AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well.

This fic is rated T for violence and language.


The Walk

We'll miss you, Angelovna. We love you, Petra. it's sincere enough, I suppose. They whisper it as though beside my deathbed. It might be easier if it were so. I have days left. Weeks even. How odd to accept their hugs, their handshakes, their affection now.

"Represent us well," the Mayor orders brusquely. He, too, smells like alcohol, but not the pungent fumes of grain vodka. It's light, airy, like a sweet champagne. I remember he has a son my age. Most likely they've been celebrating.

I don't blame him.

She comes last. I don't blame her, either. 'Please," she simply says. "Please."

"I was handed the same fate as your son. It's the Games that killed him, not me." Killed him. Because Xavier Malcovitch is dead. There can be no question of it.

But the haggard woman falls to her knees. "Please," she begs, "protect him." She's in rags, filthy and thread-bare. Bruises line her face and arms from her beating at the hands of the Game Enforcers. I wish I could respect her, but the Games have taken that from me as well. I am Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die.

"He's only a child," she pleads. "Please-"

"And what am I?"

"Old enough to be a mother." But her words cannot move me to sympathy, Games or no. I've heard it said the saddest thing in the world is an ugly woman, but it isn't so. An ugly woman isn't sad—she's furious.

"Get up," I snap. "You think because your son is Tribute you can mock my pain? You had him. A man had you. Games or no that's more than I'll ever have." Shoulders too broad, hips too small, no breasts to speak of and a horse's face. "Be grateful. Even if just to mourn."

She blinks. She rises. Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. She has only one last plea. "He's only a boy," she whispers. "Don't make him suffer."

My mother bid farewell to her only surviving daughter. This woman just asked me to slay her only son. This is the Hunger Games. This is what they do.

Xavier Malcovitch, happy twelfth birthday, you unlucky bastard. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die.


Victor Victor Ivan Klerov is waiting for us. Victor Victor. I used to laugh at that name. I doubt Xavier Malcovitch has laughed at anything his entire life. He's pinched and fragile. All eyes and no mouth. And right now he's clinging to his mother's skirts as though she has the power to make it all go away. He might be a child, but he's not stupid: for the last 12 years of his life boys and girls alike have boarded that train. Not a one of them has ever gotten back off.

Don't make him suffer, his mother asked me. It's the State she should ask, the viewers she should beg, right now hungrily glued to their televisions throughout the Capitol and twelve Districts. They're the ones who want her son dead. They're the ones causing all of Panem to suffer.

Malcovna, if you don't want your zaychik to suffer, snap his neck now. Don't make your child walk to his death alone.

My parents are already waiting in the crowd. I've bid my friends farewell. From Games past I know it makes a better impression to walk out dry-eyed and strong. My eyes face front. I look neither right nor left. Cameras follow my every step as I stride confidently towards the waiting train.

"Very good, very good," Victor Victor Klerkov mutters. "Now let's hope little Xavier does the same-"

I turn back to the platform. No such luck. Malcovna's kneeling before him and sobbing, clutching him to her breast. Even crouching she envelops him, and from where I stand he's lost in his mother's love. But the cameras are watching. The Train has a schedule. And the Capitol is watching. Other Victors, other Tributes will see this footage tonight, and she paints a target on him with her tears.

He's only a boy. Don't make him suffer. Don't make your child walk to his death alone…

"Angelovna, what on earth are you doing-!" Klerkov calls after me. It's foolish. Weak. Compassionate. Rocks can't feel, Rocks can't die. Perhaps I am Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart; but even I can't bear the thought that the only act of kindness Xavier Malcovitch will receive in this world is a knife to his throat.

…mine.

My father is a butcher. I know what it is to lead a lamb to slaughter. And I was half of Malcovitch's age when I first was made to watch. "All things must die, Petra." My father told me. 'There is a time for kindness, and a time for killing."

The world is watching. Malcovna turns to me through her tears. No pity. No mercy. I give her the only gift I can: the truth. "Your son's going to die," I state. "Give him the dignity to die a man."

She places his frail fingers in mine. We walk.