VI. Fallacy

Oh, it's you that I lie with
As the atom bomb locks in
Yes, it's you I welcome death with
As the world, as the world caves in

Edric Grendel. 18.
District Six Male.

More than anything, the past five minutes have left him confused.

Edric knew his last reaping would be different due to the nature of the Quell, but he wasn't expecting something so dramatic. He woke up oddly relieved that morning, assuring himself there's no way his name was going to be called, and once the ceremony is over, he'll be free from the threat of being reaped for the rest of his life.

There shouldn't be any reason for him to be standing in front of his District, a potential target painted on his back. Six is infamous for being riddled with heinous crimes, after all. For Panem's sake, there are people younger than him who have committed bank heists, ran drug rings, and even went off on murderous rampages! Some teenagers have done the unthinkable, yet he's here.

It hasn't been made official yet, but Edric's already horrified. While he's never had bad dreams in the past, a nightmare is the only logical explanation for this.

Edric pinches himself repeatedly, the slightly sharpened nail on his index finger making him bleed. He blinks rapidly, his vision going fuzzy, all in hopes that he'll wake up in his bed, the past three minutes nothing more than a sick fantasy.

The blood on his finger is enough to prove that this is Edric's reality, and there's nothing he can do to change it.

That doesn't mean he can't wonder, Why me?

"Alright, I've gotten in contact with the Capitol, and I know what we're going to do!" Six's Escort, Rayle, returns to the stage after his brief absence.

Edric sighs. Whatever it is, he's not sure he's going to like it.

The female Tribute selection went off without a hitch. Rayle called three girls to the stage, those who'd received the highest amounts of votes from their peers, and eventually revealed it was Moxie Adegoke who'd be shipped off to the Capitol, having received fourteen percent of the votes.

The girl stands behind Edric now, her face indicating that she seems content with being chosen for the Games. At the very least, she seems to accept the circumstances. Based on what he knows about her (very little, just her name cursed under his parents' breaths), Moxie doesn't have reason to be afraid like he does. Just the way she squints her brows is enough to leave Edric intimidated, a cold shiver running down his spine after he stares too long.

(Is this what people think when they look at me? He wonders.)

The male selection has been less optimal thus far. Instead of calling three potential Tributes to the stage, Rayle just called up Edric and a boy named Enzo Pagani. He announced that the two of them had received the exact same number of votes, eleven percent and a bit each, and he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

If Edric had his way about it, he'd recommend they send Enzo off to the Capitol and let him go home and breathe. Maybe he's being presumptuous, but he firmly believes that he deserves to die less than somebody who infamously threw a grenade at a cargo train, killing all the workers inside.

Truth be told. Edric isn't sure why he's here at all.

While waiting for Rayle to get off the phone, Edric evaluated every possible wrongdoing he could've committed, and none of them seemed nearly as severe as what Enzo did. Sure, he hasn't always been as nice as he could be when running errands for his parents, and his intimidating posture is certainly grounds for a few people to fear him, but beyond that, he's an innocent.

If his parents were with him now, they'd tell him the same thing, but alas, Viori and Erish are sitting somewhere in the audience, and Edric can only hope they're just as confused as he is.

He's not entirely naive. Edric knows that a few people don't like his parents much, but they're in the wrong for that, and he shouldn't be loathed by transitive property.

"Why did one of today's clients seem so upset?" Edric asks his mother one evening after a long day of peddling around on his bicycle and dropping off orders for his parents. "Laverda Van Dessel from Northside."

"What did she say?" Viori responds, not really addressing her son's concerns.

Edric sighs. He loves his mother dearly, even if he's unsure if he should. She's always been there for him, for better or for worse, and he doesn't want to worry her. She's swamped with running the family business, after all. She probably doesn't have time for his concerns that probably don't mean much in the grand scheme of things.

He takes a deep breath and tells her, "She said that you and father cut your products, and that's why the pain medication she's been buying hasn't worked as well as it should be."

Viori grabs Edric by the hand and sits him on the sofa beside her. She whispers, "Well, Miss Van Dessel isn't wrong."

Immediately, Edric panics. Everything he's been told indicates that cutting medicinal products is a rotten business practice. It isn't moral, and any honest person should avoid doing it at all costs.

"We had no other choice," Viori continues, noticing the confusion in Edric's eyes. "There are so many other people selling the same stuff we sell in Six, you know. We need to keep ourselves afloat somehow. Otherwise, we'd be homeless, and I assume that's not something you want. Really, it's her fault for continuing to buy from us."

