The Furthest Star Chapter 1: antumbra, a hunger games fanfic

CW: underage drug/alcohol use, parental neglect.

The Furthest Star: The 124th Hunger Games.

For Nell, with love.

I. Antumbra

before shadow: the region from which the occluding body appears entirely within the disc of the light source.

Tonight, Oleg returns home with a Victor.

Pax and Mickey immediately run out of the door when they hear the car pull up outside. Sol looks up from the little plastic toy gifted to them by Glaïeul that they've been playing with—apparently an old world artefact called a Tamagotchi—and Franz does too, from where he was huddled over a comic book. The four of them, aided by Glaïeul and their daughter, have spent the entire day setting up decorations in the house for Oleg and Inigo's return to Nine. Banners reading Congrats on your Victory! and Happy 120th Games! are strewn up on the mantelpiece, two dozen balloons touching the high ceiling of the living room. Rom steps out of the kitchen and shakes Sol softly on the shoulder with a gentle look.

"Let's go welcome him to the family," it says, then heads off.

Franz heaves himself off the sofa and looks at Sol expectantly, smile wide on his face. "Shall we go?"

Sol places their Tamagotchi down on the coffee table, cluttered with plates of snacks, and nods, following Franz to the front door. They fiddle with their hands as the rabble gets louder. Sol's always been nervous about meeting new people, even if they're sure that Inigo won't hurt them. He should be better than that, they're sure. But they can never be too sure.

Guess they just need to wait and make the judgement call themself.

Sol, Rom and Franz stand in the doorway as Pax and Mickey cling off of both of Oleg's arms. Sol finally lets out the breath they didn't know they were holding when they see Oleg's face, the broad grin plastered on as he laughs and tries to shake the kids off.

Sol hasn't seen him this openly happy in years. This sort of joy is what he deserves.

"Welcome home!" Franz calls out to his uncle, waving from the porch. "Took your time. Glaïeul and Rom finished preparing dinner an hour ago."

Rom rolls her eyes.

"Sorry," Oleg says, a little breathless. His eyes dart between Franz, Sol and Inigo, before settling on Franz again. "Can't help but work on the Capitol's schedule."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Inigo says, a little nervously. He, just like Sol, is wringing out his hands. "I've, uh. Heard a lot about all of you… It's nice to finally meet you."

"Let's get you inside, shall we?" Oleg tries, grin now slightly lopsided. Pax and Mickey finally drop their death grip on their adoptive father's arms, allowing Oleg to put his hand on his Victor—his first Victor's—shoulder.

They all file back into the house, Sol quickly taking back their favourite seat and putting their Tamagotchi in their pocket. Daisy will have to wait a few more hours to be played with again. Because nothing in this house will ever be organised, the cousins run off somewhere, and Franz follows Oleg into the kitchen to speak with Glaïeul, leaving Sol and Rom as the only kids to help Inigo settle in. Sol catches Inigo's gaze, and the older boy holds out his hand.

"I'm sure you know by now, but. Inigo. You're Solan?"

Sol takes his hand and shakes it once, but Inigo tries for a second shake and cracks up. "Yeah. You can just call me Sol, though. If you want. Now that you'll be a part of the family."

Sol was the first, eight years ago. Well, it was technically Franz—but he's Oleg's nephew. A few years after Sol joined the family, they were joined by the cousins. It's been a while since a new member has joined their collection of misfits, but… Sol is sure that Inigo won't escape Oleg's accidental pattern of adopting wayward children. There's no escaping it.

Inigo seems thankful for the reception, at least, moving on to Rom.

"Glad you're here," it says politely. "We need more help wrangling the others."

"It's sure lively here," he laughs. "Where did the other two go?"

"Oh, the cousins? I think they wanted to set off some fireworks for your welcome home party… they're probably setting them up. Or something."

Inigo looks around, seeming to finally notice the decorations. Sol isn't sure what expression crosses his face. "Oh," he says, a little bashfully. "You guys really went all out."

"Pax and Mickey did most of the work," Sol replies. "But I let them sit on my shoulders when they put stuff on the walls."

"And I'm gonna have to get used to this?" Inigo laughs.

"Yeah," Sol says, a soft smile on their face. "I did."

Oleg sticks his head out through the kitchen doorway, offering Inigo a nod. Are you doing okay? Inigo replies with a thumbs up, and Oleg scans the rest of the room. "Dinner's in ten. Where did those scamps get off to?"

"We'll go find them," Rom replies, picking up a fistful of popcorn and shoving it in her mouth as she takes Sol's hand and pulls them off the couch. "You wanna come too, Inigo?"

"Sure thing," he says, sounding a little forced, and so they set off through the manor, Rom leading the way. This house is like a second home to her, and she strides through the halls with a confidence Sol still struggles to muster after living here for almost nine years.

The sun is beginning to set off on the horizon past their garden, sprawling with DIY play equipment, and right at the back are the cousins with their collection of fireworks.

"Hey!" Rom shouts, and they immediately turn around as if caught in the act. "Later! We're eating now."

"Fine!" Mickey, the older of the two, yells back. They meander back towards the house with their heads hung low.

"We were just really excited and wanted to blow things up," Pax says.

"You can blow things up after dinner," Rom chides. Sol just nods. When she's around, they don't need to take the initiative in wrangling the others like cats. Inigo simply looks awkward—they feel bad, and almost as if this was a little too much for his first night back in Nine. They don't think he has any family, so he might be just as overwhelmed as they are.

"Are you holding up alright?" they ask Inigo as the group settles down around the dining table.

"Yeah," Inigo says. "Your family is a lot, but not in a bad way, if you know what I mean? I just, um… I've never really had anything like this. It'll be good to get used to all of the, y'know—" he makes a gesture with his hands, "—chaos."

Sol eats in silence as their family talk about helping Inigo move into his own plot in the Victor's Village, supporting him in adjusting to his new post-Games life. They don't talk about the Games themselves, though. Oleg doesn't like to, and he never does after he comes back from the Capitol. As Sol glances at Inigo, they know that he's thankful; what he went through this last month was horrific, and scary, and he's braver than any of them for making it through with himself—his body, his mind—intact.

It's nice. On days like these, Sol almost feels like they belong here.

As soon as Pax has scraped off the last dribbles of gravy from his plate, they bounce up off their chair and announce, "We're going to set off the fireworks now!"

"Wait just a moment," Oleg says through a mouthful of food. "Sit back down. You need to learn patience."

"Fiiiine."

Not five minutes later, Oleg decides it's alright to head outside. Glaïeul accompanies the cousins in setting off the fireworks, and though Sol flinches at the sound, their colours are so beautiful that they hardly care. Franz points out his favourite patterns; Rom smiles softly; Glaïeul and the cousins laugh as they set off another firework; Inigo has a far-away look on his face, and Oleg has an arm around his shoulders, reassuring him that everything will be okay from now on. He's safe here.

Seeing how happy their family is makes everything worth it, and they push worries of unbelonging to the back of their mind.

"I think you need to talk about it, Sol," Franz tries as he takes another drag of the joint they're passing around.

Sol sighs and Romalie pours them another shot. They down it, though what burns isn't the alcohol but that they've gone behind Oleg's back to partake in his substances. Franz always says it's okay and that he wouldn't mind if he knew, but Sol isn't so sure. The liquor helps numb their mind, though. So they go along with the others.

"You need to get them more fucked up if they're gonna do that," Rom sighs as Franz passes it the joint. She should be more reasonable, but it's got her vices the same way as Sol does.

"I am here, you know," Sol slurs. Their head is starting to feel a little wobbly, smoke thick in the air. They usually hotbox the shed in their garden, but Franz said he didn't want any of their family interrupting them tonight. So they're off in the barn that occupies a field near the Victor's Village, using hay bales as pillows—it would be uncomfortable if they were sober, but thankfully they're not. It doesn't help that the old farmer who lives here doesn't like them trespassing on his land, and the thought that he might run them out if he hears them up here keeps them on edge.

"We know," Franz tries, taking a swig from a bottle of vodka. "It's just… you gotta open up at some point. You're keeping so much locked up in that head of yours. It can't be healthy."

So this is why they decided to get fucked up tonight. Sol furrows their brows, and Rom gives them the joint. The smoke fills their lungs, and tingles run down their spine. "I need another shot."

"On it, boss." And Rom fills their glass again.

There's no getting out of this, Sol figures. Might as well get as plastered as possible so they forget what they say come morning.

The three teenagers continue smoking and drinking for a few more minutes, until Sol leans over and puts their head in Romalie's lap. It pets their hair softly, and Franz looks at them expectantly.

They're not an idiot. They can tell when he wants them to start talking.

"I know it's been years," Sol begins with a sniff, "and I try to pretend that I don't remember my birth parents. But it's hard. I still see them around every now and again… in town, with their new kid. I can't tell if they're pretending too, if they… think about me, or if they actually forgot that I was theirs, once. It just… makes me wonder what I did wrong."

Franz and Rom listen silently. Sol almost immediately regrets what they said. They really do pretend that they don't see their parents, eyes locked in the market square or the bakery where their ex-mother works. They seem to have a decent life now that they're gone. Their child seems happy. She looks about eleven or twelve; their mother must have been pregnant when they gave Solan up. It stings that she kept her, and that she seems to be loved. They've seen her once or twice, and she looks at them with no ounce of recognition in her eyes.

(Does she even know they're her sibling?)

Sol takes another drag of the joint and then puts it out. Everything feels hazy. Usually they enjoy this feeling, but right now the only thing they're feeling is paranoia, expectant eyes trained only on them.

Finally, Franz opens his mouth. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"That your birth parents are awful people, Sol. They abandoned you at the drop of a hat and then immediately had another kid? That's like… fucking horrible."

Sol freezes up, Rom's hands in their hair immediately repulsive. They sit up, swaying as they shake their head a few times. "No, no, they just… it's not like that. I'm sure they had their reasons. Mom was…"

"A bitch? Abusive?"

"No," they refute. "Don't put words in my mouth, Franz."

"But it's true, right?"

Sol feels unwelcome nausea roil in their stomach. "No," they say, a little quieter, trying to keep their emotions under control. "It was over a decade ago, so I don't remember much, but… they never hit me, or yelled at me, or anything like that. They were just… struggling."

"That's a low bar," Rom comments.

"But they had another kid immediately after we took you in. If they were struggling so much, why didn't they give her up, too?" Franz pushes.

They hate this. They don't want to be having this conversation. Why did Franz bring this up, again?

"I don't know."

"I think what Franz is trying to say is that regardless of what your parents were going through, there's no excuse for how they mistreated you. And it's clearly still bothering you, so we need to do something about it."

"We don't. It's fine. I'm happy here, okay?"

"And I'm glad you are," Franz says, "but your parents still did something unforgivable. I thought so back then, and I still think so now. They gave you up so easily—you were what, four, five? What parent meets someone and then immediately asks that someone to keep their kid?"

"Franz, stop."

"Sol. I'm not going to stop until you understand that you didn't do anything wrong, and—"

"I don't want to hear it!"

It feels like the hayloft is spinning but everything is so quiet. Their eyes—Rom and Franz's, but they feel like it's more—are trained on them.

Sol wants to curl up in a ball. Why did they agree to this? Nothing good ever comes of bringing up the past. They and Franz have never argued like this. They didn't know they had it in him.

It's scary.

"Franz," Rom says softly. "That's enough."

Before he can open his mouth again, a shout comes from beneath them. The kids scramble to pick up their bottles and rush down the ladder and stumble out of the barn, the old farmer continuing to yell with his pitchfork raised. Once they're out of earshot, Sol leans over and retches.

Rom pats them on the back, but Franz keeps his distance. Sol hates arguing with them, they really do. But they know that they were the problem. Why else would their parents keep their second child but not them?

And though Franz tells them he's sorry and he loves them when they go into their separate bedrooms, Sol isn't quite sure they believe him.

There is something about Solan Gardener that is inherently unlovable. Of that, they are almost certain.

It's day one when Sol begins worrying about Oleg. He leaves on a business trip, or so he says, on May 14th. He'll be home soon, he promises. Sol isn't convinced.

By day seven, Franz worries too. As far as the kids know, Oleg doesn't even work—why would a Victor have to? The only business he's in is trading weed for old-world antiques with Glaïeul. He's here too, minding them all. She always does when Oleg is away for the Games, but this isn't that.

On day thirteen, Sol finds Pax and Mickey rooting around in the drawers of Oleg's desk. They tell them to cut it out; Oleg hates it when any of them look through his things, especially in his office. Sol rarely even dares to step foot in here in fear that they'd see something better kept hidden. There has to be a reason for Oleg's secrecy, after all.

