LIII: The Final 8.

Maelle Davian, 16
District One

The house is quiet when she wakes.

Her eyes are heavy, sticky, and Maelle forces herself to stare resolutely at the ceiling for several long minutes, less she rolls back over and succumbs to sleep once again. The clock on the bedside table indicates only a few hours have passed since the final eight announcement was made; Nolan had shooed her off to get some sleep before the prep teams arrived, but Maelle hardly feels any more rested.

By the sound of it, neither Nolan or Aviya have begun to stir. Maelle slips out of the guest room with a throw draped around her shoulders and creaks down the hallway—the house remains trapped in a dim, wintery haze, only the glow from the projector illuminating the far wall. Though it shows nothing of importance, no glimpse at Tova, the lack of fanfare is somehow comforting.

Nolan must have thought the same, fast asleep on the couch facing it. Maelle can't recall many times where he's left this area of the home. He's dedicated to making the two of them their meals, but even from the kitchen he still has a good enough view of what's going on. How can she blame him for wanting to keep such a close eye on the daughter that he hasn't seen in months, that he never wanted to go in the first place?

It would be easy to wake him and get the day started, but he needs every bit of sleep he can get. Since the day he showed up on her doorstep and demand she take the guest room, he has been unfailing in his devotion, the closest thing to a father she's had in years. She knew that Tova and Ives had extensive talks about what would happen after, the circumstances that would follow when only one of them came back, but Maelle is certain they all involved Tova being here. Never in her wildest dreams did she think that Tova's family would step in to pick up the pieces.

The guest room is small and cramped. Her brother is still dead. It seems insane to Maelle that she even has the ability to wake up and go on, but here she is.

Part of that is her new job, the one that she quickly adopted as part of her early, sleepless mornings. A quick glance into her room shows Aviya stirring, and Maelle creeps past the end of the bed, opening drawers until she finds a neat set of clothing to lay out. She doesn't doubt the prep team will take over everything the moment they arrive, but that won't stop her from trying to maintain some semblance of normal.

"Are they here?" Aviya asks blearily, eyes still closed.

"Not yet. Soon, I'd imagine."

The other girl groans, scrubbing a hand over her face. "Did anything happen while…?"

"No," Maelle interrupts. "She's fine."

Aviya's worry for her sister is palpable at every waking moment—the two of them couldn't be more different, making their closeness all the more startling. They've stuck together through thick and thin, Aviya's softness contrasting the harshness in which Tova viewed the world. It made the empty hole at her side where her brother had once stood ache all the more strongly.

"You ready?" she asks. Aviya sits up, hands braced behind her as she pushes herself towards the edge of the bed. Maelle turns her wheelchair from the corner so that she has easy access to it, holding it in place as Aviya lowers herself into it.

"Will I ever be?" Aviya questions in turn. She begins to move from the room, Maelle a shadow at her back.

"Probably not."

It never gets any easier. She pauses as Aviya stops, reaching a hand back to squeeze Maelle's own tightly for a second.

"At least you're here."

"At least I'm here," she echoes quietly. Aviya smiles, though it's strained, beginning to wheel herself down the hall once more. They have no choice but to get themselves ready for the day and face it head-on—it's coming for them whether they like it or not. And whatever they must deal with, Tova will face tenfold.

Maelle just wants her to come back. For Aviya, and for their father.

She lost her own stake months ago, but that doesn't mean she can dare to hope.

Caeda Duzell, 19
District Three

Dali continues to skip down the road in front of her as if nothing is wrong in the world.

And, really, nothing is.

She thinks kids bounce back faster. They must. There was a period of time, in which she's aptly dubbed after-Talos, in which they all wallowed and cried and tried in any way to cope with the loss. But Dali stopped it all the quickest. Caeda envied that, the ease in which moving-on came about, even though calling it that wasn't right.

Dali still talked about him all the time. Really, there was no moving on. Not in any significant way.

