Avalanche Chapter 3, a hunger games fanfic

Chapter Three

Downslide

Sixty

Fifty-Nine

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Seven

"…welcome in, welcome in, to viewers from all across Panem— this is Io speaking, your Master of Ceremonies, giving you LIVE coverage of this year's Hunger Games!"

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Five

"Alright, and if the cameras are all set up, across the arena… which they should be, if Sodaniya's staying out of trouble this year… we should be getting our first look at his arena momentarily."

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Two

Fifty-One

Fifty

"And… oh, OK! Look at that, folks, Sodaniya's outdone himself again with his immaculate arena design!"

Forty-Nine

Forty-Eight

Forty-Seven

"Excellent… Now, let's take a look at… the starting area, where the twenty-four tributes ought to be…"

Forty-Six

Forty-Five

Forty-Four

Forty-Three

"Ah, it's a village, it seems, this time… not much civilization elsewhere, in this arena— save for that train we just caught a look of. Let's hope the tributes show us more of that later!"

Forty-Two

Forty-One

Forty

Thirty-Nine

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Six

"As always, Sodaniya put a stockpile of resources in the center— in the Town Square, it seems. There ought to be a good battle between the tributes this time— a nice, good old-fashioned messy brawl!"

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Two

"…not many alliances popping up this year, to our knowledge, but let's take a look at the ones we do know about from the Interviews."

Thirty-One

Thirty

Twenty-Nine

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Seven

"In the top area, it looks like our Two and One alliance of volunteers seem to be all clumped together… with a few Threes and Fives scattered in there. Pippin, Mew, Rubin, and Mirus… this is the team to watch out for!"

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Four

"Usually the Fours join the Ones and Twos, but Kira and Dover actually allied with Alexi from Three, they claim. All of them are reaped tributes, so they still need to watch out for the volunteers, especially with Alexi standing right between them."

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Two

Twenty-One

"Towards the bottom of your screens, we have some District Partners who chose to stick together. Delilah and Junebug from Six are standing just two spots away from each other, with only Mister Fabergé from Eight and Avonlea from Seven standing between them."

Twenty

"Ah, yes, and if Fete Fabergé isn't the absolute TALK of the Capitol right now! …we ran a background check on him after what he said in our Interview, and we can confirm that yes, his claim to fame is indeed a fact. Talk about a plot twist— and this early into our Games!"

Nineteen

Eighteen

Seventeen

Sixteen

Fifteen

"Fabergé is looking a little nervous… We know his popularity and controversy speaks for him, but based on his nerve-wracking Reapings, and his wobbling Chariot rides, the question is: now that he's prepared, can he perform?"

Fourteen

Thirteen

Twelve

Eleven

"OK, and we're nearing the end of the countdown… and the first day of the Hunger Games is about to begin. Fabergé still looks nervous, and while we can't say why… my guess is that he can't see his Partner and ally Gil."

Ten

Nine

Eight

Seven

"Ah, Gil is nestled far from Fete, about seven placements to his left! And— oh…! What a shame! They didn't see each other…"

Six

Five

Four

"Alright folks, grab your popcorn, get in your seats, because we're about to begin…"

Three

Two

One

…

"NOW!"

(It had to be this.)

(It just had to be this.)

For a few moments when the horn sounded, Fete was still. He was still looking to the south, to his right. He knew he had to run, that he had to escape, do… something, but everything was so quick to grab his attention.

Because… it was a mountain.

They were in the mountains.

In a village, naturally, towards the base, for now, but still high up. Still touching the clouds. Still in the cold.

Still covered in snow.

(Of fucking course the arena Fete was selected to fight in had to be covered in ice and snow. Naturally. Because what else was the universe going to do, except fucking torment him every damn day?!)

…

(…snap out of it!)

It was then that he found himself being shoved to the icy cobblestone, slamming his face into the cobblestone road of the town.

"JUNEBUG!"

As fast as he could manage, Fete managed to get up, head somehow already spinning. Oh, nice. That was going to look great to Sponsors, wasn't it, just fantastic. The boy who kept on falling over, again and again and again? He just made them forget the first time, and now he was going to make them remember?

