had hoped that things would change. So many people had. Most of them wouldn't admit it now, of course. They would rather pretend they had known what would happen. Pretend that they had said all along that the rebels were doomed.
They would rather pretend it had never happened.
But, as terrible as the Games had been last year, as terrifying as the consequences had been, part of him didn't want to forget. Part of him wanted to hold onto that small, faint hope that things would change. That things would get better.
But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to come home. He couldn't say any of what he was thinking now, because even the smallest hint of rebellion in the Games would mean certain death.
Alexi took a deep breath. He wasn't a rebel. Not really. He just wanted to hope. He just wanted to believe. To believe that something better was possible. That didn't make him a rebel.
Did it?
Okay. Okay, just think. Just focus.
He couldn't worry about the other tributes now. Or his family. Or anyone else in District Six. They didn't deserve what was happening, but neither did he. He didn't deserve to be here. But here he was. And now he had to focus on getting home.
And, in order to do that, he would have to fight. He would have to kill.
Alexi buried his face in his hands. He'd never really thought about killing anyone before. He'd barely thrown a punch in his life. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready at all.
One thing at a time. Just find one thing you can do. One thing. His district partners. He could help them. He could get to know them. Maybe even protect them. For a little while.
Alexi smiled a little amid his tears. Yes. Yes, that was it. They could take him away from his family. His friends. But there were still people he could help. People he could protect. He still had the strength to help others, to care for them. That was one thing they couldn't take away.
One thing they could never break.
"Everything breaks if you apply the right force."