He's conflicted. Edric wants the best for his mother, just like how he wants the best for everybody, or at least as close to the best as possible for a place like Six.

"I understand," he responds, even though he isn't sure he does. He doesn't want to upset his mother. Panem knows he already has for talking to her about this. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," Viori assures him. She rises to her feet, stands over him, and smiles. "Now, rest up. You've got lots more orders to fill tomorrow."

While Edric was never physical with those who spoke ill of his parents and their business, he wasn't as nice as he could've been either. He said some things he didn't mean, but again, he struggles to see how that equates him to somebody guilty of legitimate domestic terrorism.

(A part of him can't blame Enzo for causing such a commotion. Edric understands what it's like to be angry all too well. He understands what it's like to feel hopeless in District Six, where dreams go to die. Of course, he doesn't know the details of what led to Enzo wanting to endanger so many people, but he does know that he'd consider the same if somebody ever did anything to seriously harm his parents.)

"So, what we're going to do is, well… close to a traditional reaping," Rayle explains, both to the boys and everybody watching. "I've printed out each of your names twenty-five times in honor of the twenty-fifth Games, and whichever name I pull from the reaping bowl is the name of our male Tribute for the year. Consider it a tiebreaker!"

Edric nods. It seems fair, or at least… as reasonable as something like this can be. Then again, life isn't fair. His certainly isn't.

"Good luck," Edric mutters to Enzo during a lull of silence as Rayle prepares the reaping bowl. He isn't sure why he said that considering Enzo's his enemy now, but it seemed like the right thing to do. It also seemed like the right thing to do when Edric turned in his ballot for the Quell without writing down a single name, as he didn't want to put anybody in danger. He regrets that now because voting for Enzo a week ago would have solved this conundrum he's in, the same way he thinks he'll regret wishing the other boy luck.

Enzo rolls his eyes and scoffs, "I too want the best for myself."

Edric really wasn't expecting a different response from him. After all, there's no good reason for the other boy to have wished him well. He wishes he could be annoyed by Enzo's sheer arrogance, but instead, Edric finds that he's actually a bit envious of it. If he had some backbone and could stand up for himself instead of his parents, he wouldn't be here.

Maybe it is his fault after all. Perhaps he should've run away when his mother told him about her unscrupulous activity. Then he could've been some sort of a hero instead of a mere bystander. Eh, what's he saying? There's no way he'd ever do that to his mother, even if she deserves it for the way she ignored Edric as he grew up, hardly paying attention to him until he was old enough to be useful.

That's why he's so eager to help her. He'd hardly have a mother if he wasn't productive and efficient. He doesn't want to return to the state of isolation and dread he felt before turning thirteen.

(Ultimately, she'll be fine without him. As much as Edric pretends he's playing a significant role in keeping the family business afloat, Viori and Erish are more than capable of doing drug runs themselves. If that gets too difficult, it'd be easy for them to hire a street rat to bike around town for them. The only thing that wouldn't be fine without Edric is Car, but he'd rather burn to ashes now than think too hard about the fate of the cat he adopted off the side of the road and nursed back to health. He can only hope that his only friend would be okay, even if it means finding a new person to steal the food of.)

Edric shouldn't worry. His fate is still yet to be sealed.

His hands tremble as he watches Rayle stir the names in the bowl with his eyes shut. After fifteen seconds that feel longer than Edric's entire life, the escort picks up a white slip of paper and holds it out to the audience.

It's weird to think that his entire life ultimately boils down to a piece of paper the size of his hand. Everything he's said and hasn't said, every punch he hasn't thrown, could become obsolete within a fraction of a second.

(If he knew this would happen to him, maybe he should've actually broken the nose of that lady who told him that his parents were monsters instead of just threatening her. Maybe Edric should've done everything he thought of but ultimately decided it was against his morals if this was the fate he was always destined to have.)

"The male tribute from District Six for the First Quarter Quell is..." Rayle unfolds the paper, looks at the name written on it and lets the suspense build for the crowd.

Edric's not sure how long he pauses for. No matter how brief it was, it's long enough for nausea to build in Edric's stomach and his eyes to sting like he's on the verge of tears. No matter what happens, Edric knows that he can't puke on stage and can't cry either. Even if he doesn't think he has much "dignity," considering eleven percent of his District wants to see him dead, he has enough to not make a fool out of himself.

