Twice weekly, she said. It'll be fun, she said.

Well, I'll do my best, I can't promise every week's gonna be twice weekly but I'll try hard to make it happen because i love u guys :'))))

Also, haha kashew klick, Aella totally is in this chapter, idk if this was a surprise to you because i'm not subtle but she's right there lmao

Enjoy, everybody!

Pre-Reapings, Districts Two and Ten

Aella Poyner, 18

District Two Female

When I rap on Dean Vega's door with my knuckle, there is a tiny moment of hesitation before she calls "Enter!" I reach for the doorknob and swing myself inside the small room, one whose interior I've never seen before. In six years I have never required disciplinary action. I don't expect that this meeting has anything to do with any wrongdoing of mine.

The room is cramped, overflowing with papers and files. The desk pressed against the right wall is cluttered; medals and tiny weaponry figurines and stale cracker crumbs are everywhere. The Dean swipes some of these away with her forearm before giving up and settling back into her seat, gesturing towards the chair in front of her that seems to be there for me.

I sit. Seated, Dean Vega towers over me like almost everyone but the twelvies does. I force myself to sit up straighter, knowing that it won't do much good given my height but unwilling not to at least try.

"Aella," says the Dean, plucking up and ruffling through a file I imagine is mine. "I'd like to start out by letting you know that you're not in any trouble. Quite the opposite, in fact."

I incline my head and sit still, staring up at her while she scans something in the file. "By all accounts," continues the Dean, "Your recent test results have been quite good. You've excelled in almost all physical exams, wrestling and hand-to-hand being the only outliers…" She flips a sheet onto its back. "High scores with throwing knives, good choice, bow seems to be another particular talent, decent scores with axes…" She quirks an eyebrow. "Mental exams find you unflappable, average scores on the intelligence exams, nothing impressive but you're no dolt. Pain resistance is… good enough. And if course your devotion to the Capitol cannot be called into question."

The last sentence brings about a little warmth in my chest, and for a bizarre instant I am tempted to smile. It's not something I do often. "The Capitol," I say, "Saved me when no one else could. They took me from poverty and allowed me the chance to represent myself in the highest honor this district can offer. May they reign forever."

The Dean smiles and nods. "May they reign forever," she echoes. "Like I said, you're completely devoted. It's an admirable trait." She closes my file and settles it on the desk. "Aella," she continues, "Given your high scores and your flawless disciplinary record, I want to offer you a unique opportunity." She steeples her fingers and leans forward. "You should know," she says, "That completing this task will greatly impact your Standing."

I nod. I don't know what my Standing is, none of us do, but I imagine it is fairly high, given what Vega has just said. Whether or not it is high enough to place me in serious consideration for the Games is something I will find out the day before the Reapings, something I can influence now by accepting this job. "What would you like me to do?" I ask, spine ramrod straight.

"I've chosen you," says the Dean, "to administer Tiberius Masterson's punishment on the grounds of sexual assault of another student, punishment being twenty lashes on the bare back. Effective immediately." She leans back in her chair and fans herself with a piece of paper. "He's in the disciplinary room in the basement," she continues. "Waiting for you."

This is a clear dismissal, and I get to my feet and nod. "Thank you for this opportunity, Dean Vega," I tell her, "I'll make sure the punishment is carried out effectively."

"I'm sure of that," says Vega, reaching for one of the little figurines on her desk and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. "Thank you for your time."

I nod again, and leave the room. The hallway beyond is empty. At this time of day most students will be in class or in the training gym, perhaps sprinting around the obstacle course outside before the heat becomes too stifling. The hallway is cool and quiet, and I make for the stairs and consider what's waiting for me below.

Tiberius Masterson, sexual assault, twenty lashes. I'm surprised when I realize I'm irritated, actually frowning a bit. I smooth my features and run my fingers through my dark hair. It's the nature of the crime, I decide, rape has always reminded me of what happened to Mother. My hand fists around my hair and I take a deep breath and allow myself to relax, fingers slowly unfurling. A disgusting crime from a disgusting person. Tiberius is loud, brash, vulgar, and now a rapist, and I can't find it in me to be surprised.