(Regardless, they do take a look around whilst they're there. A vent leads directly outside to the garden.)

Day twenty sees the cousins worrying too. Oleg hasn't been away this long with no contact… ever, Sol reckons. They find themself pacing nervously around the house more often than not. Glaïeul tries to keep them all entertained, but even she seems to be nervous about their old friend. The mystical merchant Sol and the kids saw as infallible, worried?

It isn't promising.

On day twenty-eight Inigo has exhausted his list of Victors to call. Either they didn't know where Oleg was, or they didn't pick up. He doesn't know what else to do, and neither do any of them.

Oleg finally returns on day thirty-three, a harrowed look on his face. He rushes through the front door, hair a grease-slicked mess and beard unshaven. "Franz," he says, panic in his tone, "I need to speak to you. Alone."

Oleg and Glaïeul share a meaningful glance, one that is not lost on Sol. When she isn't looking, they leave the room and into the garden. Two conflicting thoughts occupy their mind—one telling them to stay inside and mind their business, the other that they should go to the vent. It's high on the outside wall, but Sol climbs on top of a deck chair and gets on their tip-toes, peering inside. They're almost surprised at how clearly they can hear the voices from the other side.

"I'm sorry," says Oleg. Sol thinks he might be crying, but they're not sure. They already knew something was wrong, but it might be worse than they thought. "I've been in District Eight."

"Uncle, you're scaring me. What the fuck happened?"

Sol's thoughts mirror Franz's. Why Eight? Why so long with no contact?

"We were—we, meaning our group of Victors—we were working on some stuff. Anti-Capitol stuff. Planning to act during the Quell, but if we organised any sooner than that we worried that the Capitol would be onto us. It doesn't matter, though."

"Oleg," Franz pleads. "You need to rewind a second. You're with the rebels?"

There's a moment's pause, and Sol looks around to make sure nobody's watching them. Nausea not dissimilar to how they feel when they're hungover washes over them.

"It all started years ago. When you were little. Your parents… I know you don't remember them very well, but they were heavily involved in the plans for anti-Capitol action, about fifteen years ago. I joined them. It was stupid. Most of the others were avoxed when the Capitol found out. But your parents… the Capitol saw fit to kill them to punish me. To try and deter me from acting again. It's what they do—they try to scare us into laying down our arms. I'm sorry, Franz, I'm so sorry."

Franz doesn't reply. Sol almost wishes they could see what he was thinking. All this time, they were under the assumption that Franz's parents had died in a freak accident… not that they were…

executed?

assassinated?

did the capitol shoot them or behead them or electrocute them or

"They were heroes, Franz. I was stupid. I didn't let the warning stop me. It did for a few years, but new Victors have been crowned that wish to see the Capitol fall for how it treats us. They wanted me to be a part of it. I couldn't say no. I had to make Efraim and Abella's deaths mean something."

"You think they're going to kill me?"

they can't. they can't do this to sol's family, the only one they have left, the only life they have—

"They've killed more people since your parents. Other Victors' families. The easiest way for them to punish those of us with reaping-age family is to rig them into the Games."

there's fear and panic in franz's voice. "You're kidding. Uncle, you're going to tell me this is a bad joke in a minute, right?"

"I'm sorry, Franz. I'm so sorry."

"But they might not, right?"

"We weren't as thorough with disarming the listening and watching devices as we thought. Our trackers… they're still in our arms. When we found out, we had to disband. I don't know why it took so long to figure it out, but… the Capitol most likely knows the identities of everyone who was there."

this is scary. truly scary. not like the horror movies mickey sometimes makes everyone watch or the firecrackers that make them jump and put their fingers in their ears—

it's more like the tornado that swept through nine when they were four, blowing off the roof and leaving them huddled sobbing under their bed without their mother to cling to for comfort.

"They've done it before," Oleg continues. "Rigged reaping-aged relatives of Victors who misbehave. I would just… prepare for the worst. Please don't let the others know. We can start meeting privately here to get ready for it."

It's enough. It's too much.

Sol almost collapses when they try to step down off the chair. Their fingertips are white where they pressed them too hard into the cold metal of the vent.

They cover their mouth with their hand to stifle their sobs. When did they start crying…?

It doesn't matter, anyhow. Sol manages to quickly do the arithmetic.

They have eighteen days until the reaping. It's not enough time to prepare. It just isn't.

(Even so. Even so, Sol thinks, they can't do this to Franz.

Franz, so loved by his uncle that he alone is warned of impending doom. Franz, who sticks up for Sol regardless of who it's against, even if it upsets them. They know he does it with their best interest in mind. Franz, who only ever stands for justice.

They can't do this to him.

… Better me than Franz.)

File 1: Intercepted email exchange, June 24th, 124 A.D.D.

RE: 124 Reaping

June 24th, 17:09 PM

From: Fabio Seymour [ fseymour(a)panem. gov ]

To: Ramona de Mevius [ rdmevius(a)games. gov ]

Ramona,

I'm of the opinion that the rigging should go ahead as planned. I often think that the bombastic displays of retribution work best; last time we punished Mr. Bauer clearly was not enough to deter him from his rebellious ways. He clearly hasn't changed his tune. There were a number of other Victors along with him: Sempiternum and Seok from Two, unfortunately, cannot be trusted, but we cannot exercise rigging in "career" districts, unfortunately. I believe all of Eight's Victors are involved, but they have already been punished to the current possible extent. Some from Five and Six, too: Samson Asterisk has a younger sibling, does he not? I believe next year, if your Quell allows for it, it may be wise to dispose of him as well. It would be too obvious to have two relatives of Victors in this year's Games, I think.

It disappoints me that we must go behind the President's back like this, but she clearly will not act in the country's best interest in these uncertain times. She is old, and I do not trust her judgement when it comes to the matter of rebellion.

If you have any further suggestions, do let me know. I look forward to our continued cooperation.

Fabio Seymour

Minister of District Affairs

RE: RE: 124 Reaping

June 24th, 18:43PM

From: Ramona de Mevius [ rdmevius(a)games. gov ]

To: Fabio Seymour [ fseymour(a)panem. gov ]

Dear Fabio,

Agreed. I'll have it so that Oleg Bauer's nephew is drawn from the bowl. Samson's sibling will be as well. It should be a decent enough message to any of the other belligerent Victors that we'll happily do the same to any of their families.

Speaking of that—I believe I can tell you what next year's Quell is, actually. Or at least, what I have planned. I would love to meet with you during this year's festivities to discuss them with you—I don't believe it would be wise to tell you over email. Hope you understand.

Sincerely,

Ramona de Mevius

Head Gamemaker

July 4th is never a cheery day. Every year, two of Nine's children are shipped off to their deaths, and the Bauer children must say goodbye to their guardian for upwards of a month. Oleg has missed every one of Pax's birthdays. Sol never watches the Games; they are often far too scary, too much viscera and suspense. It makes their heart rate soar. Four years ago, when Inigo was in the arena, they relied on their siblings to tell them how he did. They saw the Capitol crew interview Inigo's foreman out in the fields, which is when they seriously thought they might have a hope of bringing him or his district partner—Harriet, her name was Harriet—home.

Sol remembers this as they get out of bed and put on their favourite shirt, tie up their nicest shoes. They've been thinking about what to bring, but all of their ideas seem trivial. Their old Tamagotchi will stay in their bedside drawers. Daisy doesn't deserve to see the horrors of the Games.

(But do I deserve it? they think to themself.

More than Franz does, they conclude.)

There's the possibility that Franz's name might not even be read out. Still, Oleg's warning has Franz noticeably on edge. It makes Sol's heart hurt to see their brother like this, trying to keep up a brave face whilst internally Sol is sure that his mind is racing. These last eighteen days Franz has hardly acted like themself, and their other siblings have tried and failed to break through and get him to spill what's bothering him so much.

Inigo is waiting outside. He offers Oleg a forced smile—really, more of a tightly-pursed line—and gives him a quick hug, a pat on the back. He says he'll drive. Oleg folds easily. Just before they pile into the truck to drive to the capital, Sol squeezes Franz's hand and smiles softly at them.

"It'll be okay," Sol says. Franz stares at them for a moment before breaking eye contact, then nods.

He doesn't know that Sol knows. It's better that way. Sol won't have to argue with him about it.

The drive takes thirty painfully slow minutes. Almost nobody is here when they arrive, and so the Bauer children sign in and sit in their age brackets. Sol, Franz, and Mickey are in the seventeens; Mickey waves to Rom as she arrives and walks past them to the eighteens section. Sol does not dare to glance behind them in fear of seeing their birth-sister; though it's unlikely enough with how many thousands of children pile into the square, the possibility is always there in the back of their mind. She's reaping age, now.

They take a steeling breath. In and out. Franz reaches over and takes hold of their hand, again. When Sol looks at their face, his eyes are watery.

Every moment they have to wait is torture.

(Franz doesn't even know that they're experiencing it with him.)

It's a relief when Oleg and Inigo finally take their seats on stage, as Nine's only living Victors. The Mayor and his family are there too, and he takes his sweet time reading their history. They've all heard it too many times to count. The First Rebellion, the Dark Days, the birth of the Hunger Games, the Commonwealth Rebellion. In all one-hundred-and-twenty-four years of their history, District Nine has only taken home five Victors.

The odds are not in their favour, decidedly.

Once that's over, Cerelia Fairlight takes the podium. Oleg doesn't like to talk about Games season, so all Sol really knows about her is what they've seen coming from this stage. They suppose they'll get to know her pretty soon. Their grip on Franz's hand grows tighter.

They're shaking when Cerelia decides to reap the boys first. She pulls out a slip.

"I'm sorry," Sol whispers.

Franz's name rings out across the square.

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion. Franz swallows thickly, lets go of Sol's hand. They react immediately, but he's already pushing past the seventeens crowd to get to the aisle. Sol follows, heart hammering in their chest—the words are on their tongue, but they can't force them out.

Be brave, Sol, they tell themself. You have to do this.

"What are you doing?" Franz hisses, voice cracking ever so slightly. His cheeks are wet, his expression bewildered.

"I'm volunteering," Sol says.

Everyone around them is murmuring, and they can't stand it.

"You're what?"

Their escort remains quiet as everyone continues to watch. Sol supposes she doesn't want to interrupt, considering they're Oleg's children.

"I volunteer as tribute."

"No, no, Sol—"

But it's too late. Once someone says those words, it's always too late.

Sol begins the short walk to the stage. Franz doesn't follow—Mickey is holding him back. Sol can hear the sounds of their protest, but they don't look back until they stand up alongside their escort.

They haven't looked at Oleg or Inigo, either. They're sure they'd shatter if they did.

Sol's knees wobble as Cerelia holds the microphone in front of their mouth and asks their name. She might already know it; her furrowed brow tells them she likely does.

"Solan Gardener," they manage.

"That was very brave of you," Cerelia says softly. "That bravery will not go unnoticed."

By who?

By the Capitol? By Oleg? Franz? Nine as a whole?

… when was the last time someone from Nine volunteered?

They're thankful that Cerelia doesn't ask them to speak more. They're not sure they could. Looking at the sea of people, hearing Franz still crying for them to come back, Solan, you idiot! What are you doing? has their breathing ragged. It's frankly taking everything in them to stay standing.

Cerelia turns to the second bowl, and Sol can't look. Their eyes are shut so they can focus on staying conscious. There's a ruffle, a clink of the escorts rings on the glass, and then she clears her throat to read the name of the unfortunate soul that will join Sol in the Games.

"The female tribute who will represent District Nine in the hundred-and-twenty-fourth Hunger Games is… Brandy Gardener."

Everything stops.

… Can they breathe? Their chest feels tight. They open their eyes in shock, watching with a thousand-yard stare as she—Brandy, the sibling they've never met—steps out from near the very back of the crowd and walks to the stage. It feels like years. She has to walk so far.

So many seconds where nobody is volunteering for her.

They're not sure if their escort has realised they're related, not even by the time Brandy uneasily makes her way up onto the stage. Gardener is one of Nine's most common surnames; the grocers are Gardeners, Harriet from the 120th Games was a Gardener. But when Sol and Brandy stand side-by-side, the resemblance is uncanny. Though she is obviously much shorter than they are, her head reaching the centre of their chest, they have the same eyes. The same coily black hair and deep brown skin. The only thing Sol sees now that they're finally next to her that's unalike is the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She looks at them, horror in her eyes.

And Sol cannot bring themself to shake her hand when Cerelia asks.

As soon as their entourage is out of sight of the crowd, Sol collapses to their knees. They just hate that it's only the start of the ordeal.