(He'll save that for the arena when push comes to shove, and Edric ultimately isn't able to become the aggressive assailant people fear he is based on his demeanor.)

"Edric Grendel!"

As his name leaves Rayle's lips, Edric's heart sinks to the depths of his stomach.

I'm a moron for thinking it wouldn't be me, aren't I? He wonders, rapidly blinking to prevent his tears from falling down his face.

It was always going to be him, wasn't it? Why would Lady Luck have any mercy on him when he's assisted in treating the lives of others like cogs in a machine founded on greed?

"I'm Edric," he says to Moxie, now the only person from home he'll be with until he dies. He extends his hand toward her.

Her grip is firm as she shakes it and says, "I know. It'll be interesting working with you."

If she was trying to soothe him, she undoubtedly failed. Nothing can make him feel better now that he's been condemned to the horror he earned through his complaisance.

All Edric can do is hope that whatever final punishment the world has for him, it's quick and painless enough that it properly fits his crime.

Lorian Naciri. 17.
District Two Male.

He wasn't expecting Two's applause for him to be so hollow.

Then again, there's a whole lot Lorian wasn't expecting about today.

For one, he wasn't expecting Belacaine Beaufort, of all people, to be voted into the Quell. While she's objectively a smart choice considering just how many people loathe the Beaufort family for all their fraudulent hijinks, it never clicked in Lorian's head that the atrocities she partook in were grounds for being sent off to the slaughter.

Second, Lorian wasn't expecting to have been voted in by such a large margin. He did his work well, perfectly calculated the number of people in Two who'd be most likely to vote for Osman Harlow per the Academies' request, and thus, Lorian knew that he only needed maybe a fifth of the votes to get himself chosen for the Games. Oddly enough, he turned out to be correct, as twenty-one percent of Two wrote Osman's name on their slips according to the escort's musings. The fact seventy-eight percent of the ballots say his name, meaning only a mere one percent of the votes weren't for him or Osman, is, well… shocking.

(He doesn't remember putting that much work into everything.)

Lastly, Lorian wasn't expecting such a lukewarm reception to him getting reaped. As he stood tall and proud on top of the stage, his head pointed towards the sky, the people of Two offered little more than golf claps out of courtesy. Lorian knows they weren't expecting him to be their chosen Tribute, and they weren't expecting it to be by so much either, but the least they could do is give him a sliver of respect. He's going into the Games to honor them, after all.

(Aldric, Lorian's father, was the most unamused. As he stood on the stage, looking out at the people he'd soon be a hero to, the older man looked suspiciously pleased. Getting reaped was supposed to be Lorian's big surprise for him. It was supposed to be his way of telling Aldric, "I told you I was worthy of being your son. I told you I'm worthy of carrying the Naciri name, didn't I?"

However, it's almost as if this was his father's expected Reaping outcome. It's almost as if—)

"Give it up for the glorious, radiant Quarter Quell Tributes of District Two!" The escort interrupts Lorian's train of thought, his voice ever so flamboyant and chipper. "That's Belacaine Beaufort and Lorian Naciri."

Again, the audience hardly makes a sound as the two Tributes are led off stage; Lorian presumes to the justice building to have a proper goodbye with their friends and families.

"Tough crowd, huh?" Belacaine prods Lorian's upper arm with her index finger and smirks.

"I suppose." He doesn't give her much of a response. He's heard enough about her to know it's best if he stays away. Though Lorian was never the biggest fan of Beaufort Brand Ultra-Strength Serum, mainly because it tasted too bitter for his liking, he still can't forgive that family for the lies they told Two's cadets. He can forgive Belacaine for her involvement in the incident with Ethereality Estridge even less.

Lorian cocks his head behind him to see Two's mentors for the year, Brock Arrogate, and last year's victor, Micah Fairforge, having what seems to be a serious conversation.

Though he doesn't hear much of it, Lorian does hear Brock whisper, "Naciri was nearly in the bottom of his age group at Shindy's just a few months ago. He's never done anything outwardly rebellious that'd make the District vote for him, so I'm just as confused as you are."

If only they knew, Lorian muses, a mischievous grin on his face. He's honestly a little bit shocked he hasn't heard either of them suggest what happened. Really it wasn't all that revolutionary of him. If there weren't Peacekeepers trailing so closely behind them, Lorian would be tempted just to tell them the truth to put them out of their misery.

