"I don't know, but maybe I'm just a fool

I should keep to the ground, I should stay where I'm at

Maybe everyone has hunger like this,

And the hunger will pass, but I can't think like that."

Concorde Zemītis, 18, District Six (He/Him)

When Concorde was young, he dreamed of flying. Fanciful planes and machines took shape in vivid crayon on any spare paper he could find in the house. His mother, when she was with him, would smile fondly and promise that his father was coming home soon, and that he would be proud of Concorde and his lofty visions. The sky in Six was a distant blot obscured by the smog. And yet Concorde would press his face to the windowpanes and imagine that his father would come from the Capitol, cleave through the clouds like some mystical being... or perhaps it would be Concorde that made his way to him. Somehow, they would bridge the gap between them. And if his father could just meet him... if Zeus King only knew that Concorde was in the world, he'd make their lives beautiful.

(Concorde has always longed to be like his father. Lately he's begun to wonder if they aren't so different. Where once that thought might've buoyed him up, now it drags at his heels, inescapable and haunting.)

His father did come back, blowing through Concorde's fever haze of drunken parties and faceless girls... but he brought no reprieve from the chill which had beset his and his mother's lives. Instead, the storm had only intensified at his coming.

Now, it's that unearthly calm, when the dust settles. But Concorde's soul is still scored by the ravaging effects of his past; he'll never forget the careless air that hung over Zeus, even while Citroën, Concorde's mother, lay dead beside him. There are a lot of things which haunt Concorde, as numberless as the clouds, but he still draws schematics and seeks out the sky.

Now, he dreams of the girl who tells him his art is beautiful, who longs to see the fabled stars which have been smothered from their view, who makes him feel weightless and grounded, somehow all at once. Over the past year, Concorde Zemītis has undergone a kind of metamorphosis. No longer does he drink himself dizzy and brawl with jealous boyfriends he didn't even know existed until it was too late. No longer does he date a couple girls at once, all while a nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him he should be somewhere, anywhere, else.

Now, he is reshaped, in ways both good and bad. The sky no longer brings rose-tinted visions of his father... instead, they're replaced by the very substantial love he's come to know.

A knock on his apartment door rattles him from his shock, and he places down yet another sketch, the machine's metallic wings and sleek body soaring blissfully with him at the helm. For a moment, he worries who it might be—after all, his life has been filled with unexpected guests, shattered glass and the ache of bruises, all of which he's tried to defend himself against. And yet if it is the girl he's thinking of, opening the door will be well worth it.

Indeed, Laura stands in the doorway, bereft of her usual sweet smile. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, and her hair, once blonde, is now a striking purple.

Concorde rushes forward, all pretenses forgotten. The sight of her crying calls to that small, helpless part inside him that is so tired of being unable to prevent the horrors of life. He reaches for her, gently, and she rushes into his arms.

"Hey..." he says softly. "Hey, what's wrong?"

The starry-eyed mayor's daughter looks up at him, and it's almost like the first time she saw him again—there's no judgment in her eyes. Somehow, she's fallen for him, the flighty mechanic with no family or money to speak of. She's become the most wondrous thing in his life... save for the sky, of course, but that's more of an absolute backdrop, unchanged by the seasons. Laura is wholly unexpected and yet entirely precious... and he's getting all dreamy again. He pulls himself back to Earth.

"Father was angry about my hair," she says, and she looks so tired. "I don't know what else I was expecting, but... but he was worse than I thought he'd be."

Concorde knows all about fathers and their treacherous darkness, can hardly think of the word without cringing. The Mayor of Six has always put impossible pressure on his daughter, and she's only now gotten the courage to dye her hair—purple is her favorite color, and it looks gorgeous, even radiant... but he knows that doesn't outweigh her fear and dismay.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "That's really unfair." His arm still around her, he guides them to the small couch.

She sighs. "It wouldn't be all that new, except... I'm worried that he had such a major reaction to something this small. Honestly, I was testing him; now I know a little of what to expect for something bigger."

Laura is wringing her hands, her tears having mostly dried, but he can see the anxiety in every tense movement. She's been struggling for years now, but her father's cruelty has driven things to a fever pitch.