They were better, at least, in pretending there was. Dali was chattering and Varian, she suspected, was only pretending to listen. Her nose remained buried in her book even as they walked, narrowly avoiding potholes and puddles from the previous day. The chill had vanished from the air, a rarity this time of year, and Caeda found herself wanting to bask in the sun and forget her surroundings.

In reality, she probably could. Once her siblings made it past the school's front gate she would be free to do whatever the hell she wanted until her shift started at three.

It felt like a normal day. Caeda had already lived through what felt like too many Games, escaped the reaping herself. She knew what it felt like to have the Games go on around you while you otherwise functioned normally. This time was different. Varian and Dali might still go to school and their parents still left for work at the crack of dawn like always, but it wasn't normal.

Their normal changed the day Caeda brought Sloane home, whether or not she realized it at the time. It had been days of watching her curl up on the bathroom floor, of choking on water and then vomiting it back up. Somewhere in the midst of it she had looked at Caeda and laughed, almost hysterically—you have a baby face too, God, you're just like—you're just like your brother, holy shit—and then she had turned back to the toilet and began retching again.

Somewhere in the aftermath, Caeda had gotten used to having her around. Had enjoyed it. Even though it was hardly two weeks, it began to feel like a permanent fixture. One that Talos would be happy with.

And now here she was, without both her brother and the girl that Caeda had peeled out of an alley and brought into their home.

The gate to the schoolyard was just ahead. Like she said—another day.

Varian breezes through without so much as a goodbye slipping through her lips, but Caeda is used to that. Dali gives her a quick hug, adjusting the straps of her backpack. "Caeda?" she asks, eyes blinking upward.

"What's up?"

"Do you think anyone will come to talk to us today?"

She's thought about it. Tried to decide what she'll do if it happens. In that attempt, Caeda has accepted what she's certain is the truth—that no one will talk to them. They're not important. They're just the family of some boy who died in the last year, and no one knows that for two weeks, Sloane Laurier was a part of that family.

"I don't think so," she offers instead, a kinder answer, and ruffles her little sister's hair. "Now get in there, weirdo. You're going to be late."

Dali grins at her, scampering off down the path with a casual wave tossed over her shoulder. Caeda turns away not down the path they forged here, but for a slightly longer route. The street in which she found Sloane has been a frequent one for her these past few months, as if returning to the scene of the crime will transport them all back there.

The fact of the matter is that Sloane is almost certainly going to die. Caeda realized this long ago, even before she was so grievously injured that she couldn't stand without assistance. It's the coming to terms with it that's the difficult part.

For now she'll walk down that same street as before. It's not pretty, but it's real.

Even if what's real isn't so kind anymore.

Carrack Abaroa, 18
District Four

There's not a single part of him that wants to step foot into that house.

Carrack had resolved himself to it long ago, all for Amani's sake, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. Amani's father was the definition of a conditional man, one who only did things if it served them. Even if that meant loving his children.

Which is all to say he wasn't special. Plenty of fathers were unpleasant bastards, unfortunately for their children. Carrack couldn't avoid all of them.

He shows up to the house dressed the part, at least, bracing himself for the absolute worst. Dana opens the door wide before he can so much as knock, a wide smile plastered on her perfect face. "Carrack, come in. Thank-you for coming."

If Amani's father had his way, Carrack wouldn't be present for these interviews at all. He's a running risk, an uncontrollable mouth. He can put a leash on his wife and step-children, but he has no say in what Carrack does. It must make him deeply uncomfortable.

He's saved from what would most certainly be stiff, unpleasant small-talk with Dana by the appearance of Marella, made up in her best dress. She waves him back to the sunroom and he's quick to follow, the sun basking his warmth over him. "You look nice," he comments. At least with Marella he can mean it. Although Amani isn't exactly close with his step-siblings, Marella isn't so bad. She's got a good heart, even if it comes alongside being a tad dim-witted. It's not a crime.

She smiles, her cheeks pink. "So do you."

"Thanks. Where's your brother?"

