"There's a ringing in my head
There's a sickness in the world
And everyone knows, but pretends that they don't see."
Blade Cassidy, 18, Victor of the 16th Hunger Games
The next few hours are a haze of indistinct figures, everything blurred as if he's looking at the world through a foggy window.
He can't be here. This can't be happening. He's not flying out of that Arena, alone in a cushioned hovercraft.
He can't stop seeing Alessio behind his eyes—his blood staining Blade's shirt.
He's still wearing it.
He can almost feel the cool clamp of Alessio's fingers, gripping his wrist with the last of his strength. Pleading. Pleading.
Layered behind that image, sprinkled amid the cycle of death, is the image of Blade's dead parents, leaving him shell-shocked and alone in the world. There was nobody who cared enough to notice Blade. His parents received no proper funerals, no candlelight vigils, and the crime lords were dealt no retribution.
Blade had learned early that nobody was going to save him. There was not a single person in the world who cared, and he could not let the reason for his desolation continue to wander the streets.
Nobody else was doing anything. So Blade stepped forward, and he delivered justice.
(He can still see the crime lords' bodies at his feet. He can still envision the way their faces twisted in agony, in shock.
Once, Blade might've viewed the memory with grim satisfaction. Now, it's just another ghost to join his battalion.)
At the time, Blade thought he had no other choice but to become a monster. He was the only one who was willing to do something about the way the world was crumbling—never mind if Blade crumbled with it. It was worth becoming the darkness, if it meant he could battle it.
Now he understands. He's not a monster, not in the ways he once thought. Yes, the weight of the deaths still bears down his soul, but there's a glimmer of promise growing ever closer.
Blade Volunteered so he could kill the president. The momentum of vengeance was irresistible. It didn't matter if he died in the process—that was the price he was willing to pay, if it meant eradicating the world of evil, once and for all.
Blade had begun to see himself as a part of that evil.
But now he can feel himself splitting from that fabric, becoming something new. He is a boy shaped on another promise, not one borne of vengeance, but of trust.
Even so, he doesn't know if he can live with himself, knowing that he's too much of a coward to do what nobody else would do. It is his duty to take on this deadly burden.
But oh, how heavy that burden weighs.
His mind is floating somewhere remote, stuck in the dark corners of his past, but he becomes dimly aware of the hovercraft landing. He can't move, not with the pain and exhaustion and guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders. Somebody drags him out into the light, and Blade is not strong enough to fight.
Not yet. But soon...
Soon, he'll be strong enough to kill the President. If he even wants to anymore.
The cold metal of the knife still tucked in his boot brings him back to the moment. It ignites an urgency within him, a desperation, and he comes back to himself. He walks on his own two legs into the Capitol's grand building, and they take him to a hospital room. A table covered in paper. Too-bright lights. The crisp smell of antiseptic.
Blade blinks, a spike of fear shooting through him. The knife in his boot... they'll find it. But his mind is too foggy and the world is too blurry and he feels himself being hoisted onto the table. Soon enough, a faceless doctor is beside him, and there's a needle in his arm, and Blade can no longer separate consciousness from sleep.
He doesn't dream. For a few blissful hours, he is far removed from the world, floating somewhere calm and peaceful, where there are no decisions to make. No Presidents to kill. No Arena and no Games and no Alessio—
But no. He can't lose Alessio—not his memory, not the precious trust he gave Blade. Not the rare vulnerability they managed to coax from each other.
He wakes with that thought anchoring him firmly to consciousness.
His world feels like two sides of a coin.
Alessio, and the sister he left behind, and the vital promise Blade made.
The President's death; years of pain and suffering finally culminating in the ultimate act of justice. And, more than anything, the thing that makes those two sides meet in the middle: how desperately Blade wants to change things. To make all of this mean something.
He feels obligated to do both, and more.
But he knows that if he wants to kill the President, he will need to act quickly—before they take his knife away, if they haven't already. And if Blade kills the President, he will surely die.
Blade doesn't want to die, not anymore. He wants to live for those that could not. He wants to see change in the world, his legacy finally come to fruition.
(Volunteering was all Blade had left. He'd wanted so much to achieve this goal. And he doesn't want to dishonor his parents.)
But now, he has other things to honor. The Arena gave him scars, but it also gave him a most unlikely friend.
It gave him the knowledge that the world is not painted in stark shades of night-black and chalk-white. That there are spaces between.
