Reyna Stellata, 30

Assistant Gamemaker

1930 – June 14, 124 ADD.

She's not supposed to be here.

Reyna can't quite seem to sit comfortably in her chair. She shifts every couple seconds, gaze darting between various objects on the woman's desk. It's easier than looking her in the face.

And based on the look on Zaria Emerson's face, the President agrees.

God. Why did Reyna agree to this? Talking has never been her forte – Reyna has always been more comfortable slipping into the background, doing work on the sidelines. Her preference is a supporting role, where she can do the work, get minimal credit, and stay out of the spotlight.

Sure, it's an unconventional mindset for a capitolite, but that's how Reyna is. She doesn't need the grandeur as much as the rest; it's purely satisfying to see a job well done. And if Reyna can disregard her current issues with her role, then being a gamemaker is still… satisfying.

The silence has stretched on for ages. Reyna realizes she's been staring at a framed photo, tilted at an angle where she can only see a hint of long hair and dark skin. She snaps her gaze away and sits up a little straighter, hoping to maintain some level of professionalism.

Though now she's looking directly at Emerson, who has her chin resting on her palm contemplatively.

"So," Emerson says slowly, "I presume Leon intends to skip his mandatory meeting with me?"

Reyna swallows, hard. Her nails dig into her palms. "Yes."

"Why?"

"He's been too busy making final preparations to step out, so he asked me-"

"And I am asking you to give me a real answer. Not whatever he told you to say."

"I-I'm not sure-"

"Miss Stellata."

Much to Reyna's surprise, Emerson's face softens. It's enough for her to take in how purely exhausted the President looks. "I want an honest answer. That is why I asked him to meet with me. If he cannot follow through, then you must in his stead." The president takes a sip of water, then continues, "I understand the importance of his job and how seriously he takes it. There is no doubt in my mind that he is busy; that's not my concern. My concern is why he is too busy to meet with me, and why he won't give me a better answer."

"I… I'm still reluctant to share. I hope you can understand."

"I might if you were willing to elaborate."

Reyna lets out a shaky breath. She hates that Leon put her in this position in the first place. She hates even more that there was never a doubt in her mind she'd do it for him anyway.

"I'm worried his reasoning will reflect poorly on him," Reyna says quietly. "No one cares about the Games as much as him. I don't want to… mess that up in any way."

"I hope you understand my position when I say that I cannot make any promises in that regard. But I like to think of myself as reasonable, so I assure you: no decision is ever made lightly. And, whether you believe me or not, this is an off-the-record conversation. I want an update on the status of the Games. If Leon was here, that would be my only priority. Since he is not, his absence has brought forth a new question. I hope you are willing to satisfy my curiosity."

And… that's the thing about Zaria Emerson. She comes off as unrelentingly nice. Reyna almost doesn't understand it. Panem has seen more than its fair share of leaders, and this one… seems to care? That doesn't make any sense.

Reyna licks her lips nervously. Emerson just sits across from her unflinchingly. At the very least, Reyna has to admire the way she's giving her a chance to think.

"He's been working nonstop for months," Reyna finally admits. "Conceptualizing. Planning. Perfecting. He's barely slept. He was like this last year, but this is… worse. He's insistent on doing all the work himself."

"Is that not what having an entire team is for?"

"Do you… remember last year? M- Four and Twelve, in the basement?"

"Makani and Crush, yes. If I recall, that was one of the most rewatched scenes of last year's Games."

"Yes. Leon had been anticipating their confrontation for… ages, really." Reyna squirms in her seat. "But the collapse – that wasn't supposed to happen."

Emerson arches a brow. "It wasn't?"

"No. It was… we don't know what it was, but it wasn't intended. That's the underground of the Arena – destabilizing it could've damaged the integrity of the structure as a whole. No one would've done that intentionally. It could've ruined everything."

Emerson nods to herself, taking this in. She brings a hand up to rub her temples, a slim gold band shimmering on her ring finger. "So you're saying he's overworking himself to prevent an accident like last year?"

"Yes."

"Then what I fail to understand is why he insists on staying back to work on things himself. Once again - is that not what he has an entire team for?"

"There's the possibility that it was sabotage of some sort. There's the possibility it was a simple accident. But regardless of how it happened, as head gamemaker, he's constantly cognizant of the fact that everything in the Games falls back on him. So he…" Reyna's voice grows quieter. "He doesn't trust anyone besides himself."

At that, Emerson's expression turns contemplative. "Anyone?"

"Anyone. He insists on handling every matter by himself."

She purses her lips. "And yet he sent you here in his stead."

Reyna falters. "I'm the most convenient option."

"Hm." Emerson decides it's evidently not worth her effort to pursue this line of questioning any further. Reyna finds herself immensely grateful for it. "The details matter not as long as one of you can do your job. The Arena. I haven't heard any updates."

"Right." Reyna straightens, trying to get back on track. "He calls it 'The Sinking City.' I argued for Sunken because, well, it used to be, but I got overruled."

The corner of Emerson's mouth quirks up. "And… it is stable?"

"Yes and no. The heart of the Arena, yes. The rest… it's stable enough."