Almost immediately her face shutters, and Marella quickly takes a step closer to him, head lowered. "I was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, he said he just wanted to go for a walk. I know he doesn't want to do any of these interviews, but I just thought he'd be back by now. If he's not back soon…"

Carrack hears what she thinks, what she most certainly won't say aloud. The blame will fall on her if Lotan doesn't return in time for the crew's arrival, and that blame will arrive in the tumultuous form of Amani's father, the resident unpleasant bastard himself. If they weren't perfect, it wasn't good enough.

"It's fine," Carrack insists. "He'll be back."

And if Lotan isn't back, Carrack is fine being in the middle of it. Anything to distract. It's not just about Amani—it never is, really. It's about Tiernan and Kona, too. About how lonely school is. About how much he's been forced to watch die and fade away. Selfishly, he wants Amani back more than anything. They'll get him help. They'll get him away from his father.

As long as Carrack can at least be given the chance.

"Lotan," Marella hisses, hurrying for the door. "Where have you been?"

Her younger brother ducks out from beneath her arm with a scowl as he slips through the front door—hair windblown, shirt askew. It looks as if he wants to be here just as much as Carrack does. He vanishes up the stairs with Marella hot on his heels, leaving Carrack to deal with the rapidly approaching devil previously taking up space in the kitchen.

He knew it would happen eventually. There was no way he was getting in and out of this interview without dealing with the very thing.

Carrack forces his best smile, not unlike the one Dana offered to him, and turns to Amani's father with his hand out-stretched. "Mr. Layne," he greets. "It's good to see you."

He'd rather be sticking a fork in his eye than having this conversation.

"And you, young man," Mr. Layne says in return. "It's been a while."

Not much reason to come around, is there? "It has."

His hand is throbbing by the time Amani's father releases it, just to prove a point. He's in charge here, the hammer that will be thrown down if something goes wrong for even a second. He has too much to gain from this. A part of him still thinks this whole thing is salvageable, that he can be the father of the perfect son.

Carrack doesn't understand how someone can be so simultaneously grating and delusional.

"I trust that you'll fall in line with the rest of us," he tells Carrack. "We must present a united front here. We're all rooting for him without hesitation."

"Of course we are," Carrack agrees. "Right?"

Another part of Arvus Layne most certainly wants his son dead for ruining so many carefully laid plans, for failing and making a mockery of himself and the family name. As much as he wants the starlight, it's almost not worth it to be burdened with someone so many people have already written off.

"Right," Arvus echoes.

There's nothing he can do now. Carrack can't risk making things any worse for Amani than they already are. If he gets his last—and only—best friend back, Carrack will ensure things get better. And if he doesn't, there's going to be hell to pay.

He already knows exactly who will be paying it.

Pharix Gaerwyn, 22
District Six

He hasn't seen his mother in a week, but there's no avoiding it any longer.

He's been trying. Praying secretly, awfully, that he wouldn't have to do this. And let's be real—it's beyond fucking awful. If he's trying to wish away this day he's wishing his sibling dead.

To be clear, he doesn't want Vadric dead. Not even close. Their… tumultuous relationship, the lack of understanding, doesn't mean he wants to see them lowered into the ground. But sometimes the back of his brain itches. He wonders how much easier his life would be if these two people weren't at the tail end of it, the odd worry for them clawing and nipping at his heels.

He doesn't understand them. Never has. Pharix has tried to get doctors and back-alley healers and every solution under the sun, and none of them have ever worked. In this world, both his mother and the only sibling he knows are lost causes. He's well aware of this. If no one goes to his mother's house, however, the prep team from the Capitol will barge in and take her unaware. That's the last thing the universe wants. She can barely handle her own head.

Pharix steps down from his own front porch early—earlier than anyone else would, and has taken the subway across town before the sun has peaked in the sky. He's walked this path a thousand times, but somehow he still dreads it. He wonders what delusions he'll be faced with today, what ramblings. He can only hope she'll be coherent enough to get through it.

It's all so much worse, in the end.