A hand lands on his shoulder, and Blade flinches, once again returned to the present. He tries to reign in his aimless thoughts, the crack of indecision inside him that only seems to be spreading.
In front of him is a man. Vaguely recognizable. He looks to be in his thirties, and his eyes are mild and impassive.
His face breaks into a small, hesitant smile. It flickers for a moment before vanishing again.
Blade stares at him for a moment, trying to recall...
Then the man pulls out a make-up kit, of all things, and Blade's cobwebbed mind becomes suddenly clearer.
Chalet. His stylist.
All of that seems like eons ago. Surely it was another boy in his place, the one who shrank away from the light and believed that he would never deserve connection or forgiveness.
Blade glances down at his body and sees bandages on his arm and his face. A chill races down his spine as he remembers...
He glances down, knuckles white as he clenches his hands into fists, and sees that he's still wearing the same clothes. He carefully shifts his foot and feels the familiar press of metal.
His dagger is, miraculously, still there.
Chalet gently reaches forward, and Blade flinches away. An apologetic look flits over the stylist's features. He gestures at Blade's clothes.
Right. They have to erase the blood and the grime, doll him up and make him look presentable again, as if the Games were simply a stain to be wiped away.
He doesn't know what they'll do with him. But somehow, he will get close to the President. And he will take what he came for.
It's what Graymore deserves.
Right?
Chalet stares back at him with patient eyes. After a moment, he reaches forward again, and Blade doesn't flinch this time.
He's still in shock. He's still back in that printing press, with Alessio's eyes burning into him.
He's still on that stage, Tremor's composure dissolving like an illusion.
Blade is dimly aware of Chalet unbuttoning his coat, mindful of the bandages. His shirt comes over his head. Chalet glances down at Blade's shoes.
His boots, hiding the knife.
Blade watches what happens next from a distance. He knows he should do something, but he can't reach his body.
Chalet gently guides him onto a chair. Hollowed out, acting on autopilot, Blade lifts his legs so Chalet can unlace his shoes. So they can take him apart and put him back together.
Blade feels like a child. Helpless and mindless.
He will later recall that Chalet's eyes were always gentle. That he was careful never to touch Blade's skin. That his movements were slow and steady.
Blade sees Chalet, seeing Blade's dagger. The stylist's hands clasp the handle.
And Blade is back in himself, in a sudden rush of color and sound and pain.
He gasps.
His eyes meet Chalet's.
The stylist's face seems to shift like sand in a breeze, swirling between shock, distrust, fear, and—unbelievably—sympathy.
His fingers release the blade's hilt. He looks away, as if he never saw the knife.
Blade lets out a breath.
When Chalet hands him a freshly-ironed shirt, Blade pulls it on himself and slips the dagger into the sleeve.
Chalet pretends not to see.
But Blade knows that he never would have had a chance, if it were not for Chalet's small mercy. If not for the key, drawn-out moment of indifference.
He is too haunted to be grateful, but something in him views Chalet with a new respect.
Still, he notices the man's hands shaking as he applies a simple layer of make-up in an attempt to hide Blade's bruise, one of many marks that Tremor left on him.
Chalet is obviously afraid. Yet he still allows Blade to keep the knife. Blade doesn't understand why Chalet would ever do such a thing.
Is this some kind of trick?
Perhaps if things had been different, Blade would have been glad for Chalet's fear. There was once a time when he was so afraid of himself, so confident that his only purpose was to kill, that it didn't matter if other people hated him, feared him. It seemed only fair.
Now, he sees himself clearer, even if the world around him is blurry and muted. He knows that he is capable of kindness.
But he can't rely on kindness, not now. He's sacrificed so much to get here.
Chalet finishes and Blade stares at himself dully in the mirror, taking in only that they've dressed him in black. His clothes might have reminded him of Six, or even of the Arena, but he looks much more refined now. As if the Capitol has tried to paint him as civilized, even though they know well that he killed two people in the Arena.
And so many more before that.
He feels out of place in his elegant suit, with his hair combed. He has the intense temptation to run a hand through his hair, to scrub the make-up off his skin.
But Chalet gives him a shaky smile and nods, and there's a glimmer of empathy in his gaze. As if he can somehow reach Blade's thoughts.
He shivers, and looks away from his reflection. His job is not yet done.
They guide him down hallways, in and out of elevators and around corners, until he is standing in a very familiar place—the backstage area of where they'd once done interviews. But now, instead of twenty-three other kids milling about, Blade is alone.
Well... alone except for the two figures waiting for him.