The sound of my footsteps reverberates off the walls of the stairwell as I descend. I've never had much reason to spend time in the disciplinary room. Once I escorted Wisteria there when she refused to thank the Capitol after morning meal, but that was a long time ago.

The basement hallway is whitewashed and quiet. There's no one here but us, I think, making my way through several corridors, passing room after empty room until I find the one I want. The little window in the door has been covered with paper, perhaps in an attempt to preserve confidentiality, but rumors fly thick and fast. I'm sure that most of my contemporaries will be hearing about Tiberius soon, if they haven't already. For myself, I don't think I'll add fuel to the fire by disclosing what I'm about to do to him. I am not petty.

I step into the room. The walls are dark grey, the room dimly lit and large. On the far wall is a rack with an array of disciplinary tools, whips and knives and clubs and things I can't quite identify. There is a hose coiled in the corner, snake-like, for washing the blood away when things get messy. In the center of the room, kneeling, with his arms strapped into a stock and his ankles bound together, is Tiberius. His bare back glistens with sweat. When he sees me, his upper lip curls away from his teeth.

"So they sent you, huh, Poyner?" He hacks up a wad of saliva and spits it dangerously close to my sneaker. "Figures. You're the fuckin' drone, right?"

"Hello, Tiberius," I say, crossing the room behind his bound back. He cranes his neck to watch my progress. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."

He rattles the manacles holding him in place. I can see, next to his right leg, the drain where I'm sure I'll be washing his blood in minutes' time. "Like I believe that, you fuckin' bitch," he snarls, "You probably get wet from this sort of thing, huh?" Again he rattles the manacles. "Think that if you do this President Venator's gonna come down here and give you the fucking you've always dreamed of?" He grins, eyes glimmering with a sick sort of fear. "The Capitol doesn't give a shit whether or not you whip me, y'know."

I've reached the rack. There's the bullwhip, the cat o' nine tails, the riding crop, the knout, more that I don't know the names for. After a moment I pull the bullwhip from its place, let it unfurl until it drags along the floor. "The Capitol," I say, swiveling to face him, "Abhors unnecessary violence and cruelty. All they want is a peaceful Panem."

Tiberius laughs, a desperate, wheezing cough of a laugh but a laugh all the same. "That's bull and you know it," he says, eyeing the whip in my hand. "They put on the Games, Poyner, they eat cruelty up."

I stalk to his back and crack the whip once in the air. Despite himself, he flinches. "Rape is a serious offence," I tell Tiberius' back, "And not one you can talk your way out of. This Center, as well as the Capitol itself, would never condone unprovoked sexual violence of any kind." Again I crack the whip in the air. As I do I see the face of my mother as they forced her down on the side of the road, hear her screaming and sobbing and finally accepting, feel their rough hands holding me back, away, while they all take turns. I'm clutching the whip so hard my hand has gone white. When I crack it in the air for the third time and think, He's done the same thing to somebody else, I find that there is a lightness in me that wasn't there before. No guilt.

"Don't struggle, please, Tiberius," I say, lining up my strike. "I wouldn't want to miss."

I draw my arm back, and then the whip hisses forward and Tiberius screams.

"One," I say.

The red stripe on his back appeared almost as if by magic, like the crayon mark of a child. It weeps blood down his spine as I wind up the second strike and let it fly. Tiberius shudders against his manacles, a litany of profanity spewing from his lips that I am all too happy to ignore. The third strike feels like justice, somehow, as does the fourth. And the fifth. And the sixth.

By strike twenty, Tiberius is unconscious, dangling from the chains around his wrists, back torn and ragged like something abandoned. The room smells like old pennies and urine, from when he lost control of himself around strike twelve. Looking at his limp body should perhaps spark something in me, but all I can muster up is a faint sort of contentment that, again, the Capitol's justice has been done. As it was, now it is.

"Praise the Capitol in the highest," I intone, throwing the bloodied whip at Tiberius' prone feet. "May they reign forever."