He turns the corner onto the street he grew up on and there's a literal gaggle of people milling around the front-door, another smaller off-shoot trying to peer into the window. A few neighbors watch on, but all keep their distance. Pharix is halfway there when one finally notices him, a woman with a mane of curly magenta hair. Her head tilts comically, eyes widening as she comes to the realization—he and Vadric have always looked just this side of too-similar.

"You!" she cries. "You, you can help us, darling!

"I can," he agrees, trying not to sigh. "She's not answering?"

"No, no one is, we've been trying for ages—"

He doesn't have the heart to tell the poor woman that no one else is in there, and even if there was his mother wouldn't let them open the door anyway. "If you'd just stay here, I can…"

"Of course, of course!"

Each of her teeth are embedded with a singular diamond, but there must be some sincerity to it—as Pharix rounds the side of the house and hauls himself over the back house, he remains unfollowed. The only reason there's a key hidden out here is because of him. He's the only one that's ever needed it. He pulls it from beneath the loose brick at the second windowsill and lets himself in the backdoor with a grating creak, letting it fall shut behind him.

He can see each individual dust mote in the gloom, the slice of light seeping in through the curtain over the kitchen sink illuminating the dirtied counters, the even worse floors. It doesn't look like anyone's moved in this house for a very long time, at least not since he was last here.

But last time the television was on, and he could hear the tinny crackle of the speakers. Now Pharix is left only with silence.

Silence, and the smell.

Pharix's feet carry him to the entrance to the short, narrow hall and no further. "Mom?" he asks, and his voice echoes all the way to the half-open door of her bedroom. His hand twitches, like even from here he can push it open.

It's too far away.

A cacophony of voices erupts at the front door and Pharix flinches, springing back to life. He can't let them in here, not with the quiet still ringing in his ears and the scent of rot clinging to the back of his throat. He can't. He needs to get them away, needs to—

He's halfway to the back-door when it clatters open. The woman from before smiles at him, but it just as quickly fades. She backs halfway out, hand thrown over her mouth as she begins to retch. It doesn't come as a surprise that a Capitolite, apparently not so sincere as he once thought, can't stand it.

The smell of death isn't something much people have the stomach for.

Sabrina Katsouris, 21
District Six

Everyone had a vision for this day—everyone except Sabrina, that is.

You see, she had been smart enough not to. Why manifest anything when it was surely going to turn out to be a farce? Her mother was just hoping to get through it. Her father was speaking to every Capitolite he could, milking the experience for all it was worth. And Tati, well…

She hadn't seen Tati in over twenty minutes now.

Seeing her disappear into the bathroom was one thing, but not seeing her meant something was up. Tati looked as ready as the rest of them, dressed to the nines, well-rehearsed and prepared as humanly possible. She played the part as well as anyone Sabrina knew. For her to be hiding now of all times meant the worst: the ruse was up.

This was not a happy, polished family in a happy, perfect house. Weston hadn't lived here for months before they reaped him. Sabrina was only still here because leaving Tatiana behind felt unusually cruel. Their mother didn't deserve it either. If she could just get them away, both of them…

There was a better way to think. If Wes came back, their father wouldn't be allowed within a hundred yards of the Victors' Village. It would be like he never existed.

Wouldn't that be the life?

Sabrina watches another two minutes tick away before she heads for the bathroom—much as she would like to, Tati can't stay in there forever. She knocks first, keeping her voice low. "Tati?"

There's a brief pause in the sniffling on the other side of the door, her little sister attempting to gain composure in the midst of a situation where she shouldn't be expected to have any. "Just—just a second."

"It's just me. Can I come in?"

"... yeah."

The reaction doesn't surprise her. Tati is a sap, the type of person who more than likely just wants a damn hug. That's exactly what Sabrina does. She opens the door only wide enough to slip in, just in case anyone happens to be looking on, and beckons with her arms, nudging the door shut behind her. Tati dives into her, face buried in her shoulder. The sobs she lets out twist at Sabrina's gut.