I have to do it. I have to so that Franz doesn't have to.

Oleg joins Sol on the floor and hugs them tightly. He's weeping.

Maybe Sol cries, too. Wraps their arms around their father—mentor, they suppose, now. By the time Oleg lets go of them, Inigo, Brandy and Cerelia are gone. Sol is thankful.

They don't know what they expected Oleg's first words to be, but he says "Did you plan this?"

They hate how distraught he sounds. Sol scans the entrance lobby of the Justice Building, seeing befuddled Peacekeepers who seem to know better than to interfere.

Unable to bring themself to speak, they nod. Oleg buries his head in his hands.

"Let's get you to your goodbyes room," he says through gritted teeth. "We only have so much time."

He forces himself up, offering Sol his arms to steady them. They get to their feet, stumbling a little, and Oleg firmly grasps their hand all the way to the room.

Sol takes a seat on one of the chairs, taking slow and steady breaths. "I need to go. We'll speak on the train," Oleg says, standing with his hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry," is all Sol can say before Oleg leaves them.

For the first time since signing their death warrant, they are alone. Tears begin welling up again, but Sol does their best to choke them down. They can already feel the dull throb of a headache forming, and crying more will only make it worse.

They did it, at least. Franz is safe. They will take the blow meant for him, but the Capitol will get what they want, at least. Hopefully they won't bother with hurting the Bauers any more when they're gone.

(Because Solan isn't delusional enough to think they're actually making it out of here alive.)

It's then that the door flies open, their siblings rushing in and crowding around them. Pax is weeping loudly, wrapping its arms around Sol's neck and burying their head in their shoulder. Mickey follows soon after, joining them in the pile. And Franz…

He drags his feet. It's not so noticeable, but he looks almost betrayed. Their eyes are red, and he just… appears so vulnerable.

It's unnerving. He's never looked like that.

"You knew, didn't you?"

Pax unburies its head and looks towards Franz. Mickey looks equally confused.

Sol swallows thickly. "I did," they croak.

"How long?" Franz's voice wobbles slightly. Sol hates it.

"As long as you."

Franz sighs wearily, as if he's turning something over in his mind. They finally decide to drag a chair in front of Sol and sit, taking both of their hands in his.

"You're stupid," he starts, tears welling up again, "and you're too fucking selfless for your own good."

"I know."

"Please, Solan. Please don't do anything you'll regret."

They nod. "I don't regret doing this."

It seems to break him. Franz squeaks, tears falling freely from his eyes. They grip Sol's hands tighter than ever. It hurts, but Sol won't tell him to let go. "If you die, I'm going to kill you."

Sol laughs, and it's absurd. It's absurd that they're here, that this is real, that Franz can force themself to joke at a time like this.

"Seems I just can't win, then."

"No," Pax interrupts, still sobbing, "you have to, Sol! I'm… I'm sorry for all of the times I was mean to you. I never meant to make you feel bad and if that made you do this, I…"

"I'm sorry too," Mickey adds, "we love you, Sol. You need to try your best, okay?"

Tears well in Sol's eyes, but they remain stone-faced.

(They're not sure they believe it. Since when did Sol fit in with any of them? Since when were they wanted?)

(... they can't stand it.)

"Okay," they manage to sigh. Their gaze flicks back to Franz, his face still one of despair. "And I had to do this, Franz. I need you to understand."

"I still think you're an idiot."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

A Peacekeeper knocks on the door. Their time is almost up; Mickey and Pax give Sol one last tight squeeze, and Franz then leans in close to hold Sol, his mouth hovering just above their ear.

"I'll never forgive myself if you die out there. You need to be careful. Oleg was right, and… I'm just scared that you don't know what you're getting into."

Sol hugs him back, nodding against Franz's shoulder. "I don't know either," they whisper in return. "But I know that you don't deserve to be punished like this."

And that's it. The Peacekeeper opens the door just as Franz pulls away; and Sol hates the horrified look on their face. But it doesn't matter if Franz hates them for this, at the end of the day. In the years to come, he will hopefully understand. Sol just hopes that he won't turn that hatred back on himself. That isn't why they're doing this.

Sol's siblings leave the room, still crying. When the door shuts, they hear what could only be described as an agonised wail from the other side.

A few tears roll down their cheeks as they hunch over, head in their hands. They've already caused their family so much pain. It isn't like they expected Franz to thank them or anything, and at least they didn't have a screaming match like that night in the hayloft last year, but…

It's still painful. Franz deserves none of this. Not Sol as a sibling, not the Games as a destination…

But they do. It's okay.

(But why does this double standard only apply to them?)

They push the thought out of their mind as the door opens again—Romalie and Glaïeul come through the threshold, sweeping them up in an embrace. It's easier with them, for some reason; almost as if the weight of the label family is too much to bear with their siblings. Rom and Glaïeul don't carry that sort of baggage.

"You poor thing," Glaïeul sighs. Their usually serene disposition seems to have been thoroughly ruffled, and Sol feels a pang of guilt in their chest. "Your stupid father… he never learns, does he?"

Sol quirks an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"Of course I know. I've known Oleg longer than you've been alive." She sighs, sweeps a stray coil back from Sol's forehead. The look in their eyes… is almost like what Sol wishes their mother had looked at them with.

(They cannot start seeing Glaïeul as a mother. That would only ruin things further. They push the thought to the back of their mind.)

"I suppose that makes sense."

"I'm honestly just in shock," Rom says. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Aren't I just full of surprises today," Sol states. It's not a question.

Rom huffs out what Sol supposes could constitute a laugh. "I guess so. Sol, I know you think you're being brave with this, but Franz was reaped for a reason. We're in a lot of shit right now. Just… please, try not to make it worse. And before you try to argue, actually listen to me, okay?"

"Okay."

"You're taking on his role of government-ordained punishment. I assume you know this, right?"

"I do."

"I would love to say I hope you win. We both do. But…"

Glaïeul picks up where his daughter left off. "The Capitol is ruthless. Even if you live, like Oleg and Inigo, you'll likely be a prisoner. Oleg could never act for them. Inigo is better at it, but he's still troubled. I know you're a strong kid, but even many of the strongest Victors crumble with the weight that their survival places on their shoulders. I've seen it too many times… it's just something you need to keep in mind."

Sol thinks back to an easier, kinder time, where they didn't worry about their adoptive father's involvement in a network of rebel Victors or about their imminent death, where they and their siblings would theorise about Glaïeul's past—a retired Capitolite escort, a District One stray, a politician who faked their death—and again, they wonder about the truth of those possibilities, given what she's telling them now.

Any and all of them are true in this moment. They appreciate his honesty, the bluntness, the absence of tears. The last thing they want or need is pity right now.

After a few more words shared, the Peacekeeper arrives again. Glaïeul plants a soft kiss on Sol's forehead and Rom hugs them tightly one last time.

"Good luck, Sol," Glaïeul says with a wistful smile. "Play smart. We'll handle everything here."

"Thank you," they reply, and the pair are gone.

Sol almost feels good about their situation—well, perhaps good is an overstatement, more at peace, when a knock interrupts the temporary tranquillity that their mind has settled into.

It all shatters when two people they haven't spoken to in thirteen years enter the threshold.

Ex-mother is crying; the sodden piece of tissue she's holding up to her eyes is pitifully incapable of soaking up her constant stream of tears. Ex-father looks sick with rage and grief; Sol feels gooseflesh ripple up their arms at the sight.

They curl in on themself. Why are they here? They need to leave, they need to go away. Ex-mother and ex-father said goodbye to me years and years and years ago, they don't need to be here like Franz or Mickey or Pax or Glaïeul or Rom do.

"Leave," they say, their voice reflecting their fear more than they intended it to.

Ex-mother sobs loudly, ignoring Sol's attempt and collapsing at their feet. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm sorry."

"Leave," they try again.

"We had to visit one last time," ex-father says, his voice shaking. "We had to apologise."

"I don't want to hear it."

"If I'd never given you up," ex-mother blubbers, "then you'd never have volunteered."

They seize up. "What?"

"If you'd never known the Victor's boy—never saw him as your family, Solan… I'd still have you."

"You abandoned me!"

Sickness roils in their stomach, but they can't move, can't escape.

"I never wanted to," she says. "I wish I could have loved you the way a mother should. I wanted to give you the chance at a better life, and it was right there when the Victor—"

"Oleg."

"—when Oleg took a liking to you. And you seemed happy. I wanted to try being a better mother, so that one day I would be able to look you in the eyes."

What is she talking about? Sol shakes, unsure if it's with fear or disgust or anger, and turns their gaze to ex-father.

They hate how softly he's looking at them.

"We had you at a bad time. We were bad parents. We've been trying to be better, but…"

"Brandy." The name falls from Sol's mouth almost instinctively.

Ex-father sniffles. "Please, be there for her. Be the good brother we know you are. Please protect her."

Go away go away go away I don't want to think about her I can't think about her please, just LEAVE—

"Excuse me. The train's here."

Sol opens their eyes and Inigo is standing tall in the doorway. They let out a sigh of relief that they didn't even know they were holding and muster up the strength to get to their feet, walking straight past their ex-parents. If they say anything else, Sol blocks it out. All they know is that Inigo is wrapping an arm around their shoulders, leading them towards the back of the ground floor as a Peacekeeper enters the room, saying something to their ex-parents about leaving.

Inigo guides them to another room, shutting the door behind them. "I'm sorry about that. I wish they hadn't come to see you, Sol."

"… I wish that too."

"This is going to be hard. Oleg's a wreck. I really, really need you to put on your bravest face, okay?"

They nod. "I'll try."

"That's all I can reasonably ask," Inigo says with a sigh, carding a hand through his long curls. "C'mon, then. We have a long week ahead of us."

Even though they've heard stories of grandiose Capitolite opulence, Sol is still taken aback by the train's interior. Being Oleg's legal child didn't mean that they ever had the chance to travel outside of Nine, not that they really wanted to.

There's a lot of layers to what Sol wants. They want to sit down beneath the sunset with a warm cup of tea, to pet the ponies in the field just outside town, to see Franz safe and happy. To not be here. But want and obligation are two different beasts, and they cannot cohabitate in Sol's life. The fact that they're here is something they have to do.

Oleg sits in the dining carriage with a glass of whiskey. Sol can't say they blame him, nor that they envy the fact that he's got alcohol in his veins to get him through this. As soon as they stepped on the train, Inigo pulled Brandy into a separate room. Sol is thankful for it, because they need some time alone with the old man to explain themself and form a plan.

They take a seat opposite Oleg, who doesn't seem to have noticed them enter. He looks a decade older than he is, hunched over his glass with a pack of cigarettes to his side. When Oleg looks up at Sol, the guilt in his expression is almost painful.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks.

Sol blinks twice before swallowing roughly and nodding. "Sure."

Oleg reaches over to the bottle and pours the liquor into a glass. Sol takes it silently, taking a sip of the liquid comfort. It warms them, calms their jitters slightly.

"Smoke?" Oleg asks again, holding up the pack. Sol yet again agrees, and before long the two of them are simply sitting in silence, cigarettes to their lips.

"So," Sol starts, feeling much more clear, now, "are we going to just sit here drinking and smoking until we hit the Capitol?"

"I wish," Oleg sighs, "I'm just in shock. Forgive me."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for not telling you."

Oleg takes a long drag. "I should have figured. You're a smart cookie."

A soft smile paints Sol's lips. "I can't help but unearth terrible secrets, apparently."

"I know that now, god."

"I just… couldn't stand by and watch it happen. I suppose."

Oleg just takes another sip of his drink. "I've been trying to prepare Franz as best as I can. Did you overhear any of that, too?"

"Only a little," Sol admits. "I didn't think through anything like survival. I would just… rather be here than watching Franz die on television."

But Franz will have to watch you die on television, echoes in the back of their mind. Sol takes another drag of the cigarette.

Oleg hums, and he's still got this faraway look on his face. "When Pallas asks you about your volunteering during interviews, you need to place emphasis on that. Try not to reveal that you knew beforehand that you'd be going into the Games, okay? We don't need them to think I was trying to train you up for it."

"Of course," Sol says. "I wasn't going to. I just volunteered for my brother. Nothing more, nothing less."

There's a few more moments of silence, smoke swirling around in the air as District Nine's endless sprawl of fields passes them by outside. Sol leans back in their chair, and Oleg watches with them.

"We'll talk more about exactly what you're going to say on the day. For now, the more immediate issue is your district partner."

"Yeah. She's…"

"Your birth sister. I figured."

"Mhm."

"Do you want to get to know her? From what I've gathered so far, she… doesn't know you're her sibling."

