XXXI: Launch.

Sander Elek, 18
Victor of District Two

He knew this was going to happen.

He knew it. From the moment he forced himself into bed last night, the tightness in his chest like the beginnings of a heart attack, it was inevitable. By some miracle he sleeps, fitful as it may be.

But by the time morning comes, he feels seconds from collapse. His chest aches as if someone has taken a hammer to the bones that make it whole, each of them splintered and struggling beneath the weight of him. Every half-second his pulse jumps out of his wrist, legs jittering, nails digging harsh lines into the tattoo over his hand, no comfort to be found—

It doesn't seem possible that he can do this.

All morning he's listened to the sounds of people padding back and forth, past his closed door. No doubt they're beginning to grow impatient by the delay he's caused—if Sander knows well enough, and he thinks he knows damn well after last night, then Levi is long gone. That means Rohana is too. Callias is more than likely in the kitchen, watching his door for signs of movement, and Matthias… well, Sander doesn't want to think about what his mentor is doing.

Truthfully, Sander thinks it sort of ridiculous that no one's even bothered to knock, let alone check on him. What if he was dead? They'd be waiting for nothing, until the inevitable moment when there was no time left and someone finally bothered to crack the door open.

The seconds tick down. Sander knows he's growing closer to that moment, but he can't bring himself to get up when he can hardly breathe. All he wants to do is curl back up until he feels relatively human again.

The door opens. No knock, no warning. Matthias' icy gaze levels at him, his positioning—braced at the side of the bed, bent over his knees, fingers constantly at his own pulse.

"Is this your way of protesting?" he asks drily. "Or are you just intentionally being difficult?"

He swallows away the sandpaper dryness in his throat—tries to, anyway. "You know what it is."

"I do," Matthias agrees. "But if you think I'm going to sit down with you and give you a fucking hug, you're wrong. There's no way out of this. You're here—"

"I know," he snaps. That's the thing with Two. When he was better, they loved him. When Sander could keep the fears and anxiety behind closed doors, they didn't care. Looking it in the face was different. This was weakness, the sort of thing meant to be chased away. It was wrong of him to feel this way in every sense of the word.

Matthias wasn't going to coddle him; he never had. They would rather Levi's chaos than someone at the point of near-tears the morning of the Games, too struck by fear to leave their room.

"What do I need to say to you to get you up?"

"Nothing. Just give me a minute."

"You're out of time, Elek. What do I say?"

"Nothing," he repeats. "You have no idea what it's like to feel like this, to be terrified—"

"You think I don't know fear?" Matthias fires back. He's rather mirthless overall, but Sander swears he almost looks amused in that moment. "The 92nd. Who went in for District Two?"

"What?"

"Who went in for District Two?"

Sander closes his eyes. He knows this, of course. He knows the last at least twenty years of their history, all the biggest moments and greatest defeats. It's required of them. He struggles through the haze that's occupying his brain, sifting through tribute after tribute until their names and faces come to mind, two among hundreds.

"Cardea," he says slowly. "Cardea and Rakan."

"And what happened to them?"

"Cardea was eighth. The pair from Four dispatched her before the feast. Rakan went down in the bloodbath. Tried to kill the girl from Eight, but both of her allies showed up."

And they beat him to death. Bare fists, feet, striking him into a bloody pulp until there was nothing much left of him at all. Sander remembers watching it in class all too well, the horrified hush that fell over them all watching one of their own fall so quickly, so brutally. It was a fate not befitting of them, doomed to happen anyway.

"Rakan was my best friend's older brother," Matthias tells him. "And then the next year, you know what they said? Congrats, Rennick. You've won the ballet. You're going in. So there I am, standing on that pedestal, and all I'm seeing is Rakan. I'm wondering if that's about to happen to me. So don't tell me I don't know what it's like to be terrified."

Even recalling the memory, Matthias doesn't look fearful. But he was, once upon a time. Sander nods, slowly, trying to compare the mentor before him now into a nervous eighteen year old.

That he was, and he still won. Doesn't that mean Sander can't do the same thing?

"You're welcome, by the way," Matthias says. "Get dressed. We're out of here in five."

Sander blinks after him all the way until he closes the door, puzzled. Only when he's left alone once again does Sander realize that the ache in his chest has dissipated—its presence still lingers, but not as strongly. The interruption, the forced quiz, it's distracted him enough that he can draw enough air into his lungs to stand, even if it is on shaky limbs.

That fear clinging to him is healthy, though, is it not? It's kept him alive.

And you can't convince him that's a bad thing.

Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Victor of District Six

It doesn't bother Vadric that they're among the first to the hovercraft.

The solitude in these moments is something to be grateful for—just like the good old times, sleep refused to come. They didn't sleep a wink, and there was no delaying the walk here. Everus had not hugged them, but he had squeezed tight around her shoulder and wished them luck, and that was the end of it.

A Peacekeeper has not yet come around with their tracker, but she can hear them in the bowels of the hovercraft, talking back and forth, barking orders beneath their helmets. Every so often, in the early light, a tribute will trickle in. Alia from Three, first. Farasha not long after her, the two tight together in their seats. Milan passes her without hardly a glance, head down just like Vadric's had been not long ago.

They all seem comfortably spread out, a feeling that ends so abruptly Vadric can't help but jolt as someone slumps into the seat beside her with a tired sigh.

Levi tilts his head to the left, towards them, with a smile. "'Morning, other-Six."

Vadric forces away the skin-crawling sensation of someone so close, the dismay at their bubble being broken apart. "Morning," he murmurs in response, trying to settle once again.

"Don't worry. I won't talk your ear off the whole way there. I'm sure Wes did that enough to you."

That he did, though it was something Vadric grew used to quickly, even if they had initially disliked it. It was a part of the charm Weston claimed to have, after all, this insatiable urge to speak even at the most inappropriate of times. It's fitting, then, that he found allies who are much the same way. Threatening, nothing to joke about, but with a hint of something lighter to them.

Vadric still isn't sure they like sitting here, though.

"Speaking of, actually, I think you broke his heart a little," Levi says.

"Sorry?"

"Weston. Heart. Broken." Levi mimics a heart, bringing the two of his hands together, and then yanks them apart. Vadric watches them long after they've parted ways, both of his hands returning to his lap. It's not something they're capable of doing. Not heartbreak.

"I think he's fine," Vadric says quietly, but while they think it, does that really mean it's true? He had both of his allies up on Six last night long into the twilight hours, though luckily Vadric couldn't hear them through the walls. By all accounts and purposes, Weston is acting no different than his usual self—walking with typical bravado, parading around, enjoying the looks he receives.

Now that she thinks about it, though, had there been a trace of upset in his eyes when Vadric had so desperately refused his offer? He had left quick enough that they hadn't really thought about it.

People didn't get upset about them. There was no reason to. Vadric wasn't anything good or special, certainly not worth thinking about.

And people like Weston normally didn't even look in their direction.

"I will leave you alone," Levi vows. "But between me and you, if we see each-other in there, it's a truce. Weston would probably knock me sideways otherwise."

"You think he could?" Levi is a Career, after all.

He shrugs. "He's bigger than me. Not as fast, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't chase me down."

The thought is almost amusing. It would be so if Vadric wasn't so hyper-fixated on the idea of a truce, the vague appeal of it. There's no harm in it, really. Having three dangerous people out there in the arena who won't kill her on sight is a dream come true—at least it would be to most people.

"Besides, I think us fake blondes ought to have some sort of a pact."

Vadric blinks. Levi gestures at their head, as if it was something to be easily forgotten about, and then scuffs a hand through his own hair. It's a more washed out color than the brightness it had been back in October, but at least there's a semblance. Vadric still remembers how terrible her own had looked after a few months in the Capitol, everyone's adamant refusal for easy access to bleach obvious enough. It was a painful summer of hacking away the faded blonde ends to let the dark grow back in, until it was all that remained.

To this day they don't know why they had done it, not even that first time. It was a hobby, something to do within the safe confines of their bathroom, the walls of their house surrounding them on all sides. The only hobby they could do that made sense. Gloves and the sharp, metallic scent clinging to the walls and the revelation of the harsh change chasing away the dregs of any vicious nightmare.

That time was simpler. More cruel, maybe, to them and them only, but at least Vadric knew what the day would bring. They still haven't responded, even, though Levi has since settled back into his chair and closed his eyes, as if taking a nap. The hovercraft is nearing capacity, now, and there's still no sign of Weston. That must be some sort of blessing.

He really was a constant for her—a surprisingly good one. He was annoying. Infuriating, even. But Vadric cared about him in a way that perhaps he cared about them, too, and it was better that they were apart. There was no use in having a friend, now.

No matter how badly they wished to have one.

In just a few hours, that could be ripped away. Any chance of normalcy that Vadric had been so close to touching was vanishing before their eyes, Weston and all

It really was better like this—they would just have to work to convince themself.

Kai Melchior, 15
Victor of District Five

He really, truly hates needles.