He recognizes the first as the President. Signet Graymore looks very young, perhaps Blade's age. There are dark circles etched into the skin beneath his eyes, and he shifts uncertainly from foot to foot.
The figure beside him is dressed in simpler clothing, seeming to blend into the background as if he is only a phantom. Blade learns his purpose as soon as President Graymore opens his mouth. The other man is serving as his interpreter, signing as Signet speaks.
"Hello." His smile is soft, almost unassuming. His eyes flicker to the floor and his hands fidget in the pockets of his coat.
Not very regal at all.
Blade gives him a level glance and does not respond.
The President continues on, nonplussed. "Blade Cassidy, yes? I'm sure you know who I am. It's nice to officially meet you."
He walks a few steps closer, and Blade forces a smile. "Hello," he signs.
He will not give this man any more information than he needs to.
(But he's younger than Blade thought he would be. There's an openness in his eyes that surprises him, an awkwardness to his bearing that seems at odds with his title. If Blade remembers correctly, this boy only came into power a few weeks before the Games.
Can he truly bear the responsibility of Blade's dead parents, if he was as young as Blade when it happened?)
"I'm sorry..." Signet stares at the ceiling now, as if it's easier than looking in Blade's eyes. "I'm sorry for all you had to go through. Losing your friend. There was something I wanted—"
Blade's fists clench and he shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear Graymore's empty placations. If he were truly sorry, he'd have done something about all of this.
"I don't need your apologies," he signs, trying to keep his face neutral. He tries to keep his emotions at a distance, so he does not have to feel the grief of Alessio's death anew. He pretends that he isn't wishing Alessio were here to interpret, stilted sign language and all.
He doesn't care about the President. He doesn't care about his nameless servant.
Perhaps that should worry him. Blade has felt numb like this so many times before, and it has never ended well.
He worries that he will never have passion again. That even his need for revenge has subsided.
The President steps back, and hurt flashes over his features, before he gives Blade that too-genuine smile again. "You're right. I understand if you need time to mourn. I also understand if you never want to see me again. There's a ceremony we must perform in a few minutes, but then you'll be free to do as you wish."
A ceremony... Blade feels the barest wisps of relief. This is what he'd hoped for. A public event where Blade could be close to the President and...
And...
He'll most certainly be killed for his crime.
Can he do this? Does he want to do this?
"Don't worry." Signet's face still looks impossibly human. "This won't be televised immediately. I proposed a break between the Games and the Crowning, so that the Districts would have time—time to recover." A shadow of grief passes over Signet's face, and Blade wants to slap him. He doesn't deserve to grieve—not for Blade, not for Alessio, not for anyone in that Arena. "But we must film this quickly, so that the technicians have time to edit it for Capitol viewing. Also, I think it's best that we get it over with."
His eyes wander throughout the backstage area for a moment longer, before they finally come to rest on Blade's face.
"I truly am sorry. I know that doesn't make up for anything."
"You're right," Blade signs. "It doesn't."
Something determined crosses Signet's face. He nods. "Let's just get through this, and perhaps we will meet again to properly discuss our next steps."
Blade blinks. What is he talking about?
No. There won't be a next meeting. This Crowning will be the last time Signet sees Blade.
They walk on stage—this time, with no live Capitol audience. The sound of canned applause meets Blade, false as the smile plastered over Pericles McMaster's face. He waits center stage, picking up a microphone and facing an invisible audience.
"Hello, citizens of Panem, and welcome to our very first televized Victor's Crowning Ceremony. This ceremony will officially crown Blade Cassidy of District Six as the Victor of the 16th Annual Hunger Games. This is a great honor and celebration as we welcome young Blade back to the Capitol. President Graymore and Mr. Cassidy, if you please?"
The Master of Ceremonies beckons them closer, and Signet steps forward, joining Pericles in the spotlight. Blade blinks away the memory of a stage very similar to this one, and forces himself to follow Signet.
He has to do this. A necessary evil.
The interpreter is standing a few paces from Blade, still signing, as Pericles turns his attention on them.
"Hello, Mr. Cassidy! So lovely to see you today. How are you doing?"
Blade calls up a smile, even if every fiber of his body resists the motion. Even if it hurts to pretend.
"I'm fine, thank you," he manages to sign.
"Lovely, lovely. We won't take up too much of your time, young man, but I wanted to personally congratulate you for being this year's Victor. You were wonderful in that Arena."