There was a girl with curly hair running past him, the one who had shoved him towards the arena— Delilah, her name was? She ran directly towards another girl, who had stormed directly into the middle of the arena, where everything was, where everything one could possibly need to survive in the Games would be. She was shouting, she was shouting shouting shouting—

"JUNE, STOP, COME ON! WE GOTTA GO!"

(Go…)

(Go where…?)

(It didn't look like there was anything outside this square, just a mountainous forest, and… was that a train in the distance?!)

(Were they fucking kidding?!)

(…)

The little girl from District Seven who had been standing next to Fete rushed past, tears in her eyes as she blitzed past them all, breaking into a dead sprint, running quicker than he had ever seen anybody run. He watched her go, watched her make an absolute beeline out of the town with nothing but the clothes on her back.

He looked back up at the mountain.

(…what was he hesitating for?!)

(…)

((the train, it crossed over a bridge across a chasm, a massive chasm none of them could climb on their own))

((it disappeared behind the peak of the mountain…))

((…))

((…what could be so valuable up there, that they built a whole train to reach it, and hid it so far away from tributes?))

…

…LOOK OUT!

It was a split second, just a split second, but Fete managed to see her coming just in time, out of the corner of his eyes.

And he ducked—

He spun on ice as he whirled around, slipping a bit but holding his ground, this time, as the girl from Nine (what was her name? she went just after him in the Interviews— he couldn't see her talk…) so narrowly missed her shot at him with her knife, the blade swinging over his head instead of through his neck.

…he stared.

He wanted to say something, to ask her to stop, to get her to calm down, anything, but the youth had pure and unfiltered panic edging through her veins, hands shaking as she held up the knife. Her eyes were huge, her pupils so retracted that they had transformed into nothing but tiny pinpricks; a beady and wild gaze that did not hesitate.

She lunged again at him, and this time, she was quick about it. This time, he didn't have the time or room to dodge.

(…!)

(…under pressure. He couldn't die here. Under pressure, what could he do? He had to do it, do it for Gil… Think. Think think think think think think think… THERE.)

Beside him, on the cobblestone to his right, lie a small, navy blue backpack, and in one desperate swoop, Fete managed to just barely snag his hand on the strap, swinging it up to dodge the girl's knife just in time as she embedded it in, shoving him further and further.

"…AAAAAAAH!"

She screamed in frustration, yanking it out swinging again, but, like a blunt force weapon, Fete reacted first, slamming the bag in her face and knocking her to the ground, knife clattering against the ice.

He just breathed, for a few seconds, letting his heart pound… and pound… and pound…

…

((she was all alone))

((alone, and afraid, in this icy hellscape))

((…))

…

…she writhed on the ice for a few seconds more, and Fete almost reached out a hand to pull her up.

But at that moment, an arrow found its way into her eye, and she was no more.

BANG!

A cannonfire, signaling a death. Fete gasped at this, and quickly, he whipped his head around to look at the origin of the arrow.

(And his blood ran colder than the ice surrounding him.)

It was her.

The girl with beige skin and dark hair, the girl from One, the volunteer who had trained her whole life for this. The volunteer who laughed, who was able to laugh so genuinely in a training room of death, and she was smiling no more, staring him down as she knocked another arrow into her bow, taking aim…

Pippin Merveilleux.

…

(…get down, get down, get DOWN YOU FOOL!)

Fete took a flying leap to his left, skidding across the ice behind one of the town's assorted buildings as an arrow whizzed past, lodging itself into a wall where he had been standing. The blue bag clattered next to him, and as he breathed heavily, he threw the straps over his shoulders, scrambling to his feet once more.

BANG! BANG!

(Gil.)

(…he had to find Gil!)

(What if Gil was one of those cannonfires? What if he was already dead? What if they had already got to him, in this horrible arena? No, no! He couldn't let that happen, he just— no! He couldn't lose someone else!)

(Gil, Gil… Gil!)