This is the one thing her and Weston never failed to see eye-to-eye on. Tatiana Katsouris was a goddamn treasure and should be treated as such. There was no saving Weston now, not from himself, but at least she could be here for Tati.

"It's okay," she murmurs, rubbing a hand down her sister's back.

"Not really."

"You're allowed to cry—"

Tati manages a bout of weak laughter. "No I'm not. If dad saw he'd act like everything was fine and then scream until he turns blue the moment the cameras leave. You know he would."

And she's not wrong. He's done it before. He'll smile and chat and wave like nothing's wrong, but you always end up feeling the wrath. First he gets upset. Upset turns to anger, and anger turns into him hurling whatever he can first reach across the room. Sometimes at you. He did it to Weston the night he kicked him out. He'll try to do it again if Weston comes back.

"You know what I think?" she asks. "Fuck dad. You heard me. You're allowed to cry as much as you want. We'll head out as soon as this is done and go to one of my friend's houses. Or even the Berodach's place. You know they'd let us stay—as long as we need to."

"I guess so," Tati says weakly.

"And we will be fine. No matter what happens. You hear me?"

It's easy to say when you live in the biggest house this side of Six and when your dad's company payout keeps the heat going all winter, the lights on. Of course everything will be fine. Good publicity pays the bills, that's what he always says. It's always about the fucking publicity.

Well, she doesn't care anymore. If the worst happens and Wes doesn't come home, they'll make it. If he does—and even if he drives her mad—Sabrina wishes he does, they will need their father no longer.

Nine times out of ten she wants to take her brother by the shoulders and shake him about until he gains some sense of morality, even if he's long since outgrown the ability to be manhandled. But she wants him back. Not just that—she needs him back.

They all do.

Camila Azar, 49
District Seven

Their conversation has long since become distant to her. She doesn't even hear Otis leave the room.

Camila feels like a shade of herself—it may have been that way since Ilan was taken in the first place, but there was no keeping track of it. For so long she had been trying to protect him, trying to make things right, and he had been ripped so far away there was nothing she could do.

She tried not to think about what could happen, what she might have to watch. The thoughts became unbearable if she allowed them to intrude.

A hand touches her arm, gently. "Mom?" Everest asks. "All good?"

"Managing, sweetheart. Where'd your dad go?"

"He's just making sure they don't need any help setting up."

As if any of them have a lick of expertise in the field of setting up cameras and propping up lights. Their living room appears to have been turned into some kind of circus—there's a reason the three of them had fled to the back porch to wait.

"Are you sure you're okay to do this?" Everest questions. "We could tell them you're not feeling well, or—"

"I'm fine," she insists, giving his hand a squeeze. "He needs our support, today more than ever."

Everest's face shutters, his eyes turning towards the floor. Camila can practically see the cogs turning in her eldest son's brain as he mulls over his next words. These days he appears to be tiptoeing around them, refusing to say whatever's on his mind.

"Mom, I just think…"

He trails off. Camila manages a smile. "Go on."

His face has hardened when he meets her eyes. "You can support him all you want, but has it ever done any good? Can we expect it to? I know you want him to come back—"

"And you don't?"

"That's not what I said," he insists, but she sees irritation flare in his eyes. For all her effort in raising them, Everest has never been able to harbor patience when it comes to them. Especially not when it comes to Ilan. "But you know him, mom. We all do. How do we know that he's not too broken to come back? Hudson destroyed him. He destroyed everything. Nothing's been right since that day, and it only keeps getting worse. And he's still harboring this fucking figment of his imagination—"

"Stop," she snaps. Camila cannot recall the last time she raised her voice, and it shows in her son's face. He falls silent, his hand slipping off her arm. "Not today. You're not going to speak of it again."

"Because lying has gotten us so far," Everest responds. "You tried to get him help, but there is no helping anymore. You've just been making it worse. Every single time he called, mom. Every single time. All you had to do was tell him the truth until he got it. You couldn't even do that."