Along with the worry, Concorde can see a strange light in her eyes. He's never been good at reading people. Not when his flings with girls led to unforeseen consequences. Not when Zeus told him he was so proud. And certainly not when his father promised to keep Citroën safe... to not let anything happen to her...

But Concorde's gotten a bit more cautious, if not better, when it comes to interpreting people. And now he sees that Laura is trying to tell him something—perhaps something wonderful. Even after so many years of unpleasant surprises, Concorde's hope remains undimmed, even if it's tinged with wariness.

He glances at her sideways. "Something big... like what?"

She seems to steel herself, before the words burst out of her. "Something like me being pregnant with our child. Which... I am, by the way. This isn't hypothetical."

Tears fill her eyes again, but this time he understands that they're bittersweet. Hopeful and afraid.

Concorde has always dreamed of flying—he'd once mistaken avoidance for flight, but had come crashing back into the atmosphere. Now, he thinks he might finally know what it feels like.

"Really?" he whispers. "Are you sure?"

There is so much between them. A history of fathers who cannot love, of crashing and burning and rebuilding. But here in this moment, Concorde finds that he's not afraid.

"Yes, I'm sure." She looks up at him with a hesitant smile.

He jumps to his feet, gently taking her by the hands and spinning her in a circle, head tipped back. He can't sit still anymore; his heart is pulling him skyward.

"We're going to be parents!" he crows, and Laura laughs, the sound bright as birdsong.

Concorde is forging new wings. He knows that he isn't his father, that he has the capacity to change. Impossibly, love is emerging in his life, and he can only welcome it with open arms. Never has he felt so certain in his life.

Laura lets out a breath. "You're... you're not afraid? This is all so sudden."

They come to a stop and he kisses her, very gently. A hundred wings take flight in his chest. "I'm happy," he whispers. "And I'm ready."

It surprises him a little, that conviction. For his entire life, he's been drifting and longing for things that would always be out of his reach. But now he sees that happiness is fully within his grasp. He knows that he'll soon become a father to his own child, and that possibility doesn't scare him. It doesn't make him want to run away.

Instead, he embraces it with open arms. And he promises himself that he will do so much better than Zeus ever did. He'll never leave Laura or his unborn child; instead, they'll all take to the skies together and aim for the stars which now seem so close.

He only hopes that this time, the world allows him and his beloved to soar, unafraid of falling.

...

Arya Steele, 18, District Two (She/Her)

Arya's body has begun to collapse beneath her, unwilling to support her weight anymore. Limbs shaking and forehead slicked with sweat, Arya trains on, stretching out her exhausted joints for another round.

She's been at it for quite some now now, perhaps six or seven hours... at this point, she's lost count. Even the great Arya Steele, iron-willed dragon that she is, can admit that perhaps she's overdoing it. But does that mean she'll stop anytime soon? Absolutely not.

The sixteenth Games have officially ended, leaving Two's name in absolute disgrace. The horror of the proceedings had been... admittedly copious, even for Arya. Yes, as a girl from a family who makes weapons for these very Games, she's unsurprised at their true, ugly nature. Still, something about seeing them for the first time sparked an impossible drive beneath Arya's skin. The need to win glory for her family, to protect her siblings and see them happy at all costs, has only intensified.

She's just rolling out her shoulders and preparing to lift her sword again when Thena breezes in. Kind, beautiful, impossible Thena. Thena, who scrambles every immaculately placed thought in Arya's head. Thena... looking desperate and scattered.

She runs toward Arya, the picture of grace as usual. Arya can't help but catch her breath. "I'm all sweaty," she warns.

But she takes Thena in her arms anyway. And for a moment, everything else is forgotten... but the heavy weight of duty cannot be ignored for long. Arya pulls back, all too soon, to see Thena's face still tight will worry.

"They're finally over," she whispers, and her voice shakes.

Arya grins. "More time to train."

Thena gives her a strange look. "You can't mean you still want to train... after all that?"

Arya pulls back, just slightly. She can't understand the urgency, the hurt, in Thena's gaze. "Of course I do," says Arya. "Why wouldn't I?"