"I assume enough means barring any, say, extreme conditions?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Fascinating. Even though his concern with last year was due to an unpredictable collapse?"

Reyna laughs. "Everything has to be bigger and better than the year before in Leon's eyes. So this is nothing but a challenge to keep the same thing from happening again. And even if it does, he has a failsafe. He's proving to himself that everything is perfectly under his control."

"A bold choice. I can give him that." Emerson leans forward. "Sinking, and city… plenty of water and old buildings, I gather?"

"It's almost like an island – a city built into the curve of the river. I wouldn't say swimming is a necessary skill to start with, but it might be one to end with. There's the persistent threat of water if you stick to the ground, but if you try to go too high, the infrastructure of the buildings is shoddy at best. There's no clear safe way to go."

"What would you do, then?"

"The presence of a city implies inhabitants, and I wouldn't want to run into any of them – tribute or otherwise. Any greenery is too flat, too open. I'd take to the rails."

"The rails?"

"If I could navigate my way up there, yes. They're some of the sturdiest set pieces we've built. They have to be, in order to hold the trains. Exposed, certainly, but you're away from the water and too high up for most tributes to reach you unless you can either climb or have incredible aim. According to private sessions, the former is much more likely than the latter."

"You've certainly thought this out."

"I have to, ma'am. It's my job."

"You seem very devoted to it."

Reyna nods quickly. "Of course, ma'am. It's both an honor and a pleasure."

Emerson holds up a hand, chuckling to herself. "No need for that. I'm merely commenting on my own observations. Not everyone would go above and beyond the way you appear to – even for your head gamemaker."

She coughs and ducks her head. "Just doing my job."

"It's admirable."

"It's-"

"Yes, yes, your job. I understand you perfectly, Miss Stellata. But a certain level of devotion goes above and beyond the job requirement. I'm merely pointing that out."

"Thank you," Reyna whispers.

"You're quite welcome. And thank you, for your continued hard work."

She makes sure to smile. "It's my pleasure, really."

(And, well, that's the part that's a little debatable. But this isn't the place to think about those issues.)

"So the environment seems well thought out," Emerson muses. "What about mutts?"

"Some wildlife, to fill in the space and make it more realistic. And… well, Leon got really into researching history on this place, and we've got some based on what are essentially ghost stories."

"I look forward to seeing the final product in action."

"Me, too."

"And the state of it all – I know what Leon would say, but what do you think? Is it all ready for tomorrow?"

Reyna mulls it over for a minute. It's a little odd to be asked for her personal opinion, but she supposes she has to give it.

"I think perfection is an unachievable concept. The Games won't go smoothly in every way, because they were never meant to. It's impossible to predict every outcome; being able to adapt to it is the more realistic solution. All the pieces are in place, exactly like they have been for the past month or so. All this extra polishing will add layers of refinement, but to achieve a perfect Games… I wouldn't want to watch one, anyway."

"Why not?" Emerson asks, amused.

"Humanity is best seen when it's laid bare. These are children, going off to fight for the right to continue living. The Games should be exactly as cruel and bloody as such a concept suggests."

Emerson tilts her head to the side. "Cruel?"

Suddenly, it's extremely hard to look at the woman. Reyna stares again at that photograph, trying in vain to see it in its entirety. "I… I didn't mean that."

"You did, or else you would not have said it."

"I didn't mean to say it to you."

"Why? Because I happen to be the President?"

"Well… yes."

Emerson sighs and rubs her temples. "It is never my goal to rule through fear, Miss Stellata. I wanted honesty, and honesty is what you're giving me. I questioned your wording because I want to understand the reasoning behind it, not because I intend to lure you into a trap."

"With all due respect, ma'am, I hope you understand why I can't take that claim at face value."

"Unfortunately I do. I hope that one day I can change your mind."

"I do as well."

"Would you allow me one question?"

Reyna pauses and then nods. "I'll consider it after you ask."

"If you consider the Games to be cruel, why be a gamemaker? Does your own contribution not directly contradict your feelings on the matter?"

It's a question that Reyna has asked herself a lot lately. She may be content here, but she could become more elsewhere. She's only thirty – she's got all the time and connections in the world if she wanted to start over. There would theoretically be nothing stopping her.

(Except…)

"A couple things," Reyna says quietly. "Loyalty, I suppose. I don't give up on things. And… I appreciate the sense of control. The Games can be cruel, but they can also offer kindness in unexpected ways. That's the part I like."

The look Emerson gives her is indecipherable. Reyna tries not to flush under the attention.

"A very mature answer," Emerson finally replies. "Certainly not one I can say I have heard before."

"I'd imagine not."

"One final question, then."

"Yes?"

This time, Emerson levels her with a gaze that Reyna fights to maintain. "You say you do not give up on things – does that extend to people as well?"

Her real question is obvious enough. Reyna bites her lip. "I try to make it so."

"You will keep an eye on things then, won't you?"

"It's my job, ma'am."

Emerson laughs. "I am well aware, Miss Stellata. But my office is open, should you ever need it."

A ghost of a smile passes over her face. "I'll keep that in mind, ma'am."