It's something they almost expected, but it's still a punch to the gut. Of course their ex-parents didn't tell her. Why would they? They wanted to start a clean slate, leave them behind in the dust so they could have their perfect round two at parenthood. Telling Brandy about their existence might have threatened that.

"I don't know," they concede. "I'm not sure how I feel about her, to be honest. She seems nice, but…"

"There's baggage. I understand."

Sol sighs. "Her parents asked me to protect her. I… didn't sign up for that. I don't even know her. I don't know if I can."

"Your parents visited you?"

"It was horrible."

"I can imagine. I'm sorry, Sol."

"At least that's the last I'll see of them."

Oleg furrows his brows and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Alright. Yeah. Finish your smoke, and we'll go meet up with the others. I think it'd be wise to watch the recaps, too."

"Okay. Sounds good."

With a fatherly pat of the shoulder and a sad smile, Oleg leaves the carriage. There's a faint buzz throughout Sol's body, and the jitters from earlier in the day are all but gone. They put out their cigarette and down the rest of their drink, finding the bathroom in the next carriage over to wash their hands and splash cold water on their face. After hyping themself up a little, they make their way over to the main carriage where their escort, Cerelia, is already working on their paperwork.

She smiles as they take a seat and wave at her. "Good to see you, Solan. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," they say, taking a seat opposite her. Considering the sorts of Capitolites they see sometimes on TV, she's rather plain; fair white skin matching hair the colour of bleached flour, long and tied together in bunches down her back.

"Glad to hear it," she replies. "The others should be out soon. Do you mind if I take some of your details?"

They acquiesce, and answer her questions. She says they need to take all of the personal details of tributes for Capitol records, from date of birth to basic personal history. The alcohol has loosened their tongue, and they manage to tell her what she needs to know with little issue.

"I'll also add a note about your pronouns," Cerelia says. "I'm sure there won't be any issues. Every few years there's a nonbinary kid or two."

Sol does remember that last year, the Victor from District Two used pronouns they'd never heard before. If ze wasn't so scary, they'd probably ask if ze got them from a wizard like they did.

Before long, the far door of the carriage is opening. Oleg, Inigo, and Brandy step out, and Sol chews at the inside of their cheek at the sight of her—their sister, who they have only ever seen from afar—but she smiles politely at them and offers her hand when she sits to their side.

"It's nice to meet you," she says softly. They shake her hand, much smaller than their own, and smile back.

"You too," they return, unsure if she's been made aware of their relation yet.

Brandy takes back her hand, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. "I didn't know I had a sibling until today, so… sorry if I'm a little awkward."

Well, there it is. "That's okay," Sol replies with a broad grin. They can't help but smile when they get defensive. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time. It just, um. Sucks that it's here, of all places."

"Yeah," Brandy sighs.

There's clearly a lot more that she wants to say that she's holding back. Sol doesn't like being a hypocrite, so they don't press her for more. Their mentors and escort have gotten themselves comfortable, Cerelia finishing off her paperwork and disappearing into a different room for a minute—she returns just as Inigo turns on the TV to the reaping recap.

As usual, the careers are terrifying. Each of the six volunteers seem so comfortable with their choice to put their lives on the line for Victory. Only one of them—the girl from Four—comes from the seventeens section. Oleg says that District Four is the only one of them to ever send seventeen-year-olds into the Games, since their training centre is small and most of their education is geared towards joining the Coast Guard. At least in District Two, whilst most trainees become Peacekeepers, almost all of the district's kids are enrolled in their multitude of academies and institutes, so they don't have much of a reason to send in volunteers before their final eligible year.

"What about District One?" Sol asks. "What do most of their kids do if they don't volunteer?"

"Arts," Cerelia replies. "One produces quite a lot of entertainment. Film stars and musicians and such. All of them, I can almost guarantee, attended the Arcadian Academy in their youths."

Sol supposes it makes sense, and they can't help but imagine Glaïeul, forty-odd years ago, training to kill people whilst practising theatre on the side. Maybe that's why she left?

District Five is where things begin to take a downwards turn. Oleg turns pale when one of the names called out is "Amir Asterix," a hand pressed firmly over his mouth.

"What's wrong?" Brandy asks. Inigo's eyes are wide open in shock.

"Asterix," he mutters, "Asterix won the year before me. Samson. That's his sibling."

Oh.

Oh, oh no.

Cerelia looks uncomfortable. Sol stares at her intently, sees a bead of sweat drip down her smooth forehead. Oleg stands up and leaves the room, apologising on the way out.

Oleg isn't the only one being punished. He can't be. This can't be a coincidence.

"This is bad," Inigo says as he stands up too, pacing back and forth as the reaping continues on the screen behind him. There's a look in Samson's eyes as he sits on the stage unable to do anything while Amir walks up that reminds Sol far too much of Franz. The look of someone mortified that it's too late and there's nothing to be done about their sibling going off to die.

(And unlike with Franz, nobody volunteers for Amir.)

"Do you think it was planned?" Sol asks, though they're not sure if they should. The woman who reaped Franz is right here; who knows how that went down? If she was paid to do it, or forced to by someone, or if Franz Bauer was simply the only name in that bowl?

She says nothing. Inigo stops pacing, places his hands on his hips, and looks carefully between her and Sol. "I wouldn't assume anything yet. But even if it's just a coincidence, this doesn't look good. All of the gossip is going to be about you two and your relations to Victors. The careers won't be happy that two outer district kids are the talk of the season, so you need to be even more cautious. Chances are, you'll be at the top of their list of targets."

Sol buries their hands in their afro. God, why didn't they expect it would be this hard? Brandy looks confused, but she doesn't say a word. She's really learning a lot today.

Oleg is back by the time District Eight starts. As soon as the girl is reaped, she simply stands there and refuses to walk up on stage. When the Peacekeepers come to drag her, she manages to punch one before going down.

"This year is already a mess," Oleg grunts, taking back his seat and pointing to the girl's bloodied nose and handcuffs. "You two need to stay out of all of this shit, okay?"

Sol hates to admit it, but she kind of reminds them of Romalie, all her spunk and anti-establishment attitude that Sol respects but can never bring themself to emulate. "Okay," they say.

Their own reaping is a travesty to rewatch. What seemed like hours standing on stage and wanting to puke was only a few short minutes. The commentators onscreen say that Sol did something unheard of—the last time an outlier volunteered was a decade ago, when the eventual Victor —District Ten's Lina Baron—ended up joining the career pack and coming out with seven kills.

The Capitolites wonder if Sol will be anything like Lina. One of them brings up the piping hot gossip that Sol had been adopted by Oleg, so despite their different surnames, it's also a selfless sacrifice for their brother.

Still, they seem focussed on the first point. They seem to think that Sol is capable of more violence than any other tribute outside of the careers. After all, by the time Twelve's reaping plays, it's obvious that they are the last of just seven volunteers. Who would volunteer if they weren't prepared to commit murder?

Sol knows they're wrong. They have to be.

There isn't any way Solan Gardener could bring themself to end the life of another human being. Having now seen the twenty-two other children they'll be asked to kill in a weeks' time, they know that's true.

File 2: Entry for July 4th, 124 A.D.D., Oleg Bauer's journal.

This is a disaster.

I should have known not to get involved again, because of course something like this would happen. I'm trying to stay strong in front of everyone - really, I have to - but it's already wearing on me. I heard Sol's sister crying just earlier, and I know this is going to be difficult for them. Both of them, but Sol isn't just my child anymore. They're my tribute. And that just makes all of this worse, because it's just. It's difficult to comprehend, honestly. I thought I had prepared enough to see one of my children enter the Games, but… nothing could prepare me for this. What do you even do when the person whose life you're partially responsible for is your own child? There isn't a guidebook for this. There isn't one for mentoring, either, but after forty years I finally thought I had a clue. But then I realised how many children I've failed, how I only managed to save one, and I'm more lost than ever.

No matter what happens, I can just tell that the Capitol will not be kind to us this year. I called Samson earlier, once we put the kids to bed, and he told me he feels the same way - but obviously, on these tapped phones, we couldn't discuss the full extent of the shit we're in now. But he's just as lost as to how to mentor his sibling. He told me that they aren't even willing to talk to him - I believe they're estranged - so at least I have more to go on than he does. Still, he isn't confident in his chances. He's young and hasn't brought anyone home yet, but we agreed to meet when we arrive in the Capitol with Gwen and the others to talk about this mess. It isn't even a coincidence, now - it feels more like a declaration of war. The future is more uncertain than ever. The life I thought I was comfortable in is crashing down around me. I can't think of any way this turns out alright - the other Victors may still think we have a chance to strike next year, but as it stands right now my life is as good as over. By the end of the month, I'll have either committed a grave offence of open rebellion in seeing Sol to the victory line, or they'll be gone and I'll be expected not to grieve too deeply else I put the rebellion in jeopardy. It's more than being between a rock and a hard place; it's like I'm sixteen again on the train to certain death. Of course, my life continued past that train ride, but in some ways, it doesn't feel like that. I wonder if Sol feels the same way.

It can't end like this. I won't allow it. There simply has to be another way.

Last night, Sol was almost tranquil. Oleg had let them drink some more, and it helped with their nerves as the sky turned pink and orange and then deep black. Inigo and Cerelia left them again; Inigo to mentor Brandy and catch her up to speed with their strange family dynamic, and Cerelia for her duties as escort. And so it was that Sol was given the plain golden ring Oleg always wore, though since it doesn't fit any of their slender fingers, Oleg also takes off the plain silver chain around his neck and loops the ring on, fashioning it into a necklace. Oleg said it was his token in his own Games, forty years ago, given to him by his long-dead father. A family heirloom that would give them some luck. Sol doesn't think they've ever seen Oleg take it off, and so they hold it tight, honoured by the gift.

They arrive in the Capitol early, where legions of people have camped out at the train station for the arrival of the tributes. Too sober to show confidence, Sol instead shields their face and rushes as quickly as possible through the sea of folks clamouring for an autograph or a photo with them.

The stylists seem happy enough with what they've been given this year; neither Sol nor Brandy are dirty, and their skin reflects a softness that comes with relative privilege. Their Head Stylist, Floriana, says that they'll make Sol look like the sun their namesake comes from; it would be simply unbefitting for their only outer district volunteer to look like any old dirty farmer.

That's why they're standing in front of their chariot with gold paint slathered through their afro to make it appear like a halo of light, wearing a shift detailed with beads in the pattern of wheat. They're not sure how to feel about it.

Brandy doesn't glitter as much; her dress is formed of layers of velvet wheat stalks, but the tips of her hair are gold to match theirs. It's a pretty outfit, all things considered, and they have to admit that she's an adorable kid. Maybe if they'd been raised together, this would be less awkward. As things stand now, Brandy just sits on the edge of the chariot with her knees up to her chest, staring off to the side, where the hangar opens up to the crowd of thousands of Capitolites. Their chattering is muted, but Sol knows that when the procession begins it'll be a roar that threatens to burst their eardrums. They wish they'd had a smoke to calm their nerves before this.

It's not long before other tributes begin milling about, forming groups and chatting with one another. Sol knows that they'll need allies if they're going to make it through training, let alone the Games, but they stay rooted to the spot with Brandy. More than anything, they're embarrassed—as District One walks past them, the pair whisper and point at them, giggling. It makes them sweat.

Thankfully, they don't have to move at all, because District Five's pair enter the hangar soon afterwards, and Amir Asterix stands before them, tapping them on the shoulder to gather their attention.

They jolt a little at the sudden touch, then plaster on their best smile. They're happy that the tribute from Five has started the conversation. It means they're probably as aware as Sol is about their joint situation.

"Solan, correct?" Amir asks, hand outstretched.

"You can just call me Sol," they reply, shaking Amir's hand. It's skinnier than theirs, gloved as part of a cobalt blue jumpsuit that they think is meant to emulate a solar panel. "They/them."

Amir's eyes light up, and Sol internally breathes a sigh of relief. "Amir, se/sym/syr. Don't worry about it if you call me they, though."

Sol nods, locking syr pronouns in their brain. They wonder where se came up with them. Maybe they'll ask sometime?

"I saw your reaping," Amir continues, "You volunteered for the son of that Victor."

Sol nods. "He's my adopted brother. I… just had to."

"Oh," se exhales, "okay, that's wild."

"Yeah?"

"It's just crazy that we're both here, if you catch my drift?"

"Your brother is a Victor," Sol says, and Amir's face scrunches up. "Both you and Franz being reaped wasn't coincidental."

"You think? And, um… half-brother."