"And you never even spoke to him," she accuses. "He's your brother."

"He's gone!" Everest insists, and she winces at the volume of it, how the Capitolities in the other room must be turning their attention to the backdoor, curiosity piqued. "He's been gone for a long time, mom, and no amount of delusion is going to change that. Not on his part or yours."

She shakes her head, a familiar burn filling her eyes. It feels like all she does these days is cry. Everest grabs hold of her again, this time each of his hands on her arms, stooping down to look her in the eyes. "I love you, mom," he says quietly. "But you need to let him go."

And how does a mother let her baby go, the child she has failed yet and again? She should have seen what happened with Hudson coming—she saw the changes in him, the quick way he would avert his eyes, how he flinched away from her touch. She watched him ascend that ladder up into the treehouse time and time again and thought nothing of it, not until he came back down to earth one night speaking of a boy that didn't truly exist.

It was a coping mechanism—that's what Dr. Ackers had told him. A way to distract from the horrors he had endured. She looks past Everest's shoulder, eyes finding the treehouse that still stands tall and proud at the treeline. She should have burnt it to the ground, taken a saw to it. Camila should have done something.

Because it's too late to do anything now.

Marvin Braddock, 45
District Nine

The bustling chaos of the house eventually becomes too much for him.

The children are all in varying states of disarray. Ginger locked herself in her room the moment she finished with her own disinterested interview—with what, he doesn't know, but Marvin wouldn't be surprised to peer in through the window and find a chair wedged beneath the doorknob. With Ivan locked out, they've all been relegated into listening to his various complaints.

When Marvin walked out the door, a true saint of a man named Magnus was trying to wrangle the three girls into a semi-normal sitting position. Of them all, Maisy appears to be making his life the most of a living hell, though her sisters aren't helping matters.

Not one of the people who have invaded his home appear anything less than truly confused. There are too many people for them to keep track of, too many children running underfoot and knocking things about. Marvin feels much the same way, despite his familiarity with the situation. Adding another dozen people to the scene had done wonders to his head.

Harmonia had noticed quickly, as she always did, and excused him in silence with nothing more than a kiss to the cheek and a wave of her hand. Luther had shot out the door with him and almost immediately tripped and fallen into the dirt where neither grass nor stalks properly grew. The stains would become a problem later once they finally called him in, but maybe it would be endearing.

That was the hope, at least.

He felt for leaving Harmonia to the wolves, harried as she was, but she had the right temperament for it. No matter how messy things got she always had some semblance of control over it. It was better for him to be outside, where he could take a deep breath and let the faint chill in the air ground him once more.

He needed the peace, but there was still something difficult about even leaving the television long enough to find it. Marvin couldn't remember the last time he had gotten more than a handful of hours of sleep at a time. When he wasn't fixated on the ongoings a lifetime away, it was someone waking him in the dead of night. A nightmare. A noise outside the window. There was never any time to rest.

It only felt fitting that he wouldn't rest until Casia could. She was his eldest, his everything, that first little bundled up figure who made him realize just how massive attachment was.

Sometimes it felt as if they were one and the same. Quiet, unassuming. Preferring the company of themselves. Casia, at least, would make her way out here and let the cats that roamed the property wind between her legs. They always tried to bother him when he was trying to get work done.

Marvin hadn't seen any of the cats in months, not even Rocky. With their person gone they had vacated, seeing no reason to come back. He didn't even care for them, but he wishes they would.

Anything to have some piece of her back.

"Dad?" Luther asks. "Dad, dad, dad—"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Piggy back?"

He crouches down without a proper answer, allowing Luther to clamber onto him, hands fixed over his shoulders. He lets out a little noise of glee as Marvin rises back to his full height once again, resting his head against his fathers.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"When do you think Cassy is coming back?

"Soon, I would think," he replies. It doesn't feel quite like outright cruelty to lie, not to Luther. No five year old is going to truly understand that his sister, the one who he pesters and clings to, might not come back. He doesn't have the heart to speak of an otherwise.