"Is there anything else I should be concerned with?"

"Not to my knowledge. But you know how quickly things can change when the Games begin."

"Indeed I do." And with that, Emerson turns her focus to the stack of papers on her desk. "You're dismissed then, Miss Stellata."

"Thank you for your time."

Reyna didn't bring anything into the office with her, so she's relieved to be able to make a fast exit. But just as she lays a hand on the door, Emerson calls for her again.

"Yes?" Reyna turns.

There's a strange expression on Emerson's face - like she can't quite decide what she called Reyna back for, like she isn't entirely sure what to say. Time stays frozen for a moment, and Reyna finally sees just how dark the circles under Emerson's eyes are.

"If you have any concerns, I want you to report them directly to me. No one else."

"I- okay?"

"Say you understand."

"Yes, I understand. Directly to you."

The tension leaves Emerson's shoulders, just slightly. She nods once. "Okay. Okay. That's all, then."

Reyna furrows her brow, but doesn't stick around to ask any questions. The intricacies of politics are certainly not her strength, so she doesn't know how to read into the request.

(Still, she finds herself stalling just outside the door. Being in a position of power is one of those things that sounds inherently lonely. Trust is hard enough to come by without an added barrier.)

(And yet… does Reyna not find herself in a similar position? Even if she made the claim that people rely on her, who can she truly rely on?)

(Ah, well. Maybe some things weren't meant to be lingered on.)

Reyna shakes her head, straightens her shoulders. Back to work, then.

After all, there's only so much she can do.

Alila Perwane, 19

Victor of the 123rd Games

2313 – June 14, 124 ADD.

"Yeah, everything's going alright here– no, that's not a lie. … It definitely hasn't been easy to be here, but… yeah, I know, but I have Estelle. And she's been such a great help. And I miss you all, I really do, but… it's good to feel like I'm doing something, you know? … Yeah, I know I'm doing things at home, but it's not the same. This is… this was everything, remember? … Yeah, I know. It's my job to worry about you though, remember?"

Alila paces around her room, the night dragging longer than she's willing to acknowledge. She finds herself to be quite restless, but she knew calling home would ease her mind. Even though she and Thee are most often found sitting together in silence, right now she craves to hear his voice. It's nice to pretend like he's here, even though she's desperately glad to pretend he's anything but.

(And, well… seeing him here would just remind Alila of another face.)

"And I'll worry about you right back," Thee's voice crackles over the phone. "You can't stop me. It's inevitable."

Despite herself, Alila smiles. That comes easier these days. "I can try. I've already done the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I came back. I'll come back again. There's nothing more to worry about."

There's silence on the other side of the line. Alila itches to fill it, but she knows sometimes Thee needs a little extra space to come up with his words.

"I'll always worry about you," Thee says quietly. "Even now. Especially now."

Alila sighs, sitting on the edge of her bed. She suddenly feels very small.

"I'll come back again," she insists. "They won't take me from you a second time."

"They took part of you."

"And I'm not letting them do it again."

"Promise?"

She hesitates. "I promise."

"Okay. Then… I'll see you in a few weeks, right?"

"By July, I hope. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

After hanging up, Alila puts the phone down on her nightstand. Her room suddenly feels incredibly lonely. Even though Alila likes to keep to herself a fair amount, her life has always been surrounded by other people. A sudden absence of them is… jarring.

And besides, she doesn't want to be alone tonight of all nights.

(A year ago, this was her. Excited by the prospect of everything that was to come. After years of training, years of studying and hard work, long days and sleepless nights, the Games were finally within reach. Her Victory was finally within reach.

Until one choice nearly killed her on the first day.)

(Alila imagined her Games a hundred different ways. She never imagined how she'd die.)

(Sometimes the silence can't stave off the sound of her bones crunching, of her own rattling gasps ringing in her ears.)

There's a knock at the door; before Alila can decide if she's grateful for or wary of it, Estelle pops her head in.

"How'd your talk with Thee go?"

Alila's shoulders relax instantly. "Fine- wait, how'd you know I was on the phone?"

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Estelle says, smiling bashfully. She comes into the room carrying two cups of something brown and steaming. From the smell, it's some sort of tea mixture Estelle's been working on. She doesn't always get the proportions right, but Alila drains every cup regardless of the flavor. Something about the amount of care that goes into the tea is enough to make it go down easy.

Alila graciously accepts the cup. "You know I never mind with you."

"Well, it's still rude." Estelle takes a seat next to Alila. "And I wasn't actually listening."

The corners of Alila's mouth twitch up. She takes a sip of her tea – a little too much honey, but otherwise perfect. "Right."

"I wasn't! I've been doing a lot of thinking. And the tea. I was focused on that."

"Mhm."

She's waiting for it. Estelle's clearly trying not to ask. It's a brief battle of wills, but by this point, Alila knows well enough that Estelle's curiosity doesn't take long to win out.

"But," Estelle says, then frowns as Alila giggles. "Hey! I haven't said anything yet!"

"Not yet, but go ahead and ask."