Sol furrows their brows. "It isn't really safe to talk about here, with all these people around. If you want, we can maybe talk more after the Parade? My floor?"

"I gotchu," Amir says, "that's what I wanted to ask, anyway. Well, not that exactly, but if we could hang out during training tomorrow."

"I mean. I'd like that," Sol replies with a sheepish smile. They were wanted.

"Your, um. Sister…? Can come along as well, if she wants to," Amir adds, craning syr neck to look behind Sol at their chariot. Brandy looks up at the mention, nervously chewing at her lower lip.

Sol isn't even sure if they could ally with her if they wanted to. But it'd be rude to interrupt and make the choice for her, so they keep their mouth shut as Brandy nods with a quiet "If that's okay?" before curling in tighter on herself.

"That's settled then," Amir huffs with a smirk. "Good luck with the Parade, Nines. See you shortly!"

And then se's gone. Only a few moments later, a producer with a megaphone is telling the tributes that the Parade is about to start, and Sol gives their horsies a pet before climbing up onto the chariot and gripping the sides like their life depends on it.

In turn, Brandy clings to their side like her life depends on it. "I'm sorry," she says as Sol instinctively recoils. "I just don't think I'd be able to stand up otherwise."

Sol takes a deep breath and attempts to work the tension out of their shoulders a little bit. "It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Sol tries, wrapping an arm around her's so they're linked together. They have to try. They're not cold enough to deny her some ounce of comfort, even if they themself aren't so comfortable giving it.

They've already sacrificed so much to be here, made themself the sacrifice for their family. What's another compromise on top of that?

And so they enter a scary new world holding a near-stranger's hand. Maybe they needed it as much as she did, too.

After the Parade was finally over, Sol and Brandy—arms still interlinked—met back up with their stylists, who gave them obviously forced congratulations before leaving them on the landing of the ninth floor. Sol had done their best to smile and wave at the crowd, because if they didn't, they probably would have cried instead; Brandy, on the other hand, had looked like a deer in the headlights, inadvertently dragging Sol down with her.

They can't hold it against her, though. She's only little. Brandy hasn't done anything wrong.

Oleg offers Sol a pat on the back when they enter the apartment.

They smile up at him, then sigh. "I'll be back soon. I need to get this gunk out of my hair."

But even when they scrub and scrub and scrub in the steaming hot shower, they can't seem to get the gold paste out. They let out a soft sob of frustration—they don't want to look like this, changed by the Capitol. It's a little change in the grand scheme of things, really, so they're not sure why it's bothering them so much.

(When you die, you want to look like yourself. They've already started changing you.)

Eventually, Sol pulls themself together enough to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, but when they step out to the main room of the apartment, Amir Asterix is already sitting on one of the sofas. The blue makeup caked on syr face for the Parade is still there; the only thing se appears to have changed is syr clothes. Se waves at them, grin on syr face.

"Sol! I was starting to worry."

Sitting at Amir's side is Inigo, who wears a sheepish grin. Sol scans the room again, noticing something missing. "Where's Oleg?"

"I think he's speaking with Samson and some of the other mentors," Inigo replies, "Sit down, Sol."

They do as he asks, shuffling over to the couch opposite him and the tribute from Five. Amir's back is straight, poised a lot better than Sol's slouchiness. Though se was smiling almost whimsically before, it seems se's put on a straighter face now that Sol's here.

"Is Brandy okay?" they ask, because they feel like they have to.

"She's in her room. I don't think she wants to speak to any of us right now—not that I can really blame her." Inigo replies solemnly. Sol nods.

"So," Amir begins, "it seems Samson's kept even more secrets from me than I thought he was capable of."

"You didn't know he was involved?" Sol asks.

"No," se sighs. "I mean, everyone knows that Five's got a lot of rebel activity. I just… never thought it would be so close to home."

"I get you completely. Um… I didn't know what Oleg was doing until about three weeks ago."

"At least you had some time to prepare."

"Not a lot. And I didn't tell Oleg I was going to volunteer, so… I haven't had any actual training, just. Time to mentally prepare."

"Still. It's better than most of us get."

"I suppose so."

"It's just… scary," Amir says, leaning back with syr hands folded in syr lap. "I saw what Sam went through, and never thought the same would happen to me. I almost thought it was part of the unspoken contract that once you win, you're set for life. I assumed we'd be protected. Yesterday… I had a really bad time finding out that I was wrong."

"It's a horrible feeling," Sol agrees. They don't feel particularly inclined to overshare.

Inigo looks between the two of them. "I think we need to figure out what we're going to do about this. Because the two of you being here is a clear message—that the Capitol is unhappy with Victors, and trying to kill you is a threat. Realistically, if either of you wins the Games, or if you show solidarity, or make a call to action on-screen… that's something they'll probably try to stop."

"So should we ally publicly or not?" Amir asks. There's a sense of confidence in syr tone that Sol envies—and they feel their cheeks heat, too, at the immediate assumption that they were already allies.

"That's where I'm unsure," Inigo ponders. "Whether being targeted would be easier to deal with together or not."

Sol begins sweating at the prospect of deliberate targeting. By the careers, by the Gamemakers…

"I don't know if I could deal with it alone," they say, then pause, scanning between Amir and Inigo. "It's all just… a lot."

"That's alright," Inigo sighs, patting Sol's back. "You too, Amir?"

"I think it's safer to stick together. At least for training."

And so it was settled—after turning down the offer of tea, Amir said syr goodbyes to the Nines, wishing Brandy well, and returned to syr own floor for the evening. Oleg only came back when Sol had already turned in for the night, laying in a state of semi-consciousness in bed. Too exhausted to understand what was being said between their mentors, Sol simply let themself rest, thoughts of at least one person might have my back lulling them to dreamless sleep.

"Don't go overboard today," Oleg tells Sol and Brandy as they stand in the foyer waiting for the elevator. "Keep your skills close to your chest. Don't antagonise the careers, even if they come up to you and try to rile you up. I know you won't, but just in case."

"Alright," Sol replies, and the elevator dings, doors sliding open. "Thank you."

"Do your best down there. I know you will."

Inside the lift is the pair from District Twelve—scrawnier than either Nines, they cower at the sight of Sol. The girl with empty eyes simply scuttles back, pressed against the wall. She doesn't take her gaze off them as they press the button for the basement.

They're scared of them. For a moment Sol wonders why before remembering the reaping recap—the way volunteers are perceived. It makes them cringe.

Brandy doesn't seem to want to start a conversation, and so they have to wait a few agonising minutes in silence. When the doors open at the ground floor, Sol lets out a breath of relief.

Many of the other tributes are already congregated—the six careers, a few pairs in matching coloured tracksuits, and a number of loners. Amir sits away from syr district partner, perking up when Sol and Brandy walk over. There's dark circles under syr eyes, but the smile on syr face seems genuine.

"Sleep alright?" se asks.

"Surprisingly better than before the reaping," Sol says. "No dreams."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Brandy doesn't say anything. Sol is starting to worry about her, but the thing is, they don't know what to do about it. What could they even tell her?

So they don't say anything to her, just glancing her way. Before long, all twenty-four tributes are gathered together and the Head Trainer has stepped out, telling them the rules for the next three days. It's a lot to take in, especially with so many eyes trained on Sol from across the crowd of teenagers. Was their volunteering really so abnormal?

Later that day, sitting with Amir at the knots & traps station, they figure it was. Two of the careers—the girl from One and the boy from Two— sashay over. The girl's got a mischievous glint in her eye and a soft smirk crosses her lips, whereas her much taller and bulkier companion furrows his brows in a clear attempt at intimidation.

"Do you need some help?" Amir asks, fake innocence lacing syr tone. Sol wants to tell sym to cut it out, but they just shoot sym a glance. "I can teach you how to tie a bowline."

The One girl giggles—she seems to think it's genuinely hilarious. "Cute. We're not here for you, Five."

Sol bites at the inside of their cheek. "I can't imagine what you'd want with me," they mumble. "Trainees don't own the concept of volunteering."

"Don't play dumb, Nine. It was clear from your reaping that it wasn't a spur of the moment decision," the Two boy spits.

By now, they can feel their ears heating up. "I don't know what you want me to tell you. My adopted brother was reaped. I just wanted to save him."

"Ugh," the One girl groans. "I hate sentimental idiots like you. Do us a favour and die in the bloodbath so we can have your screen time, please."

"That's a bit on the nose, isn't it?" Amir huffs. "Can't think of anything more scalding?"

Sol thinks they see a vein bulge in the Two boy's forehead. "Beatrice, these cannon fodder aren't worth our time. Come on."

"Shut up, Mordred. I can tell you two are hiding something. So your dad really is a Victor, Nine? And we already know you're one-nineteen's sibling, Five. These Games get more suspicious by the second, and I don't like it."

"It's not my fault I was reaped," Amir deflects. Se looks pissed, now.

"You take responsibility for your family's mistakes. And that means, I believe, someone up top wants you dead, don't you think?"

"C'mon, Sol," Amir says, standing up and offering Sol syr hand. "Let's go to the plant ID station, okay?"

"I don't think so," Beatrice interjects, taking a step forward. "You two threaten my perfect Games—two scrawny, cowardly, weak, outer district fucking rats—"

"Cut it out."

Beatrice spins, and Sol looks up to see the girl from Eight standing behind them, hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

"Another one," Beatrice laughs. "Fuck off, Eight, or I'll move you up on my list of targets."

Up close, she really does look like Rom. Same light brown skin, fire in her eyes, stature that must be a good few inches taller than Sol. They're relieved that she's shown up, even if they can't remember her name.

"Do you want to do this the hard way?" Eight asks, standing her ground.

"Do you want your shit kicked in?" Mordred retorts. "If the trainers see you throw a punch, they'll probably detonate your mines during the countdown. You're already on thin ice after your reaping, Eight."

"It isn't the countdown right now, so that doesn't matter. Fuck off. You can wait a few days to sate your bloodlust, surely?"

Beatrice rolls her eyes, and Sol silently prays for their standoff to end. Too many people in the room have stopped what they were doing to stare. Thankfully, not a moment later, one of the other careers calls her and Mordred over, telling them to "stop fucking with them! The Gamemakers are looking at us funny."

"Fine. Watch your fucking backs," Beatrice spits as she and Mordred leave to join their allies across the training room.

Sol finally takes Amir's hand and allows sym to pull them up. Eight stares daggers at the two careers as they leave earshot before turning to the pair. "Sorry you had to deal with those freaks," she says. "Dunno why they can't just mind their own fuckin' business."

"Thank you for stepping in," Sol says with a smile, and they mean it. "I was getting a little scared, to be honest."

"I don't blame you. Marion, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Marion. Sol. They/them."

"Oh, sick," Marion says. "She or it for me."

"One of my friends back home uses those pronouns," Sol replies. "You, um… you remind me of it."

"And I'm Amir," se adds, holding out a hand for Marion to shake. "My pronouns are a bit goofy. Se/sym/syr. It's a pleasure."

"I love that we're having this conversation," Marion sighs with a shaky laugh. "Holy fuck, like, everyone on my floor is so bitchy telling me not to be myself because it pisses people off. You guys are for sure more my speed."

Sol remembers with some unease that Oleg was in District Eight last month. If Marion's mentors were involved in the meetings, then maybe they can see why they told her to stay on the downlow. Still, they can also understand why she's irritated, given that she likely doesn't know what's going on behind the scenes.

"Wanna train with us for the rest of the day?" Amir asks.

"Thought you'd never ask, my dear," Marion laughs before stopping itself. "If it's okay to call you that."

"Sure, whatever," Amir says, grinning. "So, what station do you actually wanna go to next?"

"I don't really care. Wherever's furthest from those bootlicking nutcases."

Sol looks around the training centre, seeing that most of the other tributes have gone back to their own stations instead of gawking at them. Beatrice is arguing with the Two girl, whilst Mordred has gone off to spar with the boy from Four. On the opposite side of the room, Brandy sits with the little girl from Ten at the fire starting station. Earlier she asked if she could go off on her own, and Sol had no desire to stop her, even if they feel some amount of guilt eating away at them for it.

Marion taps on their shoulder. "Hey, Sol. You're staring."

They jolt a little. "Please don't do that," they ask, feeling a little pathetic about it.

"Oh, shit. Sorry. I won't do it again."

"... thank you. Just, um… my district partner. I'm glad she's found a friend."

Sister feels wrong. Amir had seemed a little sad that she didn't want to train with them after all, but when Sol told sym that they'd never really known each other, se seemed to understand.

"I see," Marion says. "So no interrupting them at the fire station. What about plants? I don't know shit about them."