Blade tries to quell the anger rising inside him, making his jaw clench. He tries to ignore the faces of the girl from Three, of Alessio, of Tremor—
"Thank you," he signs, as the hollowness in his chest grows.
He does not deserve to be congratulated. He cannot accept praise for the horrors he's done and seen.
"Now, Mr. Graymore, would you do the honors?"
"Gladly." Perhaps it's just Blade, but the President's smile looks on the verge of collapse. Almost as if he's struggling to maintain the illusion.
The President steps forward, close enough for Blade to touch. He extends his hand, and in his palm is an ornate crown.
"Blade Cassidy—"
He takes a breath. He tells himself this will all be worth it in the end.
"—it is my honor to present to you—"
He ignores the doubts in his head. He ignores the innocent and trusting gaze of Signet as he reaches to place the crown on Blade's head.
"—the crown, which marks your brave acts—"
He lets the anger and despair build inside him like a stormcloud ready to burst...
"—and your status as Victor of—"
And flips the dagger from his sleeve, plunging it toward Signet's heart.
But his hands are shaking. And he realizes, in that moment, that Signet's parents are dead, too. That he, too, carries a responsibility that no lone person should.
His hand falters and, at the last moment, jerks to the side.
The knife still pierces Signet's chest. But just as Blade is realizing him and Signet are no different... he is also thinking of Alessio, and the promise he made.
He wants desperately to keep his word.
"I'm sorry," Blade signs, too late.
Signet's eyes are wide. Blood is streaming from his chest, drenching his tailored suit. Blade feels nausea rise up inside him. What did he just do?
(This feels like a repeat of killing Tremor, his tearstained face and sorrowing eyes. And yet, Blade had still killed him, thinking of the things beyond the Arena, of the changes he could make. He wonders, too late, if all this death is worth it. If Blade finally did something good in the world, would it make up for all the lives he's taken?)
Signet clasps his hands over his chest in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. His mouth opens.
But the words never reach Blade. Because all of a sudden, there is a white-hot bolt of pain in his back and the pain spreads until it is scribbling out his consciousness, too terrible to ignore, and Blade closes his eyes and feels the world unspool around him.
Or maybe it's him unspooling. He doesn't know.
All he knows is numbing darkness and overwhelming guilt, as the pain erases everything else and takes him under.
...
Avarette "Ava" De La Lune, 29, Head Gamemaker
"He's in stable condition."
"Miraculous. That gunshot should've killed him."
"The guards didn't shoot to kill, you imbecile."
"Well, they should've."
"That's still up for discussion. He isn't awake yet. The question now is whether we spare his life. We're waiting on the President."
"He'll be awake soon enough."
"Remind me why I'm here." Ava flicks an errant strand of hair from her face. She's bone-tired from her week of little-to-no sleep, her every limb feeling too heavy to lift. "My job description says I'm not obligated to work outside the Games window."
"Your job description doesn't include special circumstances like these," one of the President's advisors says.
"What of the President?" one of Ava's assistants pipes up. "Will he live?"
"We believe so," says one of Panem's top doctors, standing against the wall of the crowded hospital room. "It will take him a long while to heal completely, but as long as he rests and remains stable, he should recover."
"I still can't believe this happened," says the assistant. "How did that knife get past us?"
Ava rubs her temples. Not only is she far from recovered, mentally and physically, but she's also separated from Stelle, and that always sets her on edge. She longs for one peaceful afternoon, just her and her baby.
But Ava has a feeling that she will never know peace, not after the events of the Games. Now that they are publicized, she feels even more shamed and shunned by the polished Capitolities, like some kind of predatory bug: needed in the grand scheme of things, but unpleasant to be around in every regard. Best avoided when possible.
Now she's at a meeting in which she knows she will have no voice, not unless she's doing someone else's job, and she still can't understand why she's here.
But perhaps she's beyond the point of feeling useless. After all, she orchestrated the first public Games. And the twenty-three lives on her hands feel heavier than ever.
(Well... perhaps all twenty-four now. But that's not up to her. And she can't find it in herself to care.)
The advisor lets out a sigh. "He'll be alright, then. Is he ready to wake up?"
Ava rolls her eyes, making no attempt at discretion. For all the man talks and frets, she hasn't seen him make one effort in advising the President; he hasn't come to his aid in any way.
(Not that Ava's really paying attention. She doesn't care about Signet any more than she does Blade.
But with their lives perilously at stake, Ava finds herself growing uneasy; and not simply because she's away from Stelle.)