Estelle's expression slips into concern. "It's just… well, are you okay? I know this has all been a lot, and I wouldn't classify Saccharine and Callum as easy tributes, and I haven't been around as often as I should be, and… well, a year ago…"

This was you.

Alila's smile drops. She takes another sip of the tea, but her hands aren't as steady. And though she's been trying to stave it off all day, her foot starts to twinge uncomfortably.

"I'm… fine," Alila says, more carefully this time. "Not good, not bad, just fine. And maybe a little worried."

"About Callum?"

"About all of them, I think. But yes, Callum in particular. I wasn't this much of a handful for you last year, was I?"

"Well, you were very stubborn, and you gave me a heart attack on the very first day… but I suppose you're not the worst tribute I've ever had."

Alila groans and covers her face with a hand. "That's an incredibly low bar, Estelle."

Gingerly, Estelle takes Alila's hand in her own and laces their fingers together. "You've always been great," she insists. "Stubborn, yes, but that's what got you out alive, isn't it? My girl that was too stubborn to die, too stubborn to leave her family. You got back to them. Sometimes your greatest strength is born from your greatest weakness."

Alila snorts. "Have you been reading those inspirational books again?"

"No, I've had that one stored away for a while. Your first time here is always… hard. My only goal is to make sure it's better than mine was."

"What was wrong with yours?"

Estelle laughs nervously. "Well, um, I sort of got in a fight with one of the other Victors. Among other things. We don't really need to get into it."

"A fight?" Alila stares at her, aghast. "Physically?"

"Well, no, and I'm glad. I would never win a fight against him. It was more of a… verbal confrontation."

"That's terrible!"

She shifts uncomfortably. "It's… not a big deal. I'm just glad you haven't made any enemies here. Winning is lonely enough."

"Not with you."

Pleased, Estelle's smile slowly returns. "I want to do right by you."

"Without you, I don't know how I would've survived the past year."

"Oh, don't be silly. You're plenty strong all on your own. You'd find a way."

Alila squeezes her hand a little too forcefully. "I'm glad you're here, though. You've made it easier. I wouldn't want to do it without you."

"Oh." Estelle's cheeks redden. "Well, thank you."

"Thank you." Alila nudges her shoulder. "We're in this together now, right?"

Strangely, Estelle doesn't respond immediately. Her eyes flicker down, and she tightens her grip on her cup. "Um, right," she says rather unconvincingly.

"You're not very good at lying, Estelle."

She sighs. "I know."

"I'll share if you share."

"You've got plenty going on without worrying about me on top of everything."

Alila laughs. "You're starting to sound like me. If it's your job to worry about me, then it's my job to worry right back. We're friends, right?"

(It's nice to say that out loud. Alila hasn't had many friends in her life; her only goal was the Games, and there was no room for friendship. But after losing the first two friends she ever made, Alila knew that if she got her second chance, she had to use it wisely.

For herself. And for them.)

"We are," Estelle acknowledges. "But… I'm still your Mentor."

"You do a lot of things for other people, Estelle," Alila says quietly. "Let me try to do something for you."

"You're one to talk," Estelle mutters. She fidgets and takes a sip of her tea.

Squeezing her hand again, Alila whispers, "We'll trade, remember?"

Estelle closes her eyes. "You first."

"Okay." Alila sucks in a breath. "I'm worried about Callum. You already knew that. But he's hard-headed, and he won't listen to me, and I'm afraid he'll die when I could've done something to stop it."

"Oh, Alila, you can't-"

"Blame myself? Sure I can. I've killed people before, and I'm going to do it again – just not directly."

"That sort of mindset will kill you every year if you let it."

"I just don't know how you've done this since your Games," Alila whispers. "I'm supposed to be able to help, and I can't. All I can do is pray he's taken my advice, and I'm not even sure he has."

"Sometimes it's disheartening," Estelle admits, "to know that you made it out but it could be years before the next one does. You can't save them all, no matter how hard you try."

"I feel like I've already failed enough people." Alila's eyes are starting to sting. "And yeah, Callum hasn't trained for the Games like I did, but… I still don't know if I can see him die."

"Your first year is always the hardest. And it never really gets easier, but you learn how to cope with it better. And I'm in the lounge right beside you through all of it, okay?"

"I know. And I'm glad you'll be there. I just…"

Feel like it won't be enough. Feel like I'll go home empty-handed anyway. Feel like my failure won't make up for everything I did in the Arena.

"You can't let winning kill you." Estelle sets down her cup to grab Alila's hand in both of her own. "I know what you're thinking. All of us have gone through this at one point or another. And unless you can find a way to break out of that mindset, it'll take more and more from you, year after year."

"I don't know how," Alila whispers.

"Maybe not, but I know you. You're a fighter. You don't take things lying down. And you're not alone anymore. We'll find a way out of this together. And come July, we'll go home, and have dinner with your family, and there will be peace for another year. We'll be happy and together and alive and we'll find a way to survive next year, too."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It's not. It's hard – I know it's hard. But I can't lose you now, Alila."

And that's when Alila hears it. The part Estelle isn't saying.

I can't lose you, too.

"Grief is all-consuming," Estelle continues, "but at the end of the day, you have to find a way to get back up. The fight never stops, but someday it'll get easier. I promise it'll get easier."