"I don't either," says Amir. "Nothing green lives in District Five."

"You can say that again," Marion laughs, and they set off. Sol tags along behind Amir and Marion, but at the station they have a lot more to say—they've picked up a lot living in one of the rural districts, and things they've taken for granted like not eating wild mushrooms come as a surprise to the urban pair. It feels nice to offer something useful to them, to feel like they're contributing to this burgeoning alliance. They need to earn their place, after all.

(You didn't really earn your family back in Nine, did you? Now you're forming a new one, and you hope to do better with them. Right? Or will you still fail to fit in yet again?)

They push those thoughts to the back of their mind. For now, they'll try to just enjoy the company.

"You look like you're having fun," Sol tells Brandy at the dinner table. She perks up, swallowing her mouthful before clearing her throat.

"Um. Yeah. Her name's Joey, and she's really nice. Knows a lot."

"I'm glad."

And it's true—they really are happy for her. They'd feel horrific if she was left wandering the training centre alone, Sol unable to bring themself to look after her.

(The work's been loaded onto someone else, now. You don't have to be her sibling. Whatever Joey's doing is definitely better than anything you could do.)

She just nods and returns to her food. Never mind. There's no use beating themself up about this when there's nothing they can do to help. They're sure she doesn't even want it.

And that's fine with them. They'll cope. And as always, they'll simply observe her from afar.

When Sol meets back up with Amir and Marion the next morning, they decide to mill about a few of the weapons stations. The careers seem to have moved onto other things today—out of the corner of their eye, Sol sees them trying to psych out Marion's district partner and what seems to be his alliance—but that's not their problem, so they try not to focus on it. Instead, they stand with their hands neatly behind their back, watching Marion marvel at the knives on display.

"Gotta say, these are gorgeous," she says, smiling, as she messily—yet successfully—gives one of the bulkier knives a twirl. "Bet these will be far more effective than my shoddy pocket knife."

"That's assuming we get supplies from the cornucopia," Amir adds, taking a knife for symself. "Hey, Sol! Wanna give one of these a go?"

They fiddle nervously with their hands. "Sure. I'm better with a crossbow, though."

One of Marion's eyebrows shoots up. "Oh, yeah? That should actually prove pretty handy, to be honest."

"Agreed," says Amir, throwing a knife at one of the training dummies. It flies far to the left, dinging the dummy's shoulder before clattering to the ground. Amir laughs nervously. "See? I have zero sense of depth perception. Or aim."

"Have you had your eyes checked out?" Marion asks with a snicker.

"Evidently not."

"Here," Sol says, moving to take one of the knives from Amir's grip, "I can try to show you?"

"Doubt it'll help much, but sure, showoff."

Sol feels their cheeks redden slightly, but they still smile. "Okay. So, you just have to relax your shoulders. If you're too stiff, you lose accuracy. One foot in front of the other, back straight… then you just—" and they throw it with only a moderate amount of force, landing near the bottom of the target—"let it go. Um, not a great throw, but decent enough, I guess?"

"Not bad at all, Sol," says Marion with a grin. "Definitely better than Amir's."

"My throw is sort of weak," they reply, "which is why I like crossbows. They do the throwing for you, you just have to aim."

"Where'd you learn?" Marion asks, as Amir takes another knife and tries to throw it again, making sure to correct syr posture the way Sol showed sym.

"Oleg's got an old crossbow in the shed, and when he's away for the Games every summer we take it out and play with it. We, um, being me and my siblings. We're not really allowed to, but… I always just join in anyway."

Amir actually manages to hit the target this time, and se reacts with a little jump. Sol begins clapping. "Good work!"

"Thanks—that felt pretty good, not gonna lie!"

"You wanna mess around with the crossbows now, Sol?" Marion asks. "I assume they'll be pretty different here than the one you have back home."

"Uh, yeah, sure!"

The trio meanders over to the other racks of ranged weapons, and Sol picks up the lightest looking crossbow they can see. Even though it's made of metal, it's actually less heavy than Oleg's wooden one. It doesn't make much sense to them, but imagining aiming at old cans lined up on the fence with Franz helps to get them in the zone enough to hit a decent shot.

Amir lets out a low whistle. "Man, I wish my Victor family actually taught me useful skills like yours did."

"Well, Oleg didn't actually like us messing with his stuff. We taught ourselves how to use it."

"Still, pretty cool that you actually had weapons access—it really would have come in handy right about now."

"Didn't Samson win his Games by weaponising a broken window shard?" Marion interjects. "No wonder."

Amir bristles. "Yeah," se exhales, "he's never liked conforming to expectations."

There's something more there—they've noticed it before, but there's something wistful about the look on Amir's face as se thinks about syr brother. Sol wonders if that's what they look like when the others ask them about their family.

Regardless, they quickly move on, firing a few more shots before trying out the agility course. Sol stumbles over their feet a few times, and Marion quips that it's good they'll be sticking at the back. With Amir and Marion, Sol can almost forget that they're in the Capitol, because it really does feel just like back home. When Amir asks if they want to hang out that evening, Sol hesitantly says that they can come to their floor. It's largely because of Brandy, and feeling guilty if she just sits in her room again, but Sol's allies happily agree to meet them at eight o'clock.

It'll be good, they tell themself. It'll be like home.

File 3: Entry for July 7th, 124 A.D.D., Oleg Bauer's journal.

Sol brought over their allies tonight - Samson's sibling, and Gwen's mentee. Everything seemed to be going pretty well, so I just let them get on with it. I was honestly pretty glad that Sol and Amir seemed to be getting close, because they really need each other. It's hard in a place like this without people you can relate to. Got them some liquor, returned to my own suite… I think they all got a little too rowdy, because next thing I know there's knocking at my door and Sol's coming in with puffy eyes, their friends nowhere to be seen. I let them inside, and they sat on my bed, just… crying. They told me that Amir and Marion were leaving them out, and they were thinking about back home with Pax and Mickey and how they'd tease Sol, and it just upset them. I know I shouldn't be thinking about where I've gone wrong as a parent, but I can't help but feel responsible. Perhaps my parenting style should have been less hands-off. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to understand Sol's needs. I'm learning that I failed them, because this whole time they've been under the assumption that they're expendable, or less than their siblings, less worthy of attention or delicate care. And it hurts. It hurts to see them think this, and think that it's the reason why they volunteered for Franz. Do they not know that I love them? Have I ever really shown them that I do?

I told them to be honest with their allies, because the thing is, if even I didn't know that things like this upset them, then people they've known for two days certainly don't. I just wish they had more faith in themself. I've noticed that they only ever really come out of their shell, let down their walls when they're not sober, and it scares me. What happened to them so that they feel so deeply undeserving of care? I never asked much about their parents, but it's painfully real now that Brandy is in their picture what it might have been like. She says their parents never even told her of Sol's existence. To be so utterly erased from your parents' lives like that has got to do a number on self-esteem, and I now think that's where the root of the problem lies. I don't have much longer now to show Sol that I care, and that it isn't too late for them to be loved. Even though it really is too late. I wish I'd dug a bit deeper when they were little. Maybe then we wouldn't be in this situation.

I put them to bed, made sure they drank enough water. They called me Oleg again. In the thirteen years since I adopted them, I don't think they've ever called me Dad, reflecting back on it. I can't say I blame them. Still, part of me hopes that things will change at least a little before they're gone. I don't think I'd ever forgive myself if Sol left this world thinking that I didn't care for them. It's just difficult to put into words. Perhaps I should end this entry before I spiral.

Sol keeps to themself more on the third day of training. Their nervous fidgeting is worse now, headache pounding in their ears. They thought last night would be good, but…

It was more like home than they wanted it to be. Yet again, Sol is the one left out.

It's fine. Marion and Amir had fun, and they'll continue to have more fun together without Sol to bring down the mood. They can slowly remove themself from the group… they suppose… and they won't be missed. They're not here to make friends—they shouldn't be, anyhow. They're here for one purpose, and that's to die for Franz. It's important that they don't forget it, even if the thought makes their knees weak.

So they sit in wait for their private session, thumbs twiddling, throat tight. They're somewhat thankful for Marion's district partner separating them in the line—he's tall and lanky, straight blonde hair and piercing eyes. He's just as quiet as they are, though, which is a blessing. Sometimes, Sol catches Marion glancing at them, but they turn away, just to see Brandy. She's holding hands with the girl from Ten, Joey, and they're mumbling things to one another.

Everywhere Sol looks, there's reminders from home. Roadblocks, really. They're going to scream if they see one more.

(They're so, so far from home. It should be a reassurance; but instead, it's just a constant reminder of everything they have lost and everything they will continue to lose. Everything they have to lose so that their family can continue to be safe.)

"Marion Chenelle, District Eight. Please enter the exam room promptly for your private session."

She gets up and offers Sol a taut smile. They wave and tell her in a meek voice good luck. They mean it, they do. It's just hard to focus when they feel like they're on the edge of a mental breakdown.

"Oz Mackinaw, District Eight. Please enter the exam room promptly for your private session."

The blond boy looks back at the rest of the tributes as he gets up, but there's nothing like pity in his eyes. That's more reassuring, somehow. He looks past Sol to the boy from Ten and the girl from Eleven—allies?—and leaves. It's almost Sol's turn.

"Brandy Gardener, District Nine. Please enter the exam room promptly for your private session."

Brandy looks sick to her stomach when she gets up, hugging her new friend and entering the exam room with her eyes downcast. Sol couldn't even open their mouth to offer words of encouragement. Just another facsimile of a smile. It probably would have been better if they didn't emote at all.

"Solan Gardener, District Nine. Please enter the exam room promptly for your private session."

After a wait that seemed nothing short of agonising, Sol finally takes a deep breath and gets to their feet. Breathe in, breathe out. You're okay, Sol. All it'll take is twelve minutes and it'll be over. Just twelve minutes.

They stand in the centre of the room, looking up at the forcefield-guarded Gamemaker lounge. A stark-looking woman stands front and centre—the Head Gamemaker—and she tells them their task is to impress them.

They're sure they do just about anything but that. They trip over their own feet, arms shaking far too much to accurately aim their crossbow, and when they try to show off their plant identification skills, they feel the wires in their brain jumbling up and seem to forget things they know they've known for years.

It's a mercy when the Gamemakers tell them to stop. Who knows how much more they would have embarrassed themself if they just let Sol continue…

At least they didn't faint. Or cry. Small victories, they suppose.

"Do you want to watch the score reveals together?" Amir asks at the end of the day, when the tributes are starting to pile out of the training room. Sol takes a deep breath, watching syr expectant eyes for a moment.

"I'm not sure." They look away. "I… don't think I did very good."

"That's okay," se says, a lilt to syr voice. "I'm sure I fucked it up too. I just thought, since… you've been looking pretty lonely today, and I wanna make sure you're okay. I had a really good time last night, but I thought about it, and I realised me and Mari probably… left you out a little bit."

"That wasn't just me being sensitive?"

"No, no! Trust me, Sol, I have a bit of a problem with getting. Carried away. I'm sorry we took your alcohol and weren't the greatest to you. I hope it doesn't happen again. I really do think you're cool."

That gets a bit of a laugh out of them. "You think I'm cool?"

"What, you don't? You're underselling yourself. C'mon, yours or mine?"

"You're not the biggest fan of Samson."

"That's true. But if it's overstepping a bit to go to your floor again…"

"Is the District Eight floor not available?"

"Oz and his allies have taken it over," Marion says, startling Sol a bit as she enters the conversation from behind them. "Sorry, Sol. But yeah. There's four of them, and they're a little. Well. Much."

"That makes sense," Sol replies, scratching the back of their neck. "Um… mine again, I guess?"

And so they agree on that, and head into the elevator, last ones in and out. Eventually, Sol reaches the District Nine floor, showering and changing out of their buttercup yellow tracksuit (there's still strands of gold in their hair), eating with the rest of their team. Oleg looks like he hasn't slept at all, dark circles under his eyes; Inigo is trying to keep up conversation, which Sol tries to reciprocate; Cerelia tries to add, awkwardly, though Oleg shoots her a scrutinising look; and as usual, Brandy keeps her mouth shut and her head down.

Sol is doing the dishes—they don't like leaving it for the avoxes—when there's a knock at the door. Just like last night, Amir is standing there, grinning. Marion arrives a few minutes later, and it even greets Brandy on the way in. Brandy offers a small wave. She's still nervous around all of them—even if Amir and Marion have offered her more olive branches than Sol has.

"I'm going to floor ten," she tells their mentors as Sol's allies get themselves comfortable. "Um, Mr. Holstead… could you take me up?"