He and Belacaine are hurried into the justice building with little attention drawn to them. Micah whispers to Brock, "I don't remember it being so hectic last year."

"That's because it wasn't," Lorian hears the other mentor quip back. "The people aren't very happy with this year's Tributes, in case you haven't noticed."

Figures as much, Lorian hums, leaning back against the wooden-paneled wall as he waits for his parents and siblings.

For the past dozen or so years, District Two has prided itself on training the most ruthless, charismatic, all-around-brilliant Tributes to compete in the Hunger Games. As the District closest to the Capitol, Two's always been favored. That's why they haven't been prosecuted for preparing for the Games, which is supposed to be "illegal." Having Peacekeeper training facilities in Two makes covering up the Core Four Hunger Games Academies easier as well. If anybody official asks why dozens of sweaty teenagers are running around fighting each other, the easy response is, "They're preparing to serve our country as valiant Peacekeepers."

For most of the kids, that's technically not a lie. Anyone who isn't chosen to volunteer for the Hunger Games is often trained into a Peacekeeper. Quite frankly, Lorian would rather die than go down that route himself.

He didn't wake up every morning at the crack of dawn, working himself until he was senseless, just to become another masked man in grey and white. No, Lorian went to Shindy Gregory's Academy so that he could become a Tribute and, after that, a victor. He's trained for the glory, not to be another anonymous figure.

And that's why the Quell is perfect for him. Any normal year, a Tribute from Two is expected to survive a series of rigorous tournaments in order to get "officially endorsed" as that year's volunteer. If it weren't for the Quell, that'd be Lorian next year, minus the "officially endorsed" part. His friend Callan said it best if he's under the pressure of everybody from Two, Lorian's destined to crash and burn.

The Academies tried to control this year's Tributes as well. They held the tournaments just, as usual, and told all the cadets and their families to vote for Osman Harlow and Scoria Katona, but clearly, it didn't work.

Belacaine's reputation clearly preceded her, so people wanted to see her dead more than they wanted to see Scoria shine, but Osman was relatively well-liked. Though he doesn't have many friends, Lorian's well-liked too, which is a problem when you're trying to get yourself voted into a contest for "most-hated."

The average citizen doesn't care how badly Lorian Naciri needs the Games. The average citizen doesn't care how desperate he is to make his father proud, how horrified he is of following in his eldest sister's footsteps and becoming a failure. The average citizen only cares about petty conflicts or great popularity when it comes to voting in the Quell, and Lorian's far too ordinary for a large group of people to care about him enough that they vote him in.

So perhaps that's why nobody expected to see Lorian voted into the Quell. If he's ever been known for anything, it's his status as the son of a general and Two's secretary, never the most talented, the strongest, or the best for Two. There's no possible reason seventy-eight percent of people could vote Lorian into the Games unless—

"You cheated, didn't you?" His younger sister Adaly asks as soon as the Peacekeepers are clear from the room.

"Don't say that!" Annora, his mother, retaliates, slapping the fifteen-year-old in the wrist. "Lori, sweetie. You didn't tell me that you won the tournament."

"That's because he didn't," Adaly fires back, her tone rich with sarcasm. "Was that not obvious?"

"I was giving him the benefit of the doubt," Annora whispers.

The room falls silent, all eyes landing on Lorian, who stands paralyzed. He's waited his entire life to have his family's attention this firmly in the palms of his hands, but he never thought the circumstances would be so serious. Or at least, he didn't think that a month ago.

"What do you want me to say?" Lorian sneers. He loves his family and wants them to be proud, but the prospect of admitting what he's done in front of them is not something he's prepared to do. He really should've thought this part of his plan through, or at least fabricated a fight at Shindy's so that it would actually be feasible for him to have been voted in of his own merits.

His father stands beside him and pats him on the shoulder. "Family, I have something to tell you."

"Do you know what happened?" His mother asks, eyes wide with confusion.

"Yes, yes, I do." Aldric's voice falls to a whisper. "When I picked you up from work a few days ago, dear, I might have spent some time with the election box."

"You can't be—"

"I am." He cuts his wife off a bit too eagerly. "I knew how badly Lorian wanted the Games and how upset he was when he wasn't chosen at the tournament, so I did this for him. I know it was wrong of me, but look how happy our son is!"

Confused is more like it, but hey, at least the seventy-eight percent makes a bit more sense now.