"He is," the doctor says. "I am in the process of rousing him now."
He pulls an IV from the President's arm and inserts another. Signet is surrounded by only the best physicians, and every luxury he could possibly need. Tea services, warm cloths and fluffy comforters, and the boy's not even awake! He's been under sedatives for the past five days, his chest cocooned in bandages. Ava watches as his eyes flutter.
"We can't make our decision without the President," says the advisor.
"And what decision could that possibly be?" says Ava's overeager assistant. "We are obviously in accordance regarding the matter of that rogue Six boy. He must die for his crimes."
"That is still up for debate, as I said," the advisor grits out. "But beyond that, we need to decide how to present this to the public. An assassination attempt on the President would cause uproar. Instability and chaos without end."
"That's being a touch dramatic, don't you think, Mister Advisor?" Ava drawls, only half-listening. She's still thinking about those sleepless nights, the engineering of the plague and the town crier and the gargoyles, the immense effort she'd put into the architecture—and above all, the Tributes she'd been forced to spend so much time with. Seeing them on the other side of that screen, it was as if she knew everything about them. As if she held them in the palm of her hand.
And Ava hated that feeling. Hates the very thought of it.
(But at the same time, there'd been a thrill to having so much control. A sense of adrenaline in knowing she was finally important, that somebody was finally witnessing her spectacles. Putting her heart and soul, her sweat and tears, into something so immense and involved—it was exhausting, and wonderful.)
But even Ava is ashamed at what she's done. No matter what they say about her, she has a heart. She has a child.
And that child once had a father. And Ava once loved him.
But that's behind her now. As is the sixteenth annual Hunger Games.
But even though the Games are finally over, there are still lives hanging in the balance. Never had Ava imagined the violence and desolation of that Arena might leak out between the cracks, might seep into the Capitol's structured fanfare.
But it has. And Ava partly blames herself for it.
Signet's fingers twitch. He gasps awake.
"I wish we didn't have to meet in this dreadful hospital room," Ava's assistant says, gesturing airily at the lavish quarters, located in the President's private wing.
"I don't see what you have to complain about," Ava snaps, finally allowing a bit of passion to escape her. "Besides, what do you expect us to do? Wheel our sedated President into an office cubicle in such grave condition? The man has a stab wound, in case you've forgotten! You're not even going to wait until he's well to force him into making decisions? Couldn't you give him more time to rest?"
"Ava?" Signet's voice is tired, but he cracks a shattered smile, like light fracturing through broken glass. "You're here."
"Trust me, I hate it as much as you do." But even emotionless, regulated Ava can't help a tiny shoot of relief from sprouting inside her.
He's alive. At least she won't have to do all his dirty work, now. Perhaps he's finally learned something.
"What... oh, stars." He blinks, tries to reach a hand toward his face. The doctor is quick to intercept him.
"Lie still, Mr. President," he says in his crisp, sterile voice.
"Blade—he stabbed me. He apologized, he looked so shocked. He was just staring at me and all the blood like he'd never seen it before." Signet shudders.
"Calm down, Mr. Graymore," says the advisor. "You're alright now."
"What of Blade?" Signet lets out a shaky breath. "He was shot."
"Yes." The advisor's tone is tight now, as if he's talking to a child. "The offence for an attempt on the President's life is death."
Signet blanches pale as a ghost. "He's dead?"
"Not dead. We've been keeping him stable—he is legally obligated to a trial, though that can be overruled by the President's verdict."
"My verdict is to spare him." Signet's voice is so clear, so firm. His eyes hold no remaining dregs of the drug that kept him sedated, thanks to the Capitol's advancing medical industry.
Ava wonders how he can have such conviction. If somebody tried to kill her—or Stelle, for that matter—she'd hunt them down herself.
"With all due respect, Mr. Graymore, I don't think—"
Signet shakes his head vigorously. "Spare his life. He's a Victor. We promised that one would emerge alive, and that we would keep them safe. Besides, he didn't kill me—I'm telling you, he wasn't thinking straight. He looked remorseful afterward."
"It doesn't matter how he looked, Mr. Graymore." The first hints of frustration are creeping into the advisor's voice. "That was doubtless an act to endear him to you."
Signet's hands are shaking where they're folded over his blankets, and his eyes show an unseemly amount of vulnerability. He takes a breath, before collecting himself.
Ava wishes he wouldn't show such weakness in front of his council. The Capitol is full of vipers, and Ava knows that better than anyone.