Inigo's expression softens, and he stands. "Of course, Brandy. Should I collect you when the broadcast is over? Or will one of Ten's victors bring you back?"

"Um. The second one, I think. Thank you, though."

Inigo holds her hand as they leave the apartment. Something aches in Sol's chest, but they try not to dwell on it. Yes, that's what they should be doing—acting like the big sibling they're supposed to be. But they're not. And it feels too late to rectify that. They just have to look forward, now…

Oleg pulls them aside for a moment. "Did you work everything out with your allies?"

"I think so," Sol replies. "They apologised for leaving me out last night. Which I appreciate."

"That's good to hear. My ear's always open if you need anything, okay?"

Sol just nods, and Oleg pats them on the arm. "Good kid."

When the pair return to the main seating area, Oleg grabs the remote and turns on the TV. Sol sits between Amir and Marion this time, Oleg ever-watchful to their side. Inigo returns just as the Master of Ceremonies begins the reading.

"Welcome, one and all, to your first real insights into this year's tributes. My name is Pallas Auclair, and you're watching the Score Reveals of the one-hundred-and-twenty-fourth Hunger Games!"

"You doing alright?" Marion asks to their side, patting the top of their hand.

"I'm okay," they say. "Nervous."

"So am I."

"Tonight, you'll learn how the Gamemakers have ranked our honourable Tributes' efforts based on the skills they've gathered over the last three days. As always, we'll be starting with District One, moving upwards to District Twelve."

It's no surprise that the Ones score high—a ten for the boy, Vanitas, and an eleven for Beatrice, the girl who picked on Sol and Amir at the start of training. Two and Four do well, too. Not a single score lower than a nine, which the Four boy receives for his showing. But that's to be expected, Sol supposes.

"The careers aren't messing around this year," Oleg says, teeth clenched. "Did they appear unified to you?"

Truth be told, Sol didn't really take note of them today—but Marion groans in response. "They argued a bit. The One girl looks like she's taken the lead, but I don't think the others really like her. Can't say I blame them."

Attention turns back to the Master of Ceremonies as a bold FIVE appears on screen. Amir stares straight forward, and Sol squeezes syr hand. "You'll do okay."

"Now for District Five! It's been five years since they've produced a Victor, so let's see if the odds are in their favour this year! Speaking of their previous Victor, first up we have Amir Asterix. For those of you just tuning in, Amir is related to Samson Asterix. Crazy, right?"

"You could say that," Amir says through gritted teeth.

"Amir has walked away with a… am I seeing this right? Amir has scored a twelve!"

"What the fuck?!"

Amir's hand leaves Sol's immediately as se shoots up, leaning over the coffee table and staring at the screen. The animated 12 circles syr portrait, and horror dawns on everyone in the room.

"Targeting scores. Fuck." Oleg's head is already in his hands.

Inigo leans further back, speaking the obvious. "That isn't good."

"Holy shit," Amir says, voice wavering as Pallas moves onto syr district partner. "I didn't know they were allowed to do that, I—"

"—and Sullivan Perun has scored a six! Truly a showing from District Five this year, eh?—"

"They're allowed to do whatever they fucking want," Oleg seethes. "Sol. I need you to stay calm for me, okay?"

"I—okay," they exhale. Marion is gripping their hand tightly, expression severe.

"I didn't know they wanted you dead so badly," she mutters. "This is dire."

"No fucking shit, it's dire!" Amir yells, clawing at syr curls.

"Quiet," Oleg asks, a hiss. "Amir, you need to calm down. I knew something like this would happen, I should have said… I just didn't want you all to panic. There are ways you can still get through this, I'll speak with Sa—"

"No, you won't—he got me into this fucking mess in the first place! I don't want him to hear shit, okay?!"

Sol brings their knees up tight to their chest to try and control their shaking. Marion looks from them to Amir, its eyebrows furrowed in concern. Amir lets out one final frustrated shriek and turns back to syr allies, and then syr face drops. Panting heavily, se seems to deflate, returning back to slump in syr seat next to Sol. "Fuck. Sorry for the outburst."

"It's okay," Sol tries, patting syr shoulder hesitantly, as if with touch se'd blow back up again. Se doesn't. Thankfully.

There's despair in Amir's voice. "How the fuck are we gonna make it with targets like this on our backs, Sol?"

"I—I don't know."

"We haven't even seen Sol's score yet," Marion tries, but Amir just scowls at her.

"—and onto District Eight. It's been eight years since Eight secured a Victor, so let's see what everyone else is up against this year! Marion Chenelle has scored a seven—well done, Marion!"

She exhales a shaky breath. Good, normal score. "Good job," Sol says encouragingly.

"Thanks. Whew."

Amir's posture is still taut like a tightly pulled rubber band. Marion's partner scores a matching seven, which Sol is somehow unsurprised at after they got a good look at him earlier today. Sol almost knows what's going to happen next as Pallas moves onto their district.

"District Nine is up next, with their truly show-stopping tribute pair, the Gardener siblings! I'm sure everyone is thrilled to see this dynamic this year—it's a truly monumental year! First up is little Brandy Gardener, who scored a two—I'm sure you tried your best, Brandy. Next up is her big sibling, our seventh and final volunteer for this year's Hunger Games—who is also the adopted child of one of Nine's two living victors, Oleg Bauer! It's truly an unprecedented Games, with two Victor's relatives—so, let's see how Solan Gardener did!"

There's a pause as Pallas looks down at her papers. Sol sucks in a deep breath.

"Solan has earned a twelve! Unprecedented!"

At least it wasn't a surprise.

Still, Sol feels like their chest is being crushed under some immense weight, unable to exhale the breath they just took, like it's stuck in the back of their throat—Amir leans on their shoulder, clutching their arm for what seems to be dear life.

"God, what are we going to do?"

They finally force the breath out. Breathe in again. Breathe out. "I don't know."

"You couldn't control any of what just happened," Inigo says. "All we can do now is work on your strategies. Which I'm sure Oleg will agree is to stay away from everyone."

"I think it's really the only thing you can do. The careers will be after your heads like they're prizes—I'm not sure they realise that killing a Victor's relative won't win them any friends if they make it out of the arena."

"At least until the pack splinters, keeping distance is your best bet. Hide. Stick together and watch each other's backs."

Sol nods, holding onto their words like a lifeline. Marion's now gripping their hand painfully tight as the rest of the scores play out, simply white noise.

"Are you sure you want to stay with us?" They ask tentatively. "A target on our backs is a target on your's."

She looks towards them and Amir, eyes steely. "I'm not leaving. Fuck no. If the Capitol wants to come for you, I'll stand in its way. If the other tributes want to kill you, I'll kill them first. This is more than just about me now—more than any of us. It's a matter of war."

And that, more than anything else tonight, makes Sol terrified.

"Remain calm," Oleg says, pressing out the few remaining creases in Sol's golden suit. "I know you don't really like big crowds, but you've got to be brave. Okay? And remember what I told you."

Backstage is filled with tributes and mentors, each receiving last-minute advice in the lead-up to their interviews. There's a wide array of emotions on show, and Sol can even see some bickering going on near the front of the line—almost unsurprising—but the one thing that's tripping them up more than anything else is the fact that there are so many glares. Not just pointed in their direction, at least—a lot of them are looking at Amir.

… Things could be going better.

"Thanks, Oleg," they reply slowly. "I don't tell you that I'm thankful enough. I… won't let you down. That's a promise."

Oleg smiles in his tender, fatherly way, and ruffles their hair. "Good kid. I know you'll do your best."

The same producer from the Parade enters, telling all mentors to leave and take their seats in the lounge. As Sol looks at the crowd of twenty-four victors filing out, Inigo looks back and offers Sol a thumbs up, which they shakily return.

It's now just a long, long wait for District Nine to be called to speak.

"I've always wanted to be a star. This stage was made just for me."

"We'll show the filthy rebels infesting this country what true strength is!"

"I'm not my brother—let me get that damn straight. And I wouldn't tell you what you want to hear even if I could."

"There's nothing I'd love more right now than to be back in District Eight. My nana needs me."

"I… I miss my mama and papa. Sol is nice, but… I don't know them very well. We were raised apart. More than anything, this week has just felt like a bad dream. I'm waiting for the moment when I wake up back in my bed in Nine with the sun shining through the curtains and I'm still loved and everything is normal."

Brandy leaves the stage, and Sol can hear their heartbeat in their ears. She explained a lot that they now don't have to, at the very least…

They're called on, and they force one foot in front of the other, a smile they're sure looks forced plastered on their face. It feels like a mile before they reach the seat, sitting down opposite the tall, blue-haired Master of Ceremonies.

"Welcome Solan," she starts. "Or can I call you Sol? What are you more comfortable with?"

"Sol's good, thanks," they say with an awkward laugh. "It's just a bit less of a mouthful than Solan."

"Sol it is! So, Sol. You're the talk of the Games, it seems. There's so much going on with you, and I almost don't know where to start!"

They gulp, and force themself to just focus on Pallas's face. She's far less intimidating than the crowd to their left. "I can pick?"

"I'd love that."

Deep exhale. "My adopted brother, Franz. The person I'm doing all of this for."

"You volunteered for him," Pallas says, some gentleness to her tone. "It's a rather rare phenomenon. You're astonishingly brave to do that for your sibling."

"It was just… the best I could do for him. He's the reason Oleg adopted me when we were little. He noticed me begging on the streets and pretty much just picked me up and said "can we have this one?" and Oleg was like "that's called kidnapping!" but they took me out for lunch anyway, and when they took me back home, my mom asked them to keep me. They… gave me a better life than I could have ever imagined. I was just thinking of how thankful I was to them and how I couldn't let Franz go through that much pain when I stepped forward."

Before Sol knows it they've made the audience laugh and coo in sympathy. It makes them a little uncomfortable, but they finish off their little oversharing with an awkward laugh.

"I can definitely see why you wanted to save his life," Pallas hums. "So, your parents—they gave you up, and then had Brandy?"

"Pretty much… I've known she existed since I was about ten or eleven. She was happier with our parents than I ever was, and… I'm glad. I'm glad she was loved. I'm just sad that our parents had to try twice to have a kid that worked for them and then…" They gesture at the auditorium. "I'm sure they're struggling."

"It's rough to have to lose at least one of your children. But enough of that. How have you found life in the Capitol so far?"

"It's nice. I was living pretty comfortably in the Victor's Village before this, but the apartments here are on a whole other level. It's really not all that different from home, though. I've made a couple of friends, and… they remind me of who's waiting for me back in Nine."

"Franz?"

Sol nods, looking down at their folded hands in their lap. "And Pax and Mickey, my other siblings. They're pretty silly. And my friend Romalie—she's hard as nails. I miss them all a lot."

They bite down the tears that try to well up. This is just what I have to do to prove to everyone that I'm harmless.

"I'm sure you've got a lot waiting for you there. Now, about your training score—I'm sure we're all dying to know how you achieved it."

Sol lets out another nervous laugh. "I'm dying to know, too." Laughs from the audience. They really, really hate it. "I don't really want to talk about it. I'd much rather tell you about how much I like ponies, or a cup of tea, or baking bread for my family."

"That's all very sweet," Pallas says, and Sol wonders if she's frustrated at their refusal to answer her question. "Is there anything else you'd like to let Panem know before tomorrow's launch?"

They take their one and only look at the crowd, so all-encompassing Sol can't even tell how many people are packed into the auditorium. "Oleg. Franz. Pax. Mickey. Rom. Glaïeul. Inigo. Thank you for everything. I love you."

Sol manages to hold back tears until they're off stage. Small mercies in this cruel world.

Waiting in the lounge for the rest of the tributes to finish their interviews, Sol finds Amir and Marion sitting together. They wave Sol over, and they sit on the floor in front of them.

"Oh, Sol. Your makeup's all rubbing off." Marion gingerly wipes her thumb beneath their eye. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," they sniffle, "that was just exhausting."

"Looked it. You really poured your heart out there."

"I sorta had to."

"You did good," Amir interjects. "Better than I did, anyhow."

"I wish I had the courage to curse people out like you do."

"Yeah, but it really didn't help my odds. Ah, well. One last night of partying and then the fun's over, so we better make it count."

Sol's glad to see sym calmer after last night's reveals—but somehow they still doubt se's really got it all together. They can just tell when someone's on the edge, same as they are. Still, it isn't long before the Tens, Elevens, and Twelves have entered the lounge, and the producers have returned to bark more orders at them.

"Follow me. Do not step out of the convoy. The shuttle to the President's Mansion is around five minutes. Understood?"