Alila stays quiet for a long while. And then, she whispers, "I turn twenty in a few months. Being here again… it makes me remember I never considered my life past eighteen."

"And you have all the time in the world for it now."

"It's overwhelming. I've only ever had one goal for myself, and I accomplished it."

"So we'll find a new one. Together."

Alila slowly leans over and puts her head on Estelle's shoulder. She doesn't quite know how to respond to Estelle; hopefully this will be enough.

(After a moment, Estelle's hand gently brushes over her hair.

Alila smiles to herself.)

"Your turn," Alila says, after a few minutes have passed by.

Estelle's hand stalls. "I don't know if I should."

"Why?"

"I… I don't want you to think less of me."

Shocked, Alila leans back to look at her. "Why would I ever think less of you?"

"Because I'm not strong like you. I just know what to say sometimes – and only sometimes. Everyone who says I lucked into winning is right. Every ounce of my success is just because I'm lucky enough to get by and rich enough to make it happen."

"Whoa." Alila's head spins. "Where is this all coming from?"

"I'm sorry, this is why I didn't- god, I shouldn't have said anything. I don't really have anything to be complaining about, anyway."

Estelle breaks away and buries her head in her hands. Baffled, Alila places a tentative hand on her shoulder.

"Look, I don't know what any of this is about, but… you've always been there for me, Estelle. Let me be there for you."

"I think Saccharine hates me," Estelle confesses. "And I don't… I don't know why. I'm trying to remember anything I might've done to her, but I barely even recognize her name. Maybe her last name – Esculenta – but I hardly talked to Nectarine before she-"

Alila cuts her off. "Slow down a bit. You're not making any sense. You think Saccharine hates you?"

"You don't hear the things she says when no one else is around. She's sweet one second, and then says something brutal enough to give you whiplash, and then acts like it was nothing. It's making me feel like I'm going totally insane, like nothing's happening at all. Like I'm just making it up in my head."

"What's she saying?"

"Well, the other night, when you were up on the roof getting some air? When the tributes were with their allies on the second floor? She came back down at some point – I never heard her. She terrified me. I thought I was alone. She never said anything, she just stood there until I realized someone was in the room with me. I screamed, and then she smiled. Said something about how with reflexes like mine, she has no idea how I survived the Games at all. Then offered to make me some tea. I didn't know what to do, so I just agreed and tried to go along with it. She acted like it never happened, but it did. I know it did."

"I believe you," Alila insists. "But why didn't you say anything? I could've traded with you and mentored her inst-"

"No," Estelle says forcefully. "Not you. Not for your first year. If she's going to do this, she'll do it to me." Estelle sucks in a shaky breath to compose herself. It only partially works, but she continues anyway. "Do you know anything about her?"

"I was pretty one-track-minded. I didn't notice anyone unless it was M- Nemesis."

Estelle nods, brow furrowed. "I've never noticed her, either, but… she had a sister in my year. Nectarine. We were near the top of the class, but I hardly talked to her. She was quiet, and kind, and talented, and perfect in the way One strives to be. I always thought she would get the spot instead of me."

"Why didn't she?"

"She died. The rumor is she took her own life. I went to her funeral. They dolled up her body so much that I have no idea what really happened. It's the first time I ever really saw a dead body. And she was so… so peaceful. Not all deaths are. I hope hers was."

"I hope so, too."

"They're similar in a lot of ways. I didn't know Nectarine, and I certainly don't know Saccharine, but they carry themselves similarly. But I never heard Nectarine say a cruel word to anyone, not even when the others mocked her to her face."

"Mocked her? Why?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. About anything, probably. The girls get vicious as the years go on. Looking for chinks in the armor, so to speak. It doesn't matter if it's true or not. It matters if you let yourself be affected by it."

"That's horrible. I… I never…"

"Every year is different." Estelle smiles sadly. "The culture changes on a dime. Maybe it was different for Saccharine in a way neither of us can possibly understand. I'd rather give her the benefit of the doubt. There's so much I don't know."

Alila frowns. "Even after everything?"

"Especially after everything. The moment I give up on her is the moment she wins, and I don't want to let her do that. Not in a way that counts."

Alila can't imagine that sort of mindset. Even now, just hearing about Saccharine, her skin crawls with the sort of distaste that Alila knows she'll never be able to shake. Her mind can't be changed so quickly.

"Do you want to know the worst part about all of this?" Estelle whispers. "I still don't want her to die. She's just a kid. That's a fate I don't think any of them deserve."

Estelle reaches for her forgotten cup on the nightstand and takes a sip of what now must be incredibly lukewarm tea. She sniffles. "I put too much honey in."

And then, Estelle starts to cry.

Leaning forward, Alila wraps her arms around her friend, letting Estelle bury her face in Alila's shoulder. She tries to ignore the tightness in her own throat.

Even though Alila will play no direct part in them, the impending Games are still a very real threat to her. It's a little strange to be on this side of things, helpless to the way they play out, but she's glad to have someone by her side through it all.

The Games have taken plenty from her. Alila is glad they at least gave her this.