He ran forward, out of the alleyway he had trapped himself in.

They had to get out of there right now.

"JUNE!"

She had given Junebug a look as soon as she spotted her on their podiums, rising out of the ground.

They had discussed this. They had watched the Games before, especially the ones that put a stockpile at the starting area of the arena. There was nothing short of bloodshed, of death, of chaos! The very first year they had watched, the first year of the Sodaniya era, in fact, the opening of the Games had slaughtered half of the competition in just one go. And now, they were here. It was their turn.

But Junebug… oh, Junebug, and throwing caution to the wind… that was a tale as old as time. Delilah had given her that look, and watched as Junebug just brushed her uneven bangs out of the way, and gave her a bold, dumbass grin, and the moment it began, she sped off into the frey.

And now, Delilah was running after her, into the very same frey. Into the very place that she had had nightmares about all her life, that flashed in her vision whenever she felt fear. There were many names for this, used by the commentator and spectators. The Opening. Pandemonium. The Great Brawl.

But, as Delilah ran, one stood in the forefront of her mind the most.

The Bloodbath.

"JUNE," she shouted, calling out in nothing but endless vain, "COME O—AAH!"

Delilah was never all that physically fit; her coordination skills left something to be desired. The poor girl had never even been able to ride a bike… and so, running on ice left her slipping and sliding until she hit her head on the ground.

"Ow…"

She lifted her head up, vision spinning. Ow… ow that stung. She seriously hoped she hadn't grievously injured herself so early into the Games…

Her vision cleared…

Oh.

Oh.

(This was a horrific display.)

(If she survived this affair, this would give her new nightmares until the end of her life.)

…BANG!

BANG!

From her spot on the ground, Delilah's eyes began to water at the sheer horror taking place in front of her, tears dropping from her eyes and becoming fresh ice on the cobblestone as she witnessed… this.

That swordsperson from One was cackling, pulling a blade from the stockpile out of the boy from Four's body; Dover. He hadn't wanted to be a part of the One's alliance, or was it the other way around? Regardless of that, and regardless of the reasoning, his lifeless body slipped down onto the snow, blood from their chest painting it all red.

BANG!

His District Partner— Kira, was it? She had rushed in, looking to protect Dover, screaming his name hysterically, but she was weak, and she was small, and she was frail. That Two boy had taken a club, and all it took was a good blow to the neck to make her drop.

BANG!

And… and their leader…

They stood, a tower of muscle, an intimidating, poker faced statue. The Five boy— Tami, (she had to use their names, she refused to just let them go unnamed…) lay dead beside him, eyes open, but with no light of life in them whatsoever. Another boy, Alexi, from Three, struggled in vain to get away from them, crawling on his hands and knees.

But they were faster.

And they picked Alexi up by the throat, staring into his eyes, without a single emotion in their own. What could be going through their head? What could this volunteer possibly be thinking right now, as they did such horrible acts?

…she didn't know. All she knew was that in a single instant, they crushed Alexi's windpipe, and dropped them onto the cobblestone.

BANG!

…

…and now, they looked at her.

((NO!))

They approached, walking oh so calmly, oh so methodically, and Delilah scootched away, as fast as she could. Tears fell freely from her eyes, and her breathing was erratic, her heart pumping and pumping and PUMPING—!

"No, please!" she shouted, in vain, as the volunteer approached, no light in their eyes whatsoever. She choked on a sob, "No!"

But they reached—

A snowball suddenly hit them in the face from the right (her left), snapping the volunteer out of it, putting their eyes in a daze as they leaned back up.

What…?

(…)

…Delilah glanced to her side, looking to see who could've done such a thing.

And she smiled as she saw her bolting across the arena.

From her left, uneven bangs swinging in the icy wind, a backpack bouncing on her shoulders, coming on swinging to the two of them and fast, bursting in speed, sprinting, coming to her rescue like some insane savior— was Junebug!

"DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

The volunteer took a step back in shock at the sheer audacity of her, helpless as she ran at them, bolting; she leapt into the air!