She fears she's finally become one of them, well and truly.
Signet's face hardens, his eyes freezing over. "Sparing Mr. Cassidy's life is not simply about sentiment. It is about the facts. He attempted assassination, but did not succeed. This would also be the best move for publicity's sake. My station is such that I can overrule all of you, and I'm choosing to do so now."
Ava's never heard him speak so formally. These past weeks truly have changed him, from the awkward and gawky little boy she'd once known, to a man that seems almost as mature and eloquent as Ava.
Though Ava supposes that's not a high standard. She's often called childish, among other more vulgar things.
"Even if you went through with this frankly ludicrous idea, how could we possibly cover this up?"
"Simple," Signet says, with his usual innocence. "We simply do not telivize the Crowning. Wipe it from the files and claim that Mr. Cassidy's wound is from the Games. As for mine... perhaps I'll claim that I'm finally taking that mourning period for my father's death. It will give me an excuse to stay out of the public eye until I heal."
Ava winces. Assuming he heals. Assuming Blade lives.
It's all a mess of unknowns, but the treacherous balance is shifting.
"Mr. President." Ava's pretentious assistant steps forward. "You do understand how ignorant you sound? Not only would we be showing mercy to a boy who ardently despises the Capitol, but you'd also be inviting him into our circle."
Signet nods, his eyes impressively calm. "My thoughts exactly. He would be invited to Mentor in future Games. Nobody would have to know."
"But the footage of Blade speaking against the Capitol in the Arena can never be taken back. This frames you as weak, Mr. President."
Ava makes a mental note to fire this girl later.
Out of mere boredom, and not at all because she hates the way the girl is talking to Signet, and she hates how reminiscent it is of herself and the way she's spoken to Signet.
Does she regret it? Never. But that doesn't mean other people can scorn him like she does.
The President's knuckles go white as he squeezes his hands into fists. "I don't care if this frames me as weak, or unfit, or whatever else you might say. If I am a President who breaks his word, then I don't deserve the position." He takes a breath. "Might I remind you that I televised the Games in the first place, and that has made us millions, and will continue to do so throughout the years. Think how much revenue a Victor could bring in. If we appealed him to the audiences, sent someone to... to correct his ideas about the Capitol, he could do wonders."
Ava does not miss how his voice is strained. Something about this pains him, and she can't quite pin down what.
"Who would you suggest, Mr. President?" The advisor's eyes are borderline lethal, and there's a cruel note to the way he says Signet's title—like it's a knife instead of a deference.
Signet closes his eyes for a moment. "Mirabelle McMaster. She is one of the Mentors, and I'm sure she would be happy for something to occupy her time."
"Mirabelle? What could you possibly—"
"End of discussion." For a single moment, Signet radiates a kind of power, and Ava finds herself in awe. She doesn't know if she feels afraid of Signet or proud of him. He turns his head to address the doctor. "Try to get Blade awake when he's ready and update me on his status."
The doctor nods. "Yes, sir."
Ava lets out a breath. She's never felt so empty; no Games has ever exhausted her quite like this. She knows one thing: she doesn't want anything to do with Blade Cassidy.
She can't bear to face the fact that all of that destruction was mostly her doing.
It never could have happened without her. And if she thinks about it any more, it will haunt her so deeply that she may never recover.
She might not, regardless.
She builds walls around that most raw place inside her, locking these past few weeks away, somewhere she'll never have to look at them.
And she doesn't think about next year.
Because she can't imagine making another Victor, shattered and reformed and all her fault. She does not want to play God ever again.
But she doesn't have a say in it.
So she walks out of that luxurious hospital wing and does not look back, does not think about the two broken boys who were supposed to die but lived, somehow, in spite of it all.
...
Pierre- Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812
Hi! It's been a hot minute! I'm very sorry about that; it's been a crazy few weeks, and will continue to be busy for sure. However, I finally have a chapter for you! This epilogue leaves our characters in very sad and uncertain positions, but worry not, we'll hear from Blade again in Prologue Three, along with others! As for Prologue Two, it'll be a kind of memoriam for all the Tributes, in the form of the letters they wrote before the Games! So hopefully that'll be fun (and miserable.) I do hope you enjoyed this chapter though, despite the sadness! Things might be a little confusing right now, but it'll all be cleared up soon. Anyway, we're almost done with this story which is so wild. I wanted to thank everyone for the outpouring of support and kindness last chapter; love you all! Hope you're having a good weekend!
Miri