Thena blows out a breath, and Arya can feel a distance growing between them, can sense Thena slipping away. Arya isn't prepared for how the feeling makes her chest tighten.

"Some of the girls are really... upset, to say the least, over it all," Thena whispers. "Most of them are dropping out of training. Nobody's even sure how to handle it... Arya, it was awful."

Those gorgeous, alluring dark eyes of hers have now become alight with worry and grief. But Arya can only feel... detached, if not a bit offended. "Oh."

Thena takes another step back. "That's it? Just 'oh?'"

"I mean, that's their problem," she says. "For being weak. They should've been able to handle it."

She is a girl forged of the strongest metal... she must be. Any other choice could compromise her family's reputation. And she'd die before bringing shame to their name.

And perhaps there's a small part of her that cannot bear anything less than perfection, in herself and others. That's why she loves Thena so much; because she is perfect, in every way, sweeping into Arya's life and making her laugh and stutter and wonder. But if Arya cannot carry this weight, if she allows the fear creeping into the corners of her heart to emerge... well, perhaps she wouldn't be worthy anymore. And that would be the greatest of pains. Arya doesn't want to lose anything of her life—in fact, she feels the need to always be progressing. So perhaps the Games have caused her knuckles to whiten against the prospect of glory because they scared her, just a little, and she can't fathom the prospect of anything but strength. Even if that were true, such things are technicalities. Nothing more.

Thena looks stunned. "Arya... I'm pretty shaken up too. I mean, did you how see Tremor turned on his own allies? How those gargoyles came to life?" Tears shine in her eyes. "You... you can't call someone weak for being horrified by children being killed."

But that's just it... Arya sees such things as small sacrifices, when matched against her pride and love for her family. Her own soul is too strong to be shaken by such things. And if doubt slithers through her chest... if she worries that there is perhaps something amiss inside her, that she might not be quite as good with people as she'd like, that she isn't good enough for Thena... well, Arya Steele is strong enough to quell that doubt.

"I'm sorry it upset you, Thena," she says, her voice ringing hollow between them.

"Arya." Thena's face has gone very serious. "I think you should withdraw too."

Arya cannot help the sharp bark of a laugh that escapes her. "You can't be serious right now. You can't possibly think I would do that..."

(Perhaps if she'd only been wiser, she'd have seen the warning signs. That wild light in Thena's eyes, the skittish shift of her feet... but perhaps even if Arya had seen them, she wouldn't have cared. And she wouldn't have been able to stop it, wouldn't have wanted to.)

"I am serious," she whispers. "And I'd hoped... I had thought you would understand."

"You don't have faith in me," Arya says, immediately wishing she'd smothered the words. "You think I'm weak."

"Don't internalize it." Thena's voice is gentle again, for the first time during their conversation. "Of course I don't..."

But Arya swears she sees the silhouette of doubt cross Thena's face.

"I knew it," Arya says, going very still. "You don't think I can handle it. But I'm going to win the Games, Thena, no matter what everybody else thinks."

She has to win them... she has to be strong enough...

And the idea that Thena might not be—well. It sends a shiver through Arya, sadness and disappointment intermingled.

"Maybe I won't be by your side if you do win then, Arya." Thena's eyes glisten with tears.

Arya feigns indifference, but she can feel the pleading in her own voice. And she hates that it's there. "What do you mean?"

"It's me or the Games." Thena's lip trembles, but she steadies her jaw and plants her feet. "I'm not playing."

Arya's heart freezes over. The beginnings of wonder and tenderness and love... all of it fades in the face of her need to rise to the top. She turns slightly away from Thena. "That's an easy choice. But it didn't have to be this way..."

Thena takes a steadying breath. "You're right. It didn't have to be. But... if that's your choice, I wish you luck. Goodbye, Arya. I thought things would go differently..."

It takes everything in Arya not to call out, not to reach for her girlfriend and pull her close and ask her what it is that Arya's not doing right. Why does it have to be love or glory, when they've always been hand-in-hand within Arya? Why can't she be enough for the mountain of expectation her life has become?