Yes, he's aware of the irony, and just how bad that sucks for him. Even after being stuck with a likely hundred of them over his life, Kai has struggled to find the ability to get over it.

When the Peacekeeper approaches, he knows what to do, what's about to happen—despite his wish to be removed from the situation, Kai sticks his arm out and squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the stab of pain that is surely to come. Even when it finally does, the exact same as last time, he still jolts. Gloved fingers dig hard into his arm, holding him in place as the iciness rushes through his veins.

He can feel Ravi staring at him, but Kai doesn't dare open his eyes, not until his arm is released back into his lap and the pain recedes. Looking would only make him nauseous, and that's the last thing he needs on a day where he finally doesn't feel sick to his stomach.

Sure, he has a headache that makes his eyes want to squint even against the dim blue lights of the hovercraft, but that's nothing compared to the worst days.

Kai swallows watching the needle sink into Ravi's arm, trying not to flush with shame at how simply he holds his arm out, not so much as blinking as the tracker is deposited. His own fingertips find the small bump nestled into his forearm, now, rubbing at it as if that will make the last of the lingering pain vanish.

There's no use in feeling so disheartened over something out of his control, but Kai hates how much it bothers him; both the needles themselves, and everyone else's easy ability to deal with it. He sinks back into the chair, though there's no comfortable positioning to be found, and closes his eyes once again—the best he can do now is try to give his eyes a rest and will the throbbing in his temples to fuck off.

He's not having such wishful thinking to believe it will actually happen, at least not in time. Kai is going into this bloodbath with a head-problem, thank you very much.

"How are you feeling?"

Ravi has spoken not even a dozen words since they met up this morning and found seats together—by any account, he had taken in Kai's stable gait and focused eyes as a symbol of his relative steadiness.

It's not just about his general situation, then. He's not an idiot.

"Fine," he answers. "I'll take what I can get."

"So you're… not a fan of needles?"

It's a polite guess for how violent Kai's opposition was to the whole ordeal. That, or Ravi refuses to assume, too worried to venture down the wrong path. Kai offers a terse nod. The throbbing in his arm is a falsity, but he still touches the spot once again regardless.

"I guess it's easy to feel differently, given how we've experienced them."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been stuck with them since you were little. Poked and prodded. I was always… administering them. Pain medication. Blood draws. Things like that."

Ravi always explains things so succinctly, as if he's a thousand miles away from the reality in which the things he speaks about ever happened. Perhaps that's why flinching wasn't an option for him. To him, they're tools of good. Kai has only ever known needles as the sign of a doctor's office, a prolonged stay in the pediatric ward.

He didn't have to say anything, definitely didn't have to indulge Kai in any of his seemingly hellish past, but Kai wouldn't be bothered listening to it all.

"You're really trying to make me feel better about being frightened of an inanimate object, huh?" he asks. He hopes that makes Ravi smile, at least—he's not opening his eyes and risking any new modicums of pain to check.

"Did it work?" Ravi wonders.

"To be determined. I'll let you know later."

Given he survives, that is. Someone like him has no right being anywhere near a massacre, and everyone in here already has a taste of the blood, the hands for killing. While they're not all itching to do so again, Kai has no doubt that the second they step foot in there, a switch will flip. The same thing will happen to him no matter how he feels.

If Ravi is going to watch out for him when things get bad, and they undoubtedly will, then Kai has to step up for as long as he can and protect them. He knows what he's signed up for—Ravi will run for no weapon, wish for no kill.

That's Kai's job. And as long as he can do it, he damn will.

"I think I should come to you," Kai says suddenly. "I know we agreed on the opposite but I'm fine, today. I can run."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Alright, then." Ravi doesn't put up a fight. Arguing is not in his blood. He seems to have some amount of faith in Kai that people struggle to see. When he finally opens his eyes he sees something else in Ravi's, too, a sense of gratefulness. He knows what Kai's doing.

He's sparing him, hopefully, from the worst of it.

Truth be told, Kai just needs to be out there again. Even in December, in the midst of hell, the rush of it all had called to him, made him feel alive. A weapon in his hand, the chance at a real future… who wouldn't harbor adrenaline at that?

He does want to win, if the hourglass marking his life will so allow him. But if not, Kai at least wants to go feeling some sort of purpose, and running now will be the beginning. His death, if he finds it needs to be marked with something. Fireworks. An explosion. Noise and thunder and ceremony where someone least expects it.

Anything less is simply unacceptable.

Pietro Dolokhov, 16
Victor of District Twelve

The way Arafa is bouncing around the place, it's as if it's her first time.