Then I turn, and leave him in the bleeding dark.

Nero Ralston, 15

District Two Male

Romulus is waiting for me where the mercantile district bleeds into the residential one, standing just outside the cast-iron gate of a tiny house with an equally tiny garden. He smiles when he sees me, and waves, and I smile back and hurry to greet him.

"Hey, Rom," I say, coming to a stop beside him, hands in the pockets of my shorts. The heat is intense, almost unbearable, and I rub the back of my neck to get the sweat off.

"H-hello, N-n-nero," Romulus manages, grimacing a bit as he works out my name. He's been getting a lot better, though, when we first met he could hardly say a word without stuttering; now, I've heard him manage a full sentence! He says talking to me really helps.

"H-how was your day?" Romulus continues, leaning against the gate behind him. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really," I tell him, fidgeting from side to side. "I got some bullseyes with throwing knives, that was pretty cool. And I beat out Hannibal in a footrace!" I grin, remembering. "I tried to be a good sport about it but I think he was pretty mad."

"He'll get—get over it," says Romulus.

"Oh! Yeah!" I remember, fishing into my pocket, "I got one of those notes you've been asking me about!"

Romulus' eyes narrow. "You—you did, huh?" he asks, leaning forward, craning his neck. "In the spot we discussed?"

"Sure, it was under the radiator on the second floor." My fingers close around it and I hand it to him. He pulls it away eagerly and stuffs it inside his own pocket without looking at it. "I didn't read it," I assure him, "So you don't have to be embarrassed or anything."

Romulus laughs, his voice almost strained. "I'm not embarrassed, N-nero," he says. "But…"

"I didn't tell anyone." I toss my blonde hair. "I'd never do that, Romulus, you can trust me. Besides, it's only love letters right? It's not that bad."

"O-of course," says Romulus. The sun must be worse for him than it is for me; his collar is damp with sweat. "Thank you again, f-for everything. I'll see you here sometime next w-week?"

"Sure," I tell him, as he peels away from the fence. A droplet of sweat falls from his temple. He flashes me a quick, thin smile. Then he is gone.

I crack my knuckles and pull away from the fence myself, heading towards home. Even in my baggy athletic clothing, the heat seems to be rising with every step. But we're not in the real heat of the summer yet, when sometimes the asphalt will drip and run and cling to the soles of your shoes or your feet if the Peacekeepers catch you and decide they want to be creative. I repress a wince. Peacekeepers kinda scare me sometimes.

Slowly the houses get bigger and bigger, more spread out. Our house is about two miles away from here, and the only reason I make the walk at all and don't take the Rail is because the people at the Center insisted that I have the ability to make walks or runs like this in my sleep. I've been making this walk for three years now, and they were right about that, at least, I am really fast now.

After a while I break into a light jog, mostly just to get home faster. As my feet touch the pavement I think about Romulus. We met last year, and he was always really interested in the Center and what goes on in there. He says his girlfriend works in housekeeping and that he doesn't get to see her much, which is why I'm always carrying notes between them. They're really secretive about it. I've never even seen her, and the location of the note changes every time, and Romulus won't ever let me tell anybody about it. He says that when I'm older and in love, I'll understand.

Around me the houses are now surrounded by grassy gardens with knotted trees and hedge and are fairly far apart and I know I'm almost home. In fact I can see my house a few hundred feet ahead of me, a big sprawling house with multiple stories and an overgrown garden (we Ralstons aren't the best at gardening, honestly) and—a car parked out front? That's weird. The only person we know who owns a car is Aunt Marcia, and she wouldn't exactly be visiting us because she's Head Peacekeeper and she's not allowed.

I slow to a walk and shove my hands in my pockets as I skirt around the car and make for the front door. It's a white car, which means Peacekeepers. Maybe it is Aunt Marcia? She's never visited before, but I guess there's a first time for everything…

When I reach for the doorknob, the door pushes inward with a brush of my fingertips. Unlocked, I think, suddenly nervous without really knowing why. "Hello?" I call, stepping into the hallway. My shoes squeak on the floorboards. "Mom? Dad?"