But Arya is a girl of iron and flame. So she turns away from Thena, and she suppresses the questions... and the sound of the door swinging closed takes so much more of a toll than a long day of training has ever done. Her body will come back from being overworked, most certainly... but no matter how Arya tries to hide it, her heart has undergone far too much strain.

But this only makes her more desperate to throw herself into the dance of swordplay, to win... because maybe then, Thena will understand. She'll run into her arms and then everything will be the same again. But for now, she has her family to think of, content with the luxury the Capitol has given them and yet always wanting for more...

They deserve more. They deserve everything. And Arya will be the one to secure that for them, no matter the scars and tears along the way... not to say that there are tears in Arya's eyes. Such weakness would be ridiculous.

She picks up the sword that seems to weigh a million pounds. And she throws herself into the numbness of training, trying to convince herself that she made the right choice, the smart choice... what else could she have done? She will choose glory and responsibility, every time.

And if a small part of her cries out from the pressure, Arya ignores it. She will not allow weakness. Not in herself, not in others.

She just never imagined that strength could hurt so much.

...

Arden Hornbuckle, 15, District Seven (She/Her)

Arden wants.

This is not so extraordinary, she knows. Everyone seems to want something, and that want can simmer and grow claws and become poisoned. It can turn into hate and bitterness so strong, it masquerades as love. Arden knows this. She's seen it firsthand.

Most people get what they want... or at least, they have the ability to pursue it. Children are often given things like love, attention and friendship as easily as one might take a breath. But the extraordinary thing about Arden, the thing that angers her beyond words, is that she doesn't have the ability to want things, not even of the simplest variety. Even that has been taken away from her.

And against the fact that her life has been ruled by someone else's hate, someone else's needs... despite the fact that she spends every waking hour torn in two... she wants.

Another midsummer morning gilds the distant District in mesmerizing color, and Arden has never felt so tired. Standing at her window, she gazes over her family's forest—well, her mother's, at least. Their business had once been two separate entities, combined after the Dark Days when the Capitol threatened to seize control of small forests for their own supply. Her parents had married so their businesses could come together; Arden imagines they'd hoped for cohesion, harmony. The arrangement must've seemed far too perfect. Strange, that such a serendipitous marriage has turned so venomous, like a poisoned tree whose roots have been irreparably damaged. Arden can think of many choice words to describe her parents' relationship, or lack thereof, but cohesion and unity are not among them. In fact, Arden knows their business might have splintered if not for their dependence on each other. And, of course, if not for her.

To Arden, sleep is something of a reprieve, the only time when she's not at her parents' beck and call. She can hear their voices now, feel the ache in her feet as she runs back and forth across the property, relaying their messages.

("Tell Webster that his client is coming at three and he'd better be ready..."

"Tell your mother that I don't need her to remind me. I've had this on my schedule for weeks."

"Why don't you tell your father that if he was so good at scheduling, he should've remembered to ship that order last week..."

"Tell Tamar that I wouldn't have forgotten if not for her constant chattering.")

And on and on it goes, an endless cycle, until Arden's head is spinning from the sheer toxicity of her parents' words. When Arden was six, her parents had told her that they'd be separating, and that none of this was her fault... they still loved her so much, that was why they wanted her as their messenger so they could keep the family business running... couldn't she be their brave and strong little girl? Surely this wasn't too much to ask?

Arden has never protested out loud. Never told them that their constant bickering has reduced any claims of love for her to nothing in her mind. Sometimes Arden gazes out at that lovely, tempting world, and she imagines how clear the air would be, how sweet it might feel to be free... and she wonders why she hasn't left yet.

And then she chides herself for being wistful. She turns away from the view and remembers her sisters. If it weren't for them, Arden would have no qualms about leaving Tamar and Webster behind. But the love that has blossomed inside her for her baby sisters is the only thing keeping her anchored.

Even such a simple action as choosing her outfit for the day is no longer her choice. Her parents have each hand-selected their own wardrobe for her, each item of clothing more lovely than the last; not for her own good, but as an attempt for her parents to outshine each other. Most of her life has been spent in paralysis, as she tries her best to step around the fissure her parents have created in her life... only to realize there's no solid ground left. Here, her parents have swallowed up everything else. But someday, she will find new horizons and meet new people, and she will see her half-sisters safe.