Bastian Allard, 22

Victor of the 120th Games

0304 – June 15, 124 ADD.

Bastian never managed to fall asleep after saying goodnight to his tributes.

He should've seen this coming. It was the same a year ago. More than ever, the Games loom over him, suffocating and all-consuming at the same time. The ache in his chest turns into something more real, more tangible, but even when Bastian claws at his skin, he can't see the mark he knows should be there.

(Bastian barely manages to twist out of the way to prevent the sword from piercing directly through his heart – instead, it sinks deep into his chest, and the tightness that's been plaguing him for days shatters entirely. The pain is unlike anything he's ever felt before, but Bastian can't get enough air in his lungs to scream.

And once again, he can't breathe - but this time there's no surface for him to reach.)

The hours creep by, and Bastian can't get the images out of his head. They're a jumbled mess of his Games and hers, visions of broken glass and crumbling rocks alike. He tosses and turns endlessly, the tangled blankets around him beginning to suffocate. He can't manage to free himself, and the water starts seeping in, filling his lungs, blinding him. The panic sets in and constricts his chest, tight enough to choke.

He can't breathe.

The floor is a respite, cool and hard under his skin. Bastian trembles as he tries to come back to himself in the dim light of a lamp. But no matter how hard he tries, the water surges around him faster, and Bastian knows he's close to getting swept away by the current.

("Stop," Bastian pleads, staggering to his feet. Blood streams through his hands as he tries to staunch the wound on his stomach. "You'll kill us both!"

But the boy only smiles, eyes gleeful. "Good. That means there's one less of you."

On the third hit, the glass surrounding them does more than splinter. And as the water pours in, Bastian knows for certain that the first thing he ever loved will be the same thing that kills him.)

Blindly, Bastian reaches for the phone on his nightstand. He punches in the only number he knows – the only one he's never gotten around to calling – and waits. It only takes two rings for someone to pick up.

"Hello?"

The instant Bastian hears a voice on the other line, he knows this was a mistake. He unceremoniously hangs up and throws the phone out of his reach. He can't let himself do that again. He should know better by now – dragging someone into his mess will only ruin them both.

So instead, Bastian curls into himself tighter. He focuses on his breathing, attempting to even out the ragged gasps. He presses one hand against his chest as if he can seal away the ache, fix whatever part of him the Capitol missed. If he keeps searching, maybe one of these nights he'll find the leak.

(A fool's hope – but a fool can still dream.)

Bastian doesn't know how much time passes before a knock sounds on his door. The noise barely fazes him, but he prays the intruder will leave soon. It's too early – his clock barely reads three.

"Bastian," Callan urges gently. "I can see your light on. I know you're still awake."

Damn him. Bastian considers staying quiet until the other man leaves, but he's unfortunately aware of how stubborn Callan can be. Trying to wait him out isn't much of an option. He might stay on the other side of the door all night just to prove a point.

"I'm fine," Bastian insists - clearly a compelling argument given his track record.

"Is that why you called?"

The silence that follows is louder than anything Bastian has to say in his own defense. Before he can think about it too much, he says, "Just come in."

It's only when Callan enters the room that Bastian realizes he never asked to come in in the first place. Maybe he would've been content to spend the rest of the night outside, silent but steady, a comforting presence that never leaves.

(Would that really have been so bad?)

(Maybe. The night is already less suffocating now that he's not alone in it.)

It's strange to see Callan looking so… normal. Almost comfortable. It's jarring in a way Bastian didn't expect. He's only ever seen Callan looking exceptionally put together; a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants definitely go against the image Bastian keeps in his mind.

Bastian spends a little too long staring at Callan's clothes, so he forces his eyes back up. Based on the look on Callan's face, the other man can't decide whether to be amused or concerned. "Why are you on the floor?"

He's sort of forgotten his current position. Bastian huffs out a laugh. "Can't sleep."

"I'd think being in bed would help."

Casting a glance over to his sheets, which are a jumbled mess on his bed from when he scrambled out of them earlier, Bastian grimaces. "Maybe another night."

"Something the matter, then?"

"There's always something," Bastian mutters. "I shouldn't have called. You should go back."

He doesn't know why he bothered. Callan clearly doesn't intend to listen to him, and Bastian himself can tell how empty the sentiment rings. The other man merely twists his lips and glances around the room. "Mind if I join you?"

Bastian gestures vaguely. "You're already here."

To his surprise, Callan settles down on the floor next to him, a few inches cautiously left between them. Bastian takes care to stay as perfectly still as he can manage, so he doesn't encroach on Callan's space more than he already has.

Part of him is yelling for Callan to leave. The other part is pleading for him to stay. Bastian bites down on his lip hard enough to silence both voices.

"You're not interested in talking about it, are you?"

He shakes his head.

"That's fine." Callan leans back against the wall. "Just figured some company might help."

And it does. Bastian would never say so, but they both know it.

As time goes on, it gets easier to breathe. The tightness in his chest begins to ease up. It never fully goes away, but Bastian is used to that by now. The dull ache that remains is tolerable; Bastian can shove it down to a place where it's barely noticeable.