Marvin pauses around the front of the house while Luther kicks his feet and tugs at his hair, begging to continue on. This is the spot where they found Sam, right on the edge of the flowerbed. Face-down. Neck twisted horribly. Ginger had screamed when she found him, howled like a wounded animal, all while Harmonia had been trying to usher the kids away from the sight. It had been Marvin left to bend down and check for a pulse he knew wouldn't be there.

The ground is even, thoroughly packed down. Marvin recognized that immediately the moment he stood back up, suddenly alone, with nothing but a tipped over ladder and a corpse for company.

It would never have fallen on its own, and Sam had been up there a dozen times. He wouldn't lose his balance.

He had only caught Casia's eyes once as she peered through the curtains in the kitchen, letting them fall shut to obscure her just as quickly. That second was enough. He knew. Marvin had always known, he thinks, but seeing the Games, seeing her… he knew. She was something else. A daughter he did not know. A little girl not so little anymore.

If she ever was to begin with.

Aldon Cronquist, 18
District Twelve

Everyone keeps telling him to give it up.

By everyone he mainly means the guys he works with, the same ones waiting for him down the road. Most of them have lost people too, to the Games or not. In the end everyone loses someone.

They all know there is little to no point in his routine, but how can they tell him it's wrong? It's not far from the main road that leads into the quarry, a quick two-minute cut away. It inconveniences no one. The rest of the crew wouldn't wait for him if they didn't want to.

Coming to his sister's final resting place does not give him the amount of peace he would like, but it's the only kind he can find in some form. His house is empty now. Ravi's gone. The only people he talks to are the ones he works with and his elderly neighbor, who sometimes needs help getting the front door open when the cold makes it stick.

It's pathetic. The only thing he has in the world and it's this little marker in the ground, the earth surrounding it covered in a fine layer of powdery sound.

Aldon brushes away some of the snow and lays down a fresh bundle of flowers. He's been putting aside money the past week to actually buy something—there's no finding anything, not in this weather, and that wasn't exactly his forte anyway. Dulia and Ravi would spend hours in the meadows, baking in the sun until Aldon came to collect them, their arms full of assorted flowers. Sometimes he would get roped into making the bouquets with them, but Dulia never let him anywhere near the arrangements. Said he didn't know what to do. For a little sister, she sure did boss him around a lot.

And even then, it feels like he's lost a limb now that she's buried. There's an empty space where she should be, the entire world a little bit quieter and a whole lot more dull.

"It's almost to the end," he says. "Not that I need to tell you that, considering you always said you knew everything. But just in case you missed it."

He so badly wishes to sit down. Aldon contemplates it almost every single day. To sit down and let the snow cover him would be the easiest thing. No matter how cold it got, how long it took someone to find him. Always easier.

"I'm wrong for wanting him to come back, aren't I?" he asks, as if she'll give him a straightforward answer. "Really fucking selfish, at least. Being dead is way easier than being the one who lives."

He would know, right?

"I like to think you're rooting for him too, though," Aldon says quietly. "I know you would."

Sometimes he wonders if Dulia dying months ago was easier. The thought of watching her now—hell, watching both of them now, makes him sick to his stomach. He would have to be even more selfish than he already is, pick someone and damn the other. He can barely force himself to get up off the ground.

That part's always the hardest, though. Doesn't matter how many days in a row he comes down this way. Walking back to the others means that inevitable walk to the mines, descending into the darkness. It's not the same place where his sister died, where Ravi suffered and nearly lost himself, but it feels damn well close enough.

He begins the walk back at a shuffling pace, scuffing through the snow in his work boots He never thought he would wish for some Capitolite to come collect him for an interview, but evidently Aldon's not important enough. By the time they think to look, once they come up empty everywhere else, he'll be headed down the elevator shaft with the weight of a thousand pounds on his shoulders.

Ravi deserves to have someone speak for him. They need to know that he's good, so far removed from the atrocities his mother committed that it seems impossible they're related at all. It doesn't matter what he does—nothing will change that about him at his core. This, Aldon knows.