When Lorian stole his mother's office key to tamper with the election box himself, he didn't see a single slip with his name on it. He carefully counted aside twenty-two percent of the slips and forged his own name on them one by one in the dead of night. He thought maybe he got lost in his rhythm and wrote his name on more slips than he thought since he was there for hours, but seventy-eight still felt obscene.

And of course, it did! It turns out, Lorian wasn't the only person so desperate to get him into the Games. His father's actions, however, beg a crucial question.

"Why did you go through all that trouble for me?" he asks Aldric, breaking his extended silence. "I mean, thank you… but I'm just really confused."

"Because I love you, my son," his father immediately answers, his voice sounding awfully rehearsed. "I know how badly you want the Games and—"

"You think I won't be chosen next year?" Lorian snaps.

"Not necessarily," Aldric attempts to explain. "I think if Micah Fairforge can win at seventeen, you can too, my boy. I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think you winning was possible."

It isn't difficult for Lorian to tell that he's being lied to. No, Aldric Naciri has never been the most affectionate man or even close. In fact, Lorian's entire life, his father has made it abundantly clear that the only thing he is is worthless to him and to the family name. As much as Lorian wants to believe it, there's not a single chance in the world that Aldric actually thinks his son is capable of winning the Hunger Games.

"I appreciate it, thank you," Lorian says with a sigh. He can't be upset with his father because he's still sure that he'd have enough votes to send himself into the Games even if it weren't for Aldric's little intervention, but he's not pleased.

As he stands face to face in front of his father, things start making sense, and Lorian begins to tremble. Though neither of them says a word, a conversation plays out in Lorian's head.

"You'll never be my son," Aldric scoffs. "If you were, the Core Four'd have actually chosen you for the Games, and I wouldn't have to do this."

"Does that mean you want me dead?" Lorian asks in horror.

"I don't care. Either come home having successfully proven yourself to me or don't come home at all."

In reality, Lorian's father doesn't say what he truly means. Instead, he extends his hand and tells his son, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Lorian shakes his hand and smiles.

Little does his father know, Lorian didn't need his help to get into the Games. This isn't the mind trick that he think's he's playing. No, Lorian brought himself to this future on his own, and he'll prove himself to his father just the same.

Come hell or high water, Lorian Naciri will prove that he deserves his last name, and he won't let his father take that pride away from him.

Asherah Uzeram. 18.
District Seven Female.

She's had fifteen minutes to adjust, but it still doesn't feel real.

Never in her life did Asherah think that doing what she does best, helping people, would lead her to a situation where her only option is to hurt.

Asherah wishes she could play dumb. She wishes she had no idea why the people of Seven decided it was her who should die. But, she knows their reason all too well. She doesn't blame them either; how would they know it was a misunderstanding?

She didn't know it was a misunderstanding herself until about thirty seconds ago. What Asherah doesn't know, however, is what exactly she's supposed to say to Hadassah.

"I'm really sorry, okay?" Her only friend pleads for the umpteenth time. "It just all happened so fast."

"I know," Asherah replies, her head hung low in despair. "It was a hectic day and—"

"So much was going on!" Hadassah cuts her off. "There were the twins and then the other baby, and I was in a rush and—" She's not even able to finish her sentence. Instead, she mumbles at the ground, "I'm really, really sorry."

"I don't doubt that," Asherah tries to console her, even though she really shouldn't be. "And you didn't think it would lead me here."

"The Quell was just about the last thing on my mind," The other girl stammers. "I never thought that it would end up this way!"

"Well, it did."

No matter what Hadassah says, there's no turning back time. No matter how genuinely apologetic she seems, there's nothing Hadassah can do that'll change the fact Asherah Uzeram is genuinely, utterly screwed.

It's unusual for there to be pounding on in the middle of the night.

Asherah lifts herself out of bed and runs through the clinic, opening the door to find a panicked woman standing on the porch.

Before Asherah can address her, the stranger speaks frantically, "Mayor Tamarack's daughter and her wife have both gone into labor. They'll be here soon; you can help, right?"

"Of course," Asherah replies with a stern nod. "Don't even worry about it; I've got this all taken care of."

Asherah's mother, Shifrah, had been talking for weeks about how the mayor's daughter, Khaya, got artificially inseminated at the same time as her wife, Anthia, not expecting both of them to get pregnant. They also weren't expecting that Khaya'd be pregnant with twins. Margalit and Hadassah's mother, Shifrah, told their daughters to be on red alert in case anything happens, but Asherah never thought they'd be in labor simultaneously.