(The emptiness is new, though.)

(Not everything can be fixed.)

Callan's presence is unavoidable, too. Even though he doesn't say anything, Bastian finds that he's acutely aware of even the slightest movements. It reminds him of a few nights ago, and the memory he's spent days trying to recall.

Bastian squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't remember. But I saw you, didn't I? Last year? After the Games?"

A thoughtful silence lingers between them before Callan carefully answers, "You did."

"I woke up in your room," he breathes. "I thought I just made it up to the wrong floor. I thought you were long gone."

"I left while you were asleep."

"But… we talked, didn't we? Before that?"

"We did."

"Fuck," Bastian mutters. "Why would I…?"

"Following the events of last year, you came to the conclusion that we had a new commonality. You wanted some advice on how to handle it. I said my piece, and you fell asleep. I never thought you would remember how it went."

Bastian peeks over at him. Callan's always good at carrying himself in a manner where he barely betrays any emotions. They're always there, just… subdued, and Bastian has to search to find them. Even now he can tell that, even though Callan claims otherwise, his tone is strangely… disappointed.

(Their conversation from the other night flashes through his mind – more precisely, Callan's reaction.

He wants Bastian to remember.)

(Bastian only wishes he wasn't so good at disappointing people.)

"I don't remember a lot about those months. After she… she… it's all a blur. I don't know how much there is to remember."

Callan finally turns his head to look at Bastian, and he realizes he's been staring. He tries not to immediately break away. "If you don't remember, how do you know I was there at all?"

"You left your number. No name, but I recognize your handwriting. I wasn't… I wasn't in a place to question it, though. I didn't speak to anyone for months. I ignored all of Estelle's calls. I didn't…"

Though Bastian doesn't finish his thought, the sentiment goes without saying. I didn't think I deserved it.

"I'm glad you called," Callan says, all too casually. "I left that for a reason. I always assumed you never got it."

"I did. I didn't want to use it."

"But you did tonight."

"I shouldn't have."

"We can keep talking in the same circle for ages, but neither truth will change. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm here now. For whatever you need."

Bastian swallows. He forces his gaze away. "You remember my Games, don't you?"

"As much as you remember mine, I'd imagine."

"An aquarium," Bastian whispers somewhat wistfully. "Everything was falling into place. It was meant to be my year. I thought I was lucky; I was going to make it home in no time."

Beside him, Callan just sits back and listens. Bastian finds himself to be grateful for it. He's not sure he could continue if he gets interrupted.

"When… when the tunnel collapsed, and the glass broke, and the water went everywhere… I've never gotten that close to drowning before. Swimming was one of the first things I learned how to do. But I couldn't find my way out. I still don't know how I survived."

Bastian's hands tremble, and he holds them close to his chest. "But then… the nights after that… the drowning never stopped. I could still feel the water in my chest, waiting to take me again. And then the finale… I don't think they ever fixed me. Not all the way. Sometimes I still feel…"

He breaks off suddenly, fighting the urge to sob. Bastian can't do this, not again. He's already struggling to understand why he's letting Callan see this part of him, all ugly and raw like an open wound.

(Still bleeding. Never healing.)

He doesn't have to continue. Callan glances between him and the bed and understands — almost.

"Nightmare?"

"Not this time. Some nights. This is just…"

"Like a memory, then?"

"I guess," Bastian mumbles.

Callan seems to understand that this isn't a conversation he's willing to continue. Luckily, he lets them lapse into silence, which is far better than letting Bastian continue to break.

(Wouldn't it be easier to leave Bastian alone, to leave him to his own devices? Why does Callan insist on being there? Doesn't he understand that Bastian isn't the kind of person people should rely on, that he's not the sort of person that deserves to have people around?

Bastian exists in the eye of a storm – it's for the best that everyone keeps their distance.)

(For whatever reason, Callan insists on being different.)

Frustrated, Bastian pulls his knees closer to his chest. He shifts away, barely widening the distance between the two of them. Callan hardly seems to notice.

"Why are you here?" Bastian asks, voice hushed.

Beside him, Callan furrows his brows. "Because you called for me."

"No, I mean… it's the night before the Games. Morning of. Why aren't you asleep, or watching over your tributes, or…" Bastian can't quite look at him. "Ariadne."

Callan's lips part in surprise. He nods thoughtfully. "I don't sleep while I'm in the Capitol."

"Ever?"

"Hardly. Between the Games and… other duties, I find myself pressed for time. I can't give all of myself if I'm exhausted. I aim to be alert at all hours, if I'm needed."

"Oh."

"As for Theo, he's sound asleep. He went to bed early, citing that the most important day of his life was tom- today. Nerissa was similar. Rhosyn is on the floor if either of them need something. I'll be back there when the sun rises."

That's not for a few hours still. "They're both very serious about the Games."

"Incredibly. They earned this chance, and fully intend to win. I imagine yours are the same."

Bastian tries to block out how vulnerable both of them looked just a few hours ago, or how he's been pretending he doesn't know that Thessaly is spending the night in Ibai's room. "Similar."