She threw a punch at the volunteer's face—!

But the volunteer caught her hand, sneering down.

…

(Delilah gasped, and watched in horror as they held June in their grasp, at their mercy.)

…

(But June didn't get known for running into danger without being good at it.)

(She only sneered back, even nastier than they did to her.)

"EAT SHIT, BITCH!"

And with her free right hand, before the volunteer could react in any meaningful way, Junebug Quintaro put everything she had, every ounce of strength she had in her, and put it into the meanest, sickest right hook she had ever performed in her life, sucker punching them in the eye so hard that they immediately clattered into the cobblestone, nursing their head.

…

…holy fuck.

June didn't waste another instant.

"Delilah, let's go!"

The girl raced down the way to Delilah, and Delilah watched as, behind her, the other two volunteers witnessed the commotion, brandishing their weapons, and began to run—!

(She was so slow, they would get her, they would!)

But, while trouble was fast… Junebug was so much faster.

She sped to Delilah's side, and, in one swift motion, leaning down between strides, she latched onto Delilah's wrist in a death grip, yanking her off the cobblestone and to her feet, and just kept moving. Delilah couldn't keep up, she thought, not with Junebug's absolutely absurd pace, but yet, with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, and June's iron clasp on her arm, not letting go, not letting up for an instant, they ran off.

Through the roads, through the streets, Delilah looked back as the two of them ran, and the two volunteers were bolting, and bolting… but getting further and further from their view.

Run.

Run…

And soon, with her breaths heaving, her legs burning, sweat dripping from Delilah's forehead despite the insufferable chill, the two of them had sped their way out of the town, and into the maze of snowy pines, the cobblestone's clicking giving way to crunchy snowfall…

"Rubin, Rubin, get up!"

Their head was pounding, and they held up a snowball to their left eye, clutching it, keeping the pain on low. Ah… it burned, causing them to hiss through gritted teeth as their head pounded. That Six girl had really done them in with such a hook…

From their spot on the ground, they glanced up with their good eye at Pippin Merveilleux, staring down, annoyance and concern mixing together to form a strange expression on her features. She quirked her brow, staring down.

"Some leader you are…" she said, "…where are we going to get Sponsorships if you go down so easily?"

Rubin could only nod their head at that, still holding it as they got to their feet, didn't like her tone, but she was right, of course; them going down like a chump to one scrappy girl's fist wouldn't look great to the cameras… but they couldn't focus on that now.

Instead, they had to focus on securing the precious, precious resources of the stockpile.

…

… …

… … … …wait a second.

"…where are Mirus and Mew?"

She scoffed, but before she could actually say anything, Pippin heard a rustling from beside her, and in one move, nocked an arrow on her bow and shot it to her side.

BANG!

One of the Seven girls, who had tried to take a large bag from the central pile, fell to the cobblestone, dead, an arrow in her chest.

She didn't look back at Rubin when she responded.

(But they saw an expression in her eyes.)

(Such an expression, such wide-eyes… did they see what she had done? Did they realize the weight of it?)

(…)

"They fucking ran off, like idiots," Pippin told them, rolling her eyes, "they went after the Sixes— not like they could ever catch them, with how fast they are…"

Rubin gritted their teeth. That was the one thing they said not to do at the beginning. They had to stockpile, they had to get everything they could before heading off to war, heading off to kill for power and glory and honor. Just heading straight for the kill without protection— it was so unwise! It was a fool's plan!

"They'll be back…" Pippin said, and she took another one of her arrows, shooting, but this time missing one of the boys from Three who had been brought here. Not Alexi, but… the other one. Whatever his name was. She grunted in frustration at her miss, "We just gotta clear everyone else out. Kill 'em all, y'know?"

They frowned, "You're not the boss of me, Pippin."

She frowned back, "Did I say I was?"

…

"…fine," they began, and they let their hand drop, the snow dropping to the ground, clenching their palm into a fist as they saw one of the boys running, shouting someone's name, like some headless chicken.

"Gil…?! Let's go!"

"I'll get one, right now."