She heard a few hours ago that Anthia was due any day now, but Khaya following suit is unexpected. It also means that there's been some sort of complication. Of course, though, Asherah doesn't want to frighten this poor lady who's just doing her job, and really, everything should be under control.

"So you'll be doing the delivery then?" Tamarack's servant asks, seemingly irritated.

"Well, me and my colleague Hadassah, yes." Asherah nods. "I know I'm not my mother, but she taught me everything I know. She's out with Shifrah right now, and she won't make it back in time."

The servant crosses her arms and scowls. "The mayor told me he wants Margalit or Shifrah to deliver the baby. What am I supposed to do, not listen to him?"

"If you don't let Hadassah and I help, there might not be any babies at all." As much as she feels panic coming on, Asherah knows to ignore it. She can't falter when new lives are on the line.

"Fine," the servant agrees. "But if there's even a slight wrongdoing—"

"You can trust me," Asherah assures her. "I promise, I know what I'm doing."

From the other room, she can hear her District partner, Olathe Whitethorn, screaming, "If you're gonna try tackling me to the ground, at least put some passion in it."

Asherah sighs and tucks her head into her folded arms. She doesn't understand why Seven put her on the same level as a serial murderer who killed over two dozen Peacekeepers when she didn't even do a thing wrong. Even if she was the reason Khaya's son didn't survive, she doesn't deserve the same fate as a mythic beast.

"You really think the Capitol's going to let somebody like him win?" Hadassah walks behind Asherah and wraps her arms around her. She immediately writhes, not wanting to be physically close to the girl who condemned her to what'll soon be a tragedy. "Seriously, Asherah. You could have a chance at making it through this."

As much as Asherah wants to believe Hadassah, she knows the other girl is just doing damage control. Even if she's likely the least threatening person in that arena, from her petite stature to her tender heart, she knows that she's no match against a killer and whatever else the other Districts have in store.

"Just leave, Hadassah," Asherah begs her. Honestly, she should've told Hadassah to go when she revealed that everything was a misunderstanding. "I appreciate you trying to apologize, but at this point, I'd prefer if we parted ways before either of us say something we regret."

Lord knows she's resented these past two weeks enough. The following two are sure to be even worse.

"He didn't make it," Hadassah says in a nervous panic, cradling Khaya's stillborn son in her arms. "I followed your advice, and well, this is what happened."

All it takes is one look at the colorless baby for Asherah's eyes to tear up. Never in her career as a midwife has she failed to deliver a healthy baby. Technically, she still hasn't, but she gave Hadassah advice that eventually led to failure. The other girl's never been as skilled of a midwife as Asherah has, so this might as well be entirely her fault. If she'd told Hadassah something different, this poor child might still be alive.

Asherah kneels and puts her ear against the baby's chest, looking for a heartbeat that she already knows won't be there. "Oh my goodness…."

"You realize that—"

"I know this is my fault!" She cuts Hadassah off, not wanting to hear of her mistakes from somebody else when she already knows. "I just don't know where we're supposed to go from here."

Really, Asherah does know. She'll tell Mayor Tamarack that there was a lapse of judgment in the delivery room, and as a result, Khaya's son didn't make it. She'll say that it was all her fault, and as upset as she is, she understands any sort of punishment that he'll possibly inflict on her.

Asherah Uzeram has for so long prided herself on being her mother's prodigy, the best possible midwife that anybody can be, but now she's not so sure. Not only has she left a permeant black mark on her family's name, but she's also done so at the cost of the most important man in Seven's suffering.

Without her reputation, Asherah isn't sure what she is anymore. Any rational person wouldn't let her near their child, and her mother would be right to abandon her altogether. Shifrah always wanted her daughter to succeed, but now she's failed in the worst way possible.

Selfishly, she doesn't want to face her consequences alone, but deep down inside, Asherah knows that's the only way.

The look of disappointment in Shifrah's eyes when she walks into the room is palpable.

"I'm sorry, mother." Asherah doesn't even know what she's apologizing for. She knows that she did nothing wrong to deserve this fate, but she can't tell that to her mother.

It'd be so easy for her to just rat Hadassah out, but Asherah knows that's not the right solution. If she tells her mother about Hadassah's confession, it'll just lead to friction between the two families that have become so closely intertwined over two generations. With Asherah gone, the delivery center is already at a disadvantage. The last thing they need is Shifrah and Margalit butting heads. Even if there's a good chance Asherah won't live to see the aftermath of her actions if she tells her mother about Hadassah, she knows in her heart she'll be worried for the remainder of what little life she has left.