Some days it feels like the only thing he knows.

Theora Mazaryn-Reinhart, 21
The Capitol

With the way everyone's acting, you'd think they were preparing either for a parade or a funeral.

Given the current timing, both were just as likely.

In the control room, she's discovered a favorite pastime: watching. The others produce no shortage of entertainment. Even those she doesn't know so well are always bustling about, though they've managed to look more put together recently. In a far corner, Petrova and Torryn are chortling away at something, poring over a drawing in one of Petrova's notebooks. With so little Games left there can't be much to be concerned about in the way of what they could unleash next, but she can never take her eyes off them for too long.

Kosta is lounged back, eyes half-closed; hungover, she suspects, and consistently being nudged in the ribs by Leda, ever dedicated to their tasks. Outside of the incident in Six, the interviews seemed to have gone over well. Leda can finally release a breath that has held her captive for weeks now.

That leaves Mykari and Naevys, both of whom are examining holographic images that light up the center of the room. Theora can't be certain what any of the numbers mean, nor the calculations, but she knows it has something to do with the rate of deterioration in the arena. Andy is continuously hovering around them, pointer finger stuck between her lips as she gnaws at her nail.

These people, her odd little makeshift family, all seem so locked in to what's happening in this room that they've become oblivious to what's growing outside. But Theora's responsibilities are less. Her ability to notice prominent.

She's seen it all.

On her way home yesterday—this morning, really, in the wee hours of it, there had been a woman sobbing on the train. Heartbroken like her lover had just died in her arms. After several minutes of listening to her lament to her friend, Theora had managed to grasp the majority of the story. If you could even call it that.

It was no lover lost, no beloved family member. This girl, hardly twenty, was mourning the deaths of the children she had come to know over the course of the past year, even if she hardly knew them at all. She wept over them like they were personal friends, people she would wrap her arms around if they emerged victorious.

She wasn't the only one. Theora had seen the crowds, normally so raucous and obnoxious, now unusually quiet. They were tired. Many of them were upset. They watched the Games with interest still, but with bated breath, fists clenched.

She knew without any of them having to say it that they wanted the torture to be over.

That was the issue with attachment. It made everything change.

Theora didn't know if any of these people in the room with her had seen it, choosing to ignore it in favor of finishing their jobs, but she doubted it. They were all too gleeful. Too boisterous. Their bright eyes showed no signs of worry.

"You look awfully pensive," Elide says. She appears out of nowhere, though still a familiar form as she leans over Theora's chair, propping her chin on her shoulder. "Planning on hedging any bets?"

"Pretty sure that's illegal."

"Well, I wasn't planning on telling anyone," Elide teases. "Not that I know who you'd pick, anyway. You'd never tell me."

"What are the polls saying?" the questions.

"One. Six. The usual," Elide says. "A lot of people were vying for Two until… well, y'know."

"That I do." She hums. People always root for Two, until one of them ends up with a knife in his throat and then a woman is sobbing on the train, wondering how she could possibly go on.

"Hey," Elide calls. It's truly something to watch everyone stand to attention, watching their rapt eyes turn to her without question. "Figure out how to speed it up. It's getting boring."

Andy stops gnawing on her fingernails long enough to grin. She leans over Mykari's shoulder, immediately pointing to one of the arena's mechanisms, gleaming in perfect holographic form. She doubts it will be perfect for much longer if Elide has her way. This thing was meant to crumble, and crumble it will.

It only seems fitting. The rest of them haven't realized it yet, but everything has to fall eventually. Even the biggest monarchies.

As long as she's still standing in the aftermath.

I'd say at least you got no deaths, but haha. Whoopsies.

There is minimal time left to deduce exactly what's going to happen, but if anyone would care to, wacky ideas or not, I of course would be thrilled to hear them and privately giggle to myself. If not, thank you for your continued support regardless and I hope you enjoy this final ride.

Until next time.