Sounds of assent echo through the group of tributes. Peacekeepers who lined the walls move to surround them, and they begin moving through the halls, down to the hangar, now empty of chariots. One by one, the tributes enter the shuttle—it looks sort of like the buses that take workers out to the fields in Nine, but evidently much better constructed—and they're buckled into their designated seat. To their side, Brandy fiddles with one of the braids her hair's been styled into.

"You did well," Sol tells her. "Good job. The crowd was scary."

She sighs deeply. "Thanks."

It appears like she wants to say more, but she stops herself. They don't press her, and the shuttle begins its journey down the Avenue of the Tributes, now devoid of the crowds present during the Parade. Tributes mutter amongst themselves; the Sixes, the Twelves, the careers. Marion's seated to Sol's left, and it leans her head on their shoulder.

"Are you good?" They ask. She hums.

"It's taking everything in my power not to rip this seatbelt off me. You'll have to hold me back when the President comes out, I swear."

Sol chuckles. "I did a lot of that back home. Holding my siblings back from doing dumb stuff, I mean. Not from attacking the President. Ha."

Marion snickers. "Glad to hear you have the necessary experience for the position."

The rest of the ride passes quickly, and before long they're being unbuckled and filed out in two neat lines in front of the shuttle. It then drives off, leaving them to wait for their entry to the Mansion to be permitted. This is another part of the Games that isn't really broadcasted back home—the dinner and party.

President Snow, hair as white as her name, appears above them on the balcony. "Welcome, dear tributes. On this final night of your stay here in the Capitol, I welcome you to my family home. I hope you enjoy these few hours of fine dining and socialising."

She then makes a gesture to one of her attendants, and the Peacekeepers lead the tributes up the dual staircases and into the Mansion.

The main dining room is even more exorbitantly decorated than the trains or the tribute apartments, glittering chandeliers on the high, painted ceiling and what seems to be at least a dozen round tables before the three long and straight ones at the back of the hall. The smaller tables are filled with not only all of the Victors in attendance, but what appears to be sponsors and government officials, too. They all turn to see the tributes, clapping and cheering for their arrival. Somewhere off in the crowd, they swear they see Oleg and Inigo, and it puts them at ease.

Sol is thankful when their procession through the crowd is short, but not that everyone they've had positive interactions with so far is seated on the table opposite; they curse whoever decided they should be separated by gender, and they're sure Amir feels the same, trapped next to the sly-looking girl from Four. On either side are the boys from Eight and Ten, who look ever so slightly annoyed that Sol is sitting in the middle of them.

As they wait for the President to announce the start of dinner, the Eight boy decides to open his mouth. "I feel it's a little rude I haven't introduced myself. Oz." He holds out a callused, slender hand, and Sol gingerly takes it.

"Sol. And, um…?" They look towards the Ten boy.

"Deacon." He says, resting his chin on a balled fist. "I'm surprised it took this long to introduce ourselves."

"Aha. Yeah."

"You seem to be good friends with my partner," Oz says airily, leaning back in his seat. "She's got a soft heart, and I'm not sure I've decided if you're stringing her along or if you're actually genuine."

Sol feels a bead of sweat form on their forehead. "I'm not sure I'm following."

"What he means to say is," Deacon picks up, "A volunteer who earned a twelve and then deflected from that twelve is suspicious. You realise that, right?"

"Yeah," Oz continues. "Five I can sort of understand, given that doozy of an interview. But you just seem so harmless, it's sort of baffling."

"I'm not here for a second round of my interview," Sol tries.

"I'm sure. But you can't blame a guy for trying to dig into his competition, can you?"

Sol swallows thickly. "I suppose not."

They're fortunately interrupted by President Snow tapping on her glass. The crowd goes utterly silent, and Sol has to try and keep on a smile as Snow begins her speech. Most of it goes in one ear and out the other, because Sol is too busy sweating over Oz and Deacon's questioning. Despite everything, the Capitol's first assessment proves to be the image that's stuck among at least some of the other tributes—that Sol is capable of much more than they are, or that they're hiding something, lying to everyone about how incapable they are.

Have they not put it together yet?

Before long, a veritable army of waiters files into the hall with platters of food. Sol tries to eat without paying attention to the boys on either side of them, who seem to be having a conversation with each other as if Sol doesn't exist. Well, they're glad they're now seemingly uninterested in pushing for more from them.

Across the small gap that separates their tables, Sol sees Marion saying something to Brandy, and Brandy talking back. They can't say it doesn't sting that it's gotten more out of her than they have, but they suppose it makes sense. There isn't all that baggage there, after all.

When their main course arrives, Oz decides to speak again. "I'm just gonna put this on the table right now, Solan. In our view, you and your allies are the biggest wildcards in this game. Now, I wanna go back home. Deacon does too. And I'm sure you wanna go back to all your siblings in your big fancy house. We just want to know if you'd be willing to… engage in some mutual cooperation?"

"Is that really what this is about?" Sol sighs after swallowing a hefty bite of sauteed greens.

"Sorta. Just trying to check your vibe. Me and Marion don't really gel, but that doesn't mean I'd want to, like, kill her. I dunno about you, but I'm not a monster. And our enemies are the big guys sitting at the top of the table," Oz points his knife in the direction of the careers. "So, I just wanna know: if it came down to it, would you try to kill me or Deek? Or would you be willing to truce so we can take down more of the careers and ensure we all have better chances at survival?"

Sol furrows their brow. "And you're not stringing me along."

"Nah, I'm serious. Right, Deek?"

Deacon nods as he finishes chewing. "He's right. We've been taking note of people who could maybe help us take down the trainees. This isn't an alliance, per say, but we are serious. Until the careers are all dead, we won't hurt each other. Outer district solidarity an' all that."

Sol turns the idea over in their head for a few moments. If the two boys are telling the truth, then that's well-needed security where the position they and Amir are stuck in is tenuous at best. "I'll have to speak to my allies about it."

"Oh, that's completely fine. Honestly, I'm glad you didn't immediately say yes without consulting them." Oz flourishes his knife before throwing it onto his plate and pushing it away. "Just come find us later on tonight. We'll be with Izara from Eleven and Kessler from Three."

"Poor Kess is stuck between those annoying bitches from Two and Four. Hope he's coping alright," Deacon sighs wistfully.

"He'll be fine," Oz affirms.

Dessert follows swiftly afterwards; Sol eats it as they've done everything so far, but Deacon only picks at his whereas Oz doesn't touch it at all.

"Haven't got much of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid. And I can't really eat a lot before I start feeling sick," is all he says when Sol asks.

There's just one last event before the tributes will be allowed to roam freely: the predicted placement readings. Sol doesn't have high hopes; along with private session scores, the predicted placements seem to be purely for the Capitolite public's amusement, helping them to decide who to hedge their bets on in the arena.

They can't say they're particularly surprised when Brandy's predicted to come 23rd, or when they and Amir are placed at 19th and 18th respectively. With their targeting scores, the Gamemakers likely want them gone during the bloodbath. Still, it does sting—they can't deny that. They're surprised when Marion is predicted to come in 9th, and Oz in 7th, just below the six careers; "It doesn't matter at all," Oz comments, leaning over to whisper in Sol's ear. "We won't let them live that long, will we?"

Sol swallows thickly, unable to emote very much at all. "We can certainly try."

Only a few minutes later, the tributes are being allowed out of their seats to socialise, drink, dance… Sol picks up a flute of bubbly champagne, much fancier than anything they'd drink at home, as they head over towards Marion and Amir.

"That was such a drag," Amir groans. "My god, that Four girl was so obnoxious."

"My condolences," Marion sighs, patting sym on the back. "We're free now, though, eh?"

The trio move further away from the crowd of other tributes, closer to one of the far walls. Marion leans back against it, and Sol starts absent-mindedly clinking their nails on their glass."I saw you talking to Brandy. Is she… okay?"

Marion raises one eyebrow before raising her glass to her lips. "I did, yeah. She's fine. Just needed an open ear."

"I… I see."

"And I saw you talking to Oz. How was he?"

"He had an offer for us, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Sol says slowly. "He said that he and his alliance would like to truce with us. So like, we wouldn't be allies, but we wouldn't attack each other before all of the careers are dead. I wanted to get your opinions on it before I told him anything concrete."

"Interesting," Marion states, clicking her tongue.

"Is he trustworthy, Mari?" Amir asks, eyes wide.

"That's the thing. He's a sly dog, that bastard. Involved in a lot of gang stuff back home in Eight, as far as I know. I don't like those guys very much—they love harassing my nana, and I always have to kick them out of our store and tell them to fuck off. But… I dunno. He hates the Capitol and the careers as much as I do, so I wouldn't put it past him to use us to thin the crowd before turning on us."

"We could plan for that eventuality," Amir says. "Say yes for protection, but end up pulling a fast one on them?"

The dishonesty bothers Sol, but they just bite any complaints back. "How abouts we spend some time with them tonight and see what's up?"

And so they do; Sol finishes off their glass and picks up a new one, and standing before Oz and his crew, they allow Marion and Amir to do the talking. They learn that they already got a few other tributes to agree to the truce during training yesterday—Amir's district partner and his allies—so now, they're ten-strong.

"It's really nothing to sniff at," Marion admits. "Be so for real right now, Oz. We're doing this?"

"A hound is loyal to his word," Oz says with a toothy grin, holding out his hand, all bony joints and black fingernails.

"Fine. You've got a deal."

"Now, who wants more to drink?" Izara, the girl from Eleven, asks the group.

"I need to get plastered right now," Deacon states, taking a drink from her hand. "A toast to our mutual cooperation?"

And so it was that they drank, ignoring the rich Capitolites around them in favour of more familiar company, and Sol thought that maybe, just this once, things might actually turn out alright.

By the time the tributes were shuttled back to the Training Centre, it was past midnight. Sol, lightheaded with far, far too much champagne, laughed until their head hurt in the elevator with the Eights, gregariously waving them off and wishing them a good night. Then, it was just them and the elevator, dinging a few moments later on the ninth floor. After getting a few drinks in, they really did have fun with the others—it was much harder to feel left out when there were so many people to meet, so many names to memorise, so many people interested in having them on their side.

It was nice. They even got to talk to a lot of their mentors—who, funnily enough, were seated at the same table as Oleg and Inigo.

(It hadn't dawned on Sol in their drunken state that many of them were involved in the conspiracy that had Franz and Amir reaped. Or perhaps they chose to forget, immortalised forever in that moment when Inigo insists on taking photos of them all. The final happy moment they'd experience for a long, long time.)

The apartment's dark when Sol steps in. Oleg sits alone at the dining table, a small, singular overhead light on above his head. He turns when he hears Sol stumble in.

"Sol—you good there, kid?"

They stumble a little as they take a seat next to him, humming in assent. "Gooder than I've been all week."

Oleg smiles a little. "Glad to hear it. I just hope you don't get a hangover in the morning. There's a long day ahead of you."

Sol folds their arms on the table to cushion their head. They watch Oleg for a while, silent, until he reaches over and pats their head. "I meant what I said in my interview," they say, finally. "I really am thankful for everything you've done for me."

Even in their less than sober state, Sol can tell there's a sadness in Oleg's eyes. "And I'm thankful for all you've done for me."

"What do you mean?"

He lets out a shaky exhale. "Before Franz decided to pull you into my life, I never… fashioned myself as a father. You proved me wrong. You proved that… I could be something more than a former killer, more than just a wreck who got his brother killed for a bad mistake. And I've been thinking a lot about it this past week, what with… us all being here together." And then he starts crying, which Sol wasn't prepared for. "And how you are as much my child as Franz is, and as much as I can't bear to lose him, I also can't bear to lose you."

Sol just stares for a moment, unsure what to do. Carefully, ever-so slowly, they stand from their chair and envelop Oleg in a hug. He wraps his arms around them oh-so tight, shoulders bobbing up and down as he sobs.

"I'm sorry," Sol says softly. "I had to."

"I know you did."

"I don't know what to do," they add, clutching the fabric of Oleg's jacket. They feel tears begin to well up, too.

"I wouldn't know, either. Just… Sol, promise me this."

"Mhm?"

"You'll try." And even quieter, barely a whisper— "And if you can win, do it. My children don't deserve to suffer for what I've done. If I could go back into that arena again in your stead, I would. In a heartbeat."

Sol chokes a sob. "Okay. I'll try my best, Ol—Dad. I'll try my best, Dad."

"That's all I could ever ask."

It feels strange to have finally acknowledged Oleg like this—as Dad instead of Oleg or adopted father—but it finally feels right. Maybe it's the alcohol loosening their tongue or their heart, but it is something Sol knows now to be true. I'll try my best, Dad.

It's all they can do.