Movement to my left. I turn, step into the sitting room, and raise my eyebrows. Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch. Mom is wringing her hands; Dad's jaw is clenched and a muscle works in his forehead. Mom flinches when she sees me.

Because of the flinch, the three Peacekeepers standing at the center of the floral pattern on the carpet turn their heads and fix their eyes on me. One of them reaches for the gun resting at his hip. The tall black-haired woman in the center narrows brilliant blue eyes in my direction. "Nero Ralston?" she says.

I blink several times. "What?" I say. "What did I do?"

That is all the confirmation they need. The only man in the group lunges for me, digging his fingers into my forearm and forcing it into the small of my back. I cry out, more shocked than pained, and try to wriggle away from him, but he only digs his fingers more firmly into my flesh. "Hey!" I exclaim, "I didn't do anything, you can't just—"

The male Peacekeeper drags me towards the door and the two women follow suit. "Mom!" I scream, digging my heels into the floorboards, "What are you doing, you can't just let them take me—Mom, Dad, please!" Mom covers her face with her hands. Dad looks away. And then I'm out the door.

I go limp. I'm numb, I feel sick, and I let them muscle me into their waiting car without protesting. There are handcuffs dangling from the ceiling that the male Peacekeeper buckles me into with unwavering fingers. I dangle from my wrists, limp and aching, and one of the women starts the car.

The car purrs underneath me and I'm too out of it to consider that this is the first time I've ever ridden in one. The black-haired woman in the passenger seat has turned around and she eyes me, drumming her fingers against her seat. "Mister Ralston," she says, "Do you know what you've done?"

"No!" I exclaim, tugging against the handcuffs. "I don't know—I don't—"

The woman nods, and the man next to me grabs a fistful of blonde hair and yanks my head back until my throat is exposed and I'm facing the gray upholstery of the roof. "This is important, Mister Ralston," says the woman. "Please take this seriously."

"I am!" I whimper. My heart slams in my chest. My palms are dripping with sweat, despite the cool air inside the car. Tears prick behind my eyes. "I really don't know what I did, ma'am, I swear, I swear."

"So," she says, "You don't remember couriering secret messages for the dissidents of this district? Did that slip your mind?" She smiles, thin-lipped. "Don't bother trying to defend yourself. We know what you've done, even if you can't remember."

"What?" I squawk. "I wouldn't do that, the rebels are evil, everybody knows that!" Again I yank at the handcuffs. "Ma'am, please!" My vision is blurring with tears. "Please," I whisper, "I promise I didn't."

The car stops.

They believe me? I think. I'm going home? I glance out the window and see that we've stopped at the outskirts of the residential village, a few miles from the border of District Two, just far enough that the houses are too far for us to see. I pant and the handcuffs rattle with every movement of my chest.

Something cool presses up against my temple.

I glance to my right, see the ugly mouth of the gun kissing my hairline, and I scream. I throw myself as far away as the handcuffs will allow, kicking the floor with all the strength I have. Snot streams from my nostrils. "No no no no no," I wail, "I didn't do it p-p-p-please I didn't oh Capitol don't kill me please."

The man forces me back towards the muzzle of the gun and I wail like an animal and tug on the cuffs until a bead of blood slides down my wrist. "Cool it, kid," he growls, jamming the gun against my skull and what if he pulls the trigger and my brains go everywhere and I die oh Capitol—

"Mister Ralston," says the woman, and I sob and stare, "None of us here want to kill you."

I hiccup. "Then—then don't," I whisper.

She sighs and strokes the side of her seat, swiping away imaginary particles of dust. "That's all up to you," she says. "If you tell us what we want to know, we'll have no reason to hurt you."

The gun whispers against my skin. "I'll tell you," I blurt, eyes wide and dribbling, "Everything, I'll tell you everything, just—please don't hurt me."

The woman smiles. It transforms her face. "Alright," she says, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "First things first. You admit that you've been couriering for rebels."