Pietro knows it's not, mostly because she was here with him last year, and presumably has a few more before that tucked into her pocket to go off on. Perhaps it's because she's rarely spending company with hopeful murderers—or something like that.

She keeps popping her head out the door to request an Avox, tray after tray appearing to be laid out on the table in front of him. Cuts of meat and slices of cheese, halved grapes and berries of all colors. Every other word that slips out of her mouth is something about him eating, about being strong and making sure he has enough energy.

Pietro feels like he has enough energy to wipe everyone out with just a look. He's practically bouncing with it himself, eyeing the tube in the corner of the room. Anyone else would claim him to be some sort of delusional idiot—no Twelve wants to get in that tube and be sent in the arena. Every other year it spells immediate doom.

But not for him. He's done this once before, and he can do it again.

"Keep at it," Arafa demands, shoving a cube of cheese into his face. Pietro takes it regardless of the fact that his stomach feels like to burst, chewing through it slowly.

"It's like you're trying to fatten me up for the slaughter."

"Oh, you're so dramatic. You Twelve's are always so skinny."

Well, there's usually a damn good reason for it, but it's not like Arafa is going to understand the concept of starvation. She's rather plump herself, her rounded cheeks reddened in excitement. She's been eyeing the hung garment bag for some time now as if dying to tear into it, the greatest treasure in the world hidden inside of it.

"Alright," Pietro begins, getting to his feet as he wipes his palms down against his thighs. It's not as if these clothes are of any use, anyway. "What's the damage? How bad is it?"

"Not bad at all, dear! I, of course, advocated for more flair, but the end result is… workable."

As is everything. It can't be any more plain than the first time, nondescript shirt and cargo pants already smeared with cold dust for added dramatics. For the time being, he stands there obediently in front of the mirror as Arafa begins to help him into the clothes—a fitted pair of trousers, not so tight that they don't tuck into the pitch-dark boots that stretch halfway up his calves. The long-sleeved tunic that she drops over his head feels too large, material too think, the tie that keeps it closed across his chest tickling against his skin.

Arafa busies herself with a thick leather belt, looping it just above his hips. The weight someone makes him feel more secure, even as she continues to adjust it, refusing to be satisfied.

It really isn't anything obvious. Plain, almost, everything in a neutral or earthy shade. Pietro could almost blend in Twelve dressed like this if everything weren't so pressed and pristine, every single line more clean than anything he's ever owned or seen someone wear. Even on reaping day he didn't look like this.

"Guess this doesn't give me much to go off of," Pietro says, shifting from foot to foot as she instructs, nodding her head in satisfaction. It almost feels incomplete. Pietro swears he's seen something similar in a book before, maybe something historical, but he never paid much attention in those classes. He doubts Clementine has any more of a clue with how fast her brain runs, but Zoya… he's smart, isn't he? Maybe he's guessed it.

They're all about to find out soon regardless.

The last thing she hands him is a watch, it's face golden around the edges, almost something antique. Still, there's something that doesn't quite fit about it. No matter how long Pietro stares the number remains fixed—1200, the seconds beyond it equally blank.

A curious thing indeed.

"I don't suppose you can give me any hints?" Pietro wonders, giving her a cheeky grin in the mirror. He asked her the same thing the first round, too, though being smeared with dust and having seen a few months, he had a damn good guess as to what he was about to be thrown into.

"You don't think I know?"

"Do you not?"

"Of course not, silly! I'm no Gamemaker. We're given prototypes, a series of options, and go from there. We tweak patterns, colors, fits… but everything else is classified. It's better that way."

For who, really? Certainly not him. If Pietro had even half a clue of what he was about to be thrown into, maybe he could be better prepared. Getting your bearings up on that pedestal seems to be half the problem, at least in the regular years.

He just wants to know, alright? Sue him. It's not like Arafa would tell him even if she was harboring secrets—that's the problem with these damn Capitolites. Everything is a game to them, even the element of surprise.

"Oh, I do hope you win," Arafa says, clasping his shoulders. "It would be so nice for Twelve to have another victor so soon after Cress."

Apparently she has no faith in Ravi. Pietro can't have any either, if he plans on winning. He can trust in himself and nothing else, that much is clear.

"I'm sure you can," she continues. "Do you think so, too?"

He smiles. "I'll let you know in a few weeks, I guess."

Or not. Then again, it's not like Arafa will really care all that much if he bites it. She'll have another tribute to work with this summer, a dozen summers after that. By this time next year, if he's dead, Arafa won't even remember his name.