Shifrah frowns, her arms crossed. "I know you're sorry, honey, but there's a good chance you being elected into the Games could permanently affect the business. Nobody wants to have their child delivered by the mother of somebody who was sent to die for failing to deliver the mayor's grandson."

Asherah hadn't even thought of it like that. Is that selfish? That she considered her own reputation and what it could lead to before thinking of her poor mother?

"I wasn't trying to harm anybody," she explains for the umpteenth time. "There was just so much pandemonium in the room that night and—"

"Margalit's already relayed what Hadassah told her to me a dozen times," Shifrah says. "You don't have to explain it to me again. If you thought you were such an expert, you should have handled the second baby yourself."

"I was busy with the first baby," Asherah reminds her. "I had to rush her to intensive care before Khaya would wind up with two dead babies."

"Whatever," her mother intones. "There's nothing we can do to fix this now, is there?"

It's almost like a mirror of Asherah and Hadassah's conversation, except now Asherah's in the hot seat, repeatedly apologizing and likely being a nuisance. Every word she says is just a reminder of how unfortunate her soon-to-be fate is. Every word convinces her that maybe she deserves it after what she did to her family.

"There's nothing we can do." Asherah sighs, wiping away the tear forming in the corner of her eye. Before fully crying, she remembers the last thing Hadassah told her. "Unless, of course, I win."

Shifrah gasps. "Do you really think you could? I mean, I don't want to doubt you and your abilities, sweetie, but you're up against the Graggoth, and lord only knows what else."

"I don't know," she admits. "Maybe I'm not the strongest physically, but I think the Capitol would strongly prefer me coming back alive than anybody like Olathe. Even if I failed to deliver a healthy baby, at least I'm not deadly."

Her mother nods her head. "You make a fair point, but you'd still have to be somewhat skilled in order to survive."

She's right, unfortunately. If Asherah wants to live, she can't rely solely on herself. She'd need some allies, but if everybody else is like Olathe, maybe they're more harm than good. All she can do is hope that there's somebody slightly normal while also being capable of protecting her. Asherah's never been the sort of person who wants to rely on others for her safety, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The only thing she's unsure of is whether or not she's capable of talking to another person and bonding with them while simultaneously thinking about how they'd have to die for her to live.

Her mother always told her that a woman's life is more important than that of the baby she delivers. If Asherah twists those words enough, it could translate to her own life being more valuable than any allies she may come across. That still doesn't make her feel any better.

"I have a plan," Asherah tells Shifrah.

Maybe if she kisses up to the Capitol enough and tells them just how much she resents the night that led her to this mess, they'll have mercy on her, or better yet, send her sponsor gifts. Maybe then, Asherah doesn't need to risk another person's well-being to propel her own.

Her mother smiles. "Please give me a reason to believe you."

Asherah isn't sure if she can promise that, especially after she's already let Shifrah down once before. She does, however, know that the Games are her one shot of clearing her family's name as well as her own, and if she doesn't do her very best to live, she'll die just as regretful as she was when Khaya's son died.

The lives of others have been in Asherah's hands so many times. All she can do is hope that she gets lucky now that the tables have turned.

As The World Caves in - Matt Maltese

Right, so I am distraught after this chapter, and as much as I wish I could say I did this to myself, I am somewhat innocent. You should blame Em for Edric, Momo (but not as much) for Lorian, and Goldie for Asherah. Fuck you all; again, Momo slightly less because Lori is a little bitch, but he's my little bitch.

For those curious (which should be everyone since I'm fascinating), to answer last week's question, I would name my vape juice "three-week-old dirty sock." I really enjoyed Brooke's answer of "Baja Blast." It was very creative and original. On a completely unrelated note, does anybody want something from Taco Bell? That's not this week's question, by the way; let's get to that now.

Weekly Question #2: If I, ladyqueerfoot, was the bachelorette on the hit reality-TV dating series "The Bachelorette," what would your strategy be for exiting the limousine and making your first impression on me.

We've just got one more intro to go until we get to the crazy sillies, so stay tuned next week for that. Even though the setting of train rides/Capitol arrival seems odd, I can guarantee it'll be a ravishing occasion.

Fuck this shit, I'm crying,
Linds