I take a shuddering breath. "But—" I whisper. "I haven't."

She frowns. "You haven't been delivering messages back and forth from the Betterment Center to a contact on the outside? Our sources are reliable. You've been seen delivering these messages, Nero."

If the terror wasn't choking the humor out of me, I might've laughed. "That's for Rom," I exclaim, hysteria coloring my words, "It's his love letters."

"Rom?" says the woman quickly. "That's his name? Rom?"

"Romulus," I correct. "I don't know his last name, he never said." My wrists ache. "But those weren't—those weren't bad letters, they were just love notes. I promise!"

She quirks an eyebrow. "Did you read them, Mister Ralston?"

I falter. "Well—no, I would never do that to my friend." Another line of blood drips from underneath the handcuffs. "But there's no way they were anything bad," I continue, fumbling over my words. "Romulus wouldn't do something like that."

"Really?" says the woman. "Is it so unlikely a dissident might see a naïve little boy like yourself and think there's a way for me to reach my contact on the inside, here's how we'll pass messages to each other?" She adjusts the collar of her uniform. "We have the contact," she adds. "She was one of the students. Not anymore." The woman leans forward, eyes fixed on me. "Now we need the man she was sending her little secrets to," she continues. "We need your Romulus." The man next to me jabs me with the gun and a fresh wave of terror crawls down my spine. "Like I said," she exclaims, "We don't want to hurt you, Mister Ralston. We know your involvement was accidental. But if you won't cooperate, Bristel here will pull that trigger."

I gape. "But I don't know anything," I manage finally.

The woman almost smiles. "Tell us about Romulus," she says. "Tell us everything you know about him. Everything and we'll let you live, despite your transgressions."

I open my mouth, close it again. Romulus—my friend—if I tell them, they'll look for him, they'll maybe find him and kill him and—

I remember the gun against my head. And I tell them everything.

Afton Moreau, 18

District Ten Female

The muscles of Verity's back shift under my calves and I move with her, inhaling when she inhales, leaning forward when she leans forward, tensing when she flicks her ears and stares for a moment at something on the horizon that only she is aware of.

Every one of her heavy footfalls reverberates up my shins and echoes somewhere in my chest, thump, thump, each step in line with my heartbeat. The heat is unbelievable and I wonder if Verity minds much that I'm sweating on her spine. Every time she shifts my thighs chafe against her coat; every time I readjust myself there is a half-second where I fear that I'm slippery enough to fall from her back. But I'm overthinking things. I've never fallen before.

Beside me, sitting astride Vennie with her fingers tangled in his mane, Matty stares thoughtfully at the fat golden sun sinking with agonizing slowness towards the horizon. "Few more hours of daylight left, I think," she says. "You'd better win this one, Afton, cuz I'm not sure the heat's gonna be worth it."

"I'll win," I tell her, tugging a bit on Verity's reigns to move her closer to Vennie. "When do I not?"

Matty rolls her eyes and grins, sticking her tongue out. "Says the student to the master. Who taught you everything you know, filly, who was the best damn jockey from here to the Capitol?"

"Keyword being was," I say. We're close enough to touch, and she reaches over and slaps me on the shoulder before nudging Vennie into a trot. I resist the urge to lay a hand over the place her palm connected with my shoulder, to trot up beside her and press our cheeks together, our lips together—no reason to bother, I know she's not interested, even if she's never said so. I hope I never have to hear her say no. I might lose it.

I do urge Verity into a trot, but when we're close I stay on my own horse and look at my hands on the reigns instead of at the way her black hair glistens like a snake coiled on a flat rock. Even from here I can hear shouting, whistling, and I know we're close to whatever unofficial patch of land the organizers have hunted down and squared off, far enough away from anything else that the Peacekeepers won't bother breaking it up, will let us sweat ourselves out under the sun while they sit and smoke and drink back down in the Pens.

Matty tenses her thighs and rises from Vennie's back for a moment before settling back down. "Looks like a coupla newbies," she says, shading her eyes from the glare. "Sure you can handle 'em, Afton?"