She steps out into the hallway, now attired in a tactful mix of both parents' clothing choices, and sees Shachar with her arms outstretched toward Arden. For a moment, Arden's exhaustion seems more manageable. She bends and squeezes her little sister tight.

"Can you give this to Sawyer?" Shachar says eagerly, holding out a note full of rambling, messy lines of writing.

Arden smiles, a little sadly, taking the note from Shachar. "Of course."

Even with the two people she loves most in the world, Arden is forced to be a messenger. She doesn't mind passing these sweet-natured notes between her sisters, especially when she sees their friendship blossoming with each word. But she knows if her parents weren't so petty, Shachar and Sawyer would be able to meet, and Arden wouldn't be in this position.

Arden never dreamed that a child could be a bargaining chip in her parents' pointless game, but she was obviously wrong. After Tamar had a child with her new love, Webster adopted his own daughter, eager not to let Tamar one-up him. Never have they allowed their kids to meet; in fact, Arden half-wonders if their sole purpose had been a competition, an attempt by her parents to show that they were providing for Arden better than the other.

But Arden has learned that she is able to escape their game, to rebel in some ways. She makes every effort to love her sisters and foster the friendship growing slowly between them, even though they've hardly met. She can't help but laugh at the way they share secrets with each other, delighting in the fact that even though their friendships are limited, they're still not entirely alone. Not only have Arden's parents filled their homes with strained conflict, but they've also taken away the luxury of companionship. Never have the girls been able to truly see the world, or have a life outside of their parents. But, despite the hate that has grown like brambles around the estate, Arden has carved out a sliver of happiness for her and her sisters.

"I wish Sawyer could come to my tea party," Shachar says sadly. "I made her an invitation, but I know I won't be able to see her."

Sadness and anger dig their claws into Arden's chest. She tries to fend them off and smiles at Shachar. "I know it's hard, sweetie, but I'm sure Sawyer appreciates the invitation anyway. And someday, you two can have as many tea parties as you want. Promise."

Her sister grins up at her. "Love you, Arden."

"Love you, too," Arden whispers, taking the note.

"Oh, and Arden?" Shachar takes her hand. "Thank you for everything."

Those words mean much more than Shachar realizes. Not because they make up for years of loneliness and longing and deprivation... but because it's nice, to know that somehow love still exists in this world. That there is hope for something outside of her parents. That someday, Arden might finally have the chance to pursue everything that she's never been allowed to want.

Because in truth, Arden doesn't know exactly who she is, not yet. She doesn't know if she could truly fend for herself, outside of her parents' jurisdiction. But she wants to want things. She wants to have the ability to exist on her own, to be just a little selfish after all these years of being a pawn to a game she has never understood. And even after seeing how love can become so ugly, how necessity and business can blot out everything else, Arden still hopes. She believes that someday, she can see her sisters side by side. She can have her own life, independent of what's been built by her parents.

And that hope, that possibility, is the only thing keeping her going. It's what propels her through the day, and gives her the strength to fall back beneath her parents' whims, even when every part of herself wants so much more. Not just for her, but for her sisters.

Arden has never had the luxury to want something and actually get it, to find meaning in the world. But she knows... she promises herself that someday, she will.

...

Flight- Sutton Foster

HELLO! Long time no see, am I right? A lot of things have changed since I updated this story last; I'm seventeen now, I'm much more sleep-deprived because of school, and I'm in another show so I'll be super busy. But I'm so glad I finally got an update out! It took me a minute to get back into the flow so I hope this chapter is at least passable? I love these kids to death and can't wait to get even deeper into their heads throughout the story! Thanks to QueenOfMorning for Concorde, Jade for Arya, and Goldie for Arden; it was such a joy to write them and I hope I did them justice! I honestly don't have much to say, but it's good to be back writing again; I missed you all! Hope you're having a wonderful August (Taylor Swift was right, it truly slipped away LOL.)

Much Love,

Miri