"As for Ariadne…" Callan trails off, and then coughs a bit. "She's not the type to need much of anyone."

"Oh."

"And…" Callan looks strangely unsure of himself, like he doesn't know what to say. He fumbles for his words a moment, then sighs. "And there's nothing going on between us, anyway. We're friends. Nothing more."

"... Oh?"

Bastian doesn't quite know what to say. He always wondered how the two of them got involved in the first place, but if there's nothing going on at all…

"It was her idea. To help keep the Capitol off my back, and… to keep Estelle off hers."

That… somewhat makes sense. Bastian can see the reasoning behind it. He's always been aware of Estelle's attraction to the Eight Victor, but he figured it wasn't reciprocated. Now…

Well, connections can be dangerous. Maddox takes care to keep track of everyone his Victors interact with, searching for weak points to use in his own favor. Such a weakness would be dire for both Ariadne and Estelle. And up to this point, Estelle has managed to stay out of Maddox's business.

(Bastian hopes to keep it that way.)

"Does it work?" Bastian asks softly.

"Estelle, yes. It helps that she's not my biggest fan."

"You're not exactly a fan of hers, either."

Callan pauses. "I… have gained more clarity since then. That first year, the loss was fresh. I said things I can't take back. Now, I understand it's not fair to blame her for winning. Part of me always understood that, but… at the time, lashing out was easier. I don't think an apology would do me much good now."

"She's more forgiving than you think."

"I know. But if she keeps her distance, then she stays out of Maddox's reach. Even if I still resented her for killing Darius, I wouldn't want her to be part of this. She doesn't deserve it. She fought well and won. Everything she has now… that's what she deserves."

"She's happy," Bastian says wistfully. "I hear it in her voice. I see it when she looks at Alila. She feels like she's finally done something she can be proud of."

"She brought someone home. It's what we all hope for."

Bastian's stomach twists. He thinks of Thessaly and Ibai, of the lives they have to get back to. But to get there, the happiness they've found now will soon be stolen away. The two can't coexist.

The Games only know how to take. They thrive on pain and loss and suffering. Even if one of them made it out alive, they'd see the world through new eyes, forever tainted.

(It would be easier to see them die. To let them slip through his fingers, ending their pain in one fell swoop.

An ending would be a kindness.)

"You still don't agree," Callan notes, too observant for his own good.

"I'm trying," Bastian insists. "Like I said I would."

"I know."

"They deserve better than winning. They don't know what it's really like."

"Do you?"

Bastian falls quiet. His victory has always been tainted by one thing or another. He never fully made it out of the water – the waves batter him relentlessly, waiting for him to succumb even now. There's never been a break for him to rest.

(But god, how he wants to.)

"I don't know," he admits. "Winning isn't what I thought. None of this is what I thought it would be."

"Expectation and reality often contrast in a way we can't anticipate."

"I wish it wasn't me. I didn't… I don't deserve it."

"That's a subjective measure. No one person will ever deserve the win. You'll torture yourself to keep thinking like this."

There's a pause. "Well, what about you?" Bastian asks cautiously.

"What about me?"

"Do you… think you deserve it? Winning?"

Callan goes still, his expression kept carefully neutral. "I think," he says slowly, "that I deserve everything I have now."

The breath catches in his throat. "Everything?"

Callan's gaze is fixed on something distant, and Bastian can feel him slipping away. "It's a form of payment. And… I do not mind paying the price."

"And you're… okay with that?"

"Yes and no. I'd rather it be me. I'd rather it be no one at all. The price of winning is different for everyone. I can't change the past, but I can make someone else's future better."

But what about you? Bastian longs to ask. He can't quite force the words out of his throat.

Instead, he realizes that weariness is seeping into his bones, that the water is beginning to pull him away. Bastian's eyes slip shut before fluttering back open, desperate to stay here, in this moment.

He hopes that tomorrow never comes. He knows that it already has. The sky will brighten in a few hours, and twenty-four children will begin their march towards death, who will greet them with open arms and a kind smile.

Bastian shudders. He looks up at Callan, who has only ever asked him to try. To keep trying, even though it's hard – maybe because it's hard.

"Does it get easier?" Bastian whispers. He hopes this night never ends.

"No," Callan admits, but there's a strange almost smile on his face. Bastian can't bring himself to look away. "But then you have a good night, or talk to the right person, and the rest gets more bearable."

"I hope you're right."

(It occurs to Bastian that this is the lightest his chest has felt in a year.)

pg done :)

hello everyone and happy ten years to me being on this ugly blue website! i'm not much of an anniversary person but 10 felt like a pretty notable number so here i am with the end of pregames and the last chapter of 2023. my christmas gift to everyone is alive children until the new year. after that, all bets are off.

so yeah. next is bloodbath. prepare yourselves. or don't. probably five povs. two of them are gwen and theo. stick around to find out the rest on jan 1, 2024. the only day i will bend over backwards to post on bc i think i'm funny.

umm... leave thoughts! tell me which kids u would sacrifice ur life to preserve the wellbeing of! gimme predictions! i like hearing whatever y'all have to say :) we've got a long games road ahead of us...

see y'all in 2024

~de laney is out