I roll my eyes. "How many times have we had newbies this season, Matty? How many times have I lost?"

She grimaces. "Blah, blah, I'm Afton Moreau and I'm suuuch a good jockey that I'll never lose even though this is the first racing season I've ever done so well, blah di blah—"

"Can't help but remember that you've never had a perfect season," I remind her.

She glares flatly and says nothing. I'll take that as a victory.

Verity and Vennie slow down as we come up to the crowd. It's not as big of a turnout as the past few races have been; the heat keeps people in their homes with cool rags and closed curtains to keep the sun out. You'd have to be dedicated to come out this far into the flatlands to watch a race, near-suicidal to jockey in one. I'm not suicidal, but I'll be damned if I've come this far only to give up now because of some heat.

Matty taps me on the shoulder. "I'm gonna head over to Colton to place my bets," she says. "Y'know, I'm almost tempted not to bet on you. Everybody else is going to."

"If you wanna lose," I tell her, "You can do whatever you want."

She grins. "That's the spirit," she says, and turns Vennie in the direction of a tightly-knit throng of people, most mounted, rapidly exchanging betting slips and denarii with sweating hands. I turn the other way, towards the small group of jockeys and their horses. Most I recognize, but there are a few new faces. The horses are tethered to a post someone must have hammered into the clay earlier this morning, before the sun was fully risen, and I slide off Verity's back and tie the familiar knots without thinking much about it. A water trough has been provided for the horses, a bucket for the jockeys. One of the new faces is drinking from it now, and he pulls away and passes it over to me as I walk to him.

"Name's Andrew," he says, as I swill the warm water against my teeth and try to ignore the taste of metal. "You're Afton Moreau, right?"

I put the bucket down and wipe my lips clean with the back of my hand. What I don't wipe away is already drying in the heat. "Yup," I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. He's slender, has much less muscle than I do. His legs are well-toned and he stands slightly stooped. He's used to crouching low against his animal, I think, observing him, and he's light and small enough that he won't slow the horse down.

He extends a hand which I shake. Calloused palm. He's got reign-hands, alright, he's a serious rider. "Best of luck," he says. "I'm told you're a fierce competitor."

"Fiercer than this lot," I tell him, gesturing towards our competitors. There are a few scowls, but most people just ignore me. Probably because they know I'm right.

Andrew opens his mouth to say more, but a sharp whistle commands our immediate attention. "Jockeys," shouts Sally Cohen from her place on her ancient gelding Majesty. She's been the master of ceremonies for years now, despite never having raced herself. Kohl drips from the sweat streaming from underneath her eyes as she surveys the group of us. "Mount your animals."

Verity, I notice, has already been saddled, most likely by one of the children Sally hires to take care of the little things, like the water troughs and the saddling. I was one of them, once, as was Matty. I don't believe Andrew ever was. Interloper.

I slip a foot into the stirrup and heave myself onto Verity's back, reaching over her head to untie her from the post. She whickers against my forearm and I pat her broad neck, horse-flesh firm and hot under my hand.

One of the children peels away from the crowd to lead Verity to the starting line. The crowd thins, relegates itself to a spot predetermined to provide the best view of the proceedings. Most will canter alongside the runners to the finish line; those unmounted will do what they can to see from here. I spot Matty in the crowd, and she waves the piece of paper clutched between thumb and forefinger as Vennie paws the earth underneath her. From this distance I can't tell what the paper says, but I'd be shocked if it didn't say Afton Moreau. She always bets on me in the end.

The horses are led to a line that has been etched into the clay. I find myself sandwiched between two competitors I'm sure will be no challenge. Andrew is three horses to my right. He rides a gray gelding, I note. He's a lean, powerful animal. Might give him an edge, might not. Still shouldn't be a challenge for Verity. She's a winner.

Sally canters to the front of the line and gives her usual spiel about fairness and the importance of being a good sport. She goes on for a while about what a dear I am, how difficult it appears to be to defeat me, and invites the newcomers to do their best to try. Andrew smirks into his horse's mane. I clutch Verity's reigns a bit tighter.