When he steps into that tube, though, at least she smiles. Claps her hands together, like it's such a delightful thing to be seeing him off. She even offers him a wave as the glass slides into place around him, and Pietro feels obligated to give her one back. She's never done anything to hurt him—dense though she may be, Arafa has been an ally in all this.

He can't say he has such trust in anything else. Clementine is erratic. Zoya is a wildcard. Anything, in just a matter of minutes, could happen. Pietro knows that all too well from living in Twelve, from losing so much.

The platform beneath his feet shudders and begins to rise.

It's now or never for them all.

Theora Mazaryn-Reinhart, 21
Gamemaking Assistant

"Everyone is accounted for," Kosta announces. "Pedestals top-side in thirty seconds."

She can hardly breathe.

Even if she had no hand in designing this, Theora finds herself at attention, rapt as her eyes fixate on the screen. She watches tunnels of darkness give way to a pinpoint of light at the top, the silhouette of children turn into real, living people.

She has not been here for long. She is still fundamentally an outsider. She has no true role other than to linger on the outskirts, to observe and note-take as she's been doing this past year. While stilted and awkward, the others had welcomed her back with open arms, making headway to overcome the distance that had come between them.

She felt it, too, the warmth in the control room that grew exponentially every single day. It was special today. Though she flit around as if on wings, Elide smiled at her so often her cheeks would hurt by the end of the night. She was gone, now, her absence like a worrying thorn in Theora's side, but the peace that overcame her was enough; it enabled her to finally take a seat in the chair that Andy pulled up, to sit back and watch the magic.

Footsteps were hurtling down the stairs, too. Elide was coming back. Everything was falling neatly into place, as it should.

She should have been here this whole time, but Theora fought away the bitterness in favor of overwhelming pride. They had built this from the ground-up, clawed for greatness, and they had all succeeded.

Theora was proud of them regardless of her own achievements.

"I got Charon, finally," Elide declares, breathless. "We've got the floor."

"What?" she murmurs, the question only audible to Andy.

"She wanted us to make the announcement. Y'know, give us the final word. Kind of an attractive concept, I'll give her that."

Theora huffs out a laugh. Elide already has her hands on a microphone, miniscule, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. One tap of a button and her voice can reign over the entire arena, let the tributes know who's truly in charge.

If they hadn't already figured it out.

The plates lock into place with a quiet shudder. "Start the countdown," Elide orders, and Theora is relieved to see that the manic bustle of the room calms, all eyes at attention at the press of a single button.

It really is beautiful, what they've created, in the most dark way. The heavy, elongated angles, spires that end at perfect points contrasted against the too-blue sky. Everything looks so pristine, something right out of a child's fairytale book—the rows upon rows of green and well-manicured stone pathways, trellis' of roses and azalea bushes with their bright bursts of color.

On all four sides, the tributes are beginning to tear their gazes away from the foreboding structure, the slate-gray creatures that loom overhead. One by one they count the numbers, begin to realize. Watching the gears turn in their head, Theora feels almost like a scientist with a handful of specimens. Like rats on a wheel.

One of them mouths where is everyone? but it's to no one in particular. The gentle breeze steals the words away and carries them off into the expanse of green, where they're shattered against the stone walls in the distance.

A gentle hand presses against her arm just shy of the forty second mark. "I think you should do it," Elide whispers. The microphone is right there in her hands, the offer so tempting…

She shakes her head. "It's not mine to do."

"It's exactly yours to do."

She's heard the words, back when they were writing out exactly what needed to be said. That was back when Charon was going to announce it, things taken so far out of their hands that they could do nothing more than sit back and wait to hear it. Theora has been so uninvolved, an intruder in their careful process, that this feels like a truer way in than anything else.

Gently, she plucks the microphone from Elide's hand, their fingers warm against one another. Elide's smile is so bright, as bright as that damn sun in the arena. Everything contained within it is doomed to fall to darkness, but this… this is reliability. Light where there should be none.

Theora holds firm. Her own smile is nowhere near as magnificent, but she still feels as if she hasn't smiled that way in a long, long time.

She feels rapturous as she opens her mouth. Like she could conquer the entire world.

"Attention tributes!"

Regrettably, though I was hoping to double update or at least semi-double update during the Games, that is not happening now as I have straight up not written in a month. Yeah, all that I said about starting again? Lies, apparently. But I'll get back on it or else I'm going to run out of backlog quick enough, oop.

Hopefully this will suffice in getting you hype (or not) for the bloodbath. If not, don't know what to tell ya.

Until next time.