Finally Sally moves Majesty off to the side and stands in the stirrups, throwing her dark hair back. "Are we ready!" she roars, and the crowd collectively loses its mind.

She nods. "Sounds about right. Now, jockeys." I hunch low in the saddle, tensing my thighs and calves. "The race ends beyond the first cactus," says Sally, "which you can't miss if you keep going straight." Some laughter from the crowd; it's not unheard of for horses to gallop into the mesa and off the unmarked track completely. She clears her throat. "On your mark!" she crows. I risk a quick glance at Andrew and see him straining in the saddle, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, clenching his teeth. He's really serious, I think. But I'll have to disappoint him.

"Get set… Go!"

Verity leaps forward at the jab of my heels and we're off. The horse to my left immediately falls behind, the one to my right pulls ahead. I won't bother looking at Andrew; it isn't worth the energy. Instead I lean forward and whisper into Verity's velvet ear, stroke her neck and urge her on, while all the while I jab her in the ribs, over and over.

My horse thunders underneath me and all I can hear is the roar of hooves against earth. My heart hammers; I can hardly breathe. My hair streams behind me, pressed flat against my skull, and the weight of it is so heavy that I wonder for a moment if perhaps that's all the edge Andrew will need, his slender body and his short hair.

The horse to my right rears back, eyes rolling, and we're past them and away, away, and only two left keeping pace with us now, an old challenger I recognize and without even turning to look I know the other is Andrew. I can see the cactus now, a speck in the mesa that grows at an alarming rate. "C'mon, Verity," I murmur, and my words are torn by the wind. "Faster."

The other challenger draws back. And it's just me and him, and his horse pulls close to mine and we're neck and neck and when I glance at him he's glaring ahead like all that exists is the road and that cactus. I'm waiting for the moment when his horse begins to slow, to realize it can't keep running like this, can't outstrip my girl.

Instead, it pulls ahead.

My fists tighten on the reigns. "Fuck," I spit, torturing Verity's ribs with the tips of my toes. She leaps and we're neck and neck again, I could reach out and touch him, and the cactus is there and—he pulls ahead, just a hair, just a footfall, it's hardly fair his horse has a longer neck there's no way—

We thunder past the cactus. I yank on the reigns with trembling hands and Verity shudders to a halt. At once I'm sliding off her back, sprinting towards the woman standing at the finishing line, while Andrew wheels his mount around and grabs Verity's reigns, pulling them both to the side before the other horses start coming in. "Who won?" I gasp, panting, head heavy. "Who?"

"Andrew Cloven on Shadow," she says. "By a hair."

I blink. Then I grab her by the shirt, drag her forward. The spectators are galloping in now, and I squeeze her shirt so tightly my fingers ache. "Bullshit," I snap, "We were neck and neck."

She pulls herself free. "He was ahead," she snaps, taking a step back, "By a hair, and that's enough to win. Don't give me any shit, Moreau."

"Afton." He's behind me, and I whirl around. Andrew looks almost sheepish, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Uh… I'm sorry about your—"

I lunge.

"Fucker," I snarl, sending an elbow into his face. He goes down with a scream and a spray of warm red, "You fucking cheating bastard, did you pick that horse because of its long fucking neck because that's the only reason you won, goddammit—"

Hands are pulling me up and away from the teenager cowering in the clay with both hands covering his bleeding nose. I fight against them for a moment, opening and closing fists that I itch to send into his smug fucking face. He peers at me through his fingers and his eyes are huge and black. Bastard.

I don't realize its Matty pulling me away until we've broken from the crowd and I recognize her voice. "Everdeen, Afton," she's saying, "You need to learn to control that temper, I mean you could've broken that guys nose."

I consider pushing her away and sprinting after him again, but instead I just wipe the blood off my elbow with my palm. "My perfect season," I mutter, "Bastard ruined it."

"I know," says Matty, stroking my back, and for a terrible moment I think I see something like fear in her eyes, or maybe pity. "Oh, Afton, I know."