He found them.

It took way too long, but when Fete found them running through the stockpile, sporting a small lance, he practically tackled them into a hug in relief.

"Where have you been?"

"OOMPH!"

((he thought he was gone. he thought he had already broken his promise in the first two minutes of being here, but Gil was alive. he was alive, he was still alive…))

(He tackled the life out of him, he squeezed him, he hugged Gil. He held him like he would never see him again, because just the sight of him still among the living convinced Fete that living for another day was still worth it.)

(On a normal day, he wouldn't even consider hugging him so openly, so… fiercely. But this wasn't that kind of day, now was it?)

"Fete—!"

(There was panic in his voice.)

((but don't let him go))

((any second he could be gone, any second Gil could leave him alone, forever and ever and ever…))

((don't leave him alone))

((please))

"Fete, we need to leave, look—!"

Gil shoved himself away from Fete, slipping out of the embrace, and shoving Fete backward. Fete's stupor, momentarily, was broken, and he found himself dazed…

Right as the volunteer shoved their way between them.

(…)

(…right.)

(Had he really just risked Gil's life, just for one last opportunity for a hug? Like some sort of sentimental fool? He had never been sentimental, and now he was killing them both just for a damn hug? What… what was wrong with him today?)

Both of them stumbled away, and with a start, Fete gathered his bearings again, looking at the one who had just barreled between them, charging like some sort of bull. They were… they were tall. And muscular. Built like some sort of chiseled marble they displayed on the steps of elaborate Capitol buildings.

And their eyes.

There was absolutely nothing reflected in those eyes.

(No remorse.)

…they had to leave.

Rubin turned around.

Fete took a step back. Gil did the same.

They took each other's hands.

…

…for a few moments, they all looked at each other, as if waiting for one of the others to say something. In nervous anticipation for what's to come.

(Who would strike first?)

(…)

(Fete wouldn't. Fete had no idea what to do, not here, not now. Fete had all sorts of ideas, usually, but not this time. Not this time…)

(Rubin wouldn't. Rubin was waiting for them to strike, waiting for them to make a mistake. Waiting to catch them off guard, to find their weakness and exploit it.)

(…)

(…but Gil…)

((…))

((truth be told, Gil was sweet, but that was just about it for him))

((being a model in the nice part of town didn't exactly give them any "street smarts," if you will. Gil wasn't a genius. Gil wasn't dumb, but he…))

((…))

((…well, he ran into the stockpile, the ever dangerous stockpile, just to grab a lance))

((he wanted to feel protected, in some way. Gil wanted to protect Fete, protect himself, and so he did something recklessly dangerous))

((after all, his relationship with Fete in the first place was considered reckless, and foolish. Mourna had told him that time and time again. he had chosen someone risky, he had decided that everything they were would rest upon the shoulders of a hopeless, but fixable boy))

((what would he be if he lost that? where would he even be now, if he had never met Fete? he'd be someone else, and no one. without Fete's generosity, Gil wasn't certain if he'd ever be anything at all if he and Fete never met. but was that granting Fete too much credit, or himself too little?))

((Gil couldn't be sure))

((maybe it was the sunk-cost fallacy. maybe it was blind devotion. maybe it was stupid sentimentality that was going to get both of them killed. but Gil cared too much for him to just let Fete die. and he wasn't sure if after all of these years, he was capable of changing that))

((people don't change, after all))

((…))

((…then what was he doing with Fete?))

((…))

(It didn't matter.)

Because Gil

struck

first.

He panicked— after all, despite going first, it wasn't like Gil had any clue just what he was doing. He couldn't; how could he? No formal training, no experience in fighting— only in posing and looking nice for the cameras. And did he now? Sure he did. As he threw the lance he had struggled to get in the first place right at the volunteer's face, throwing away all of the efforts he had just made, at the very least, Gil was still good-looking for the viewers at home.

And the volunteer caught it, staring the two dead in the eyes.

…

((…he was going to get them both killed))

"…you two aren't very smart."

And in one motion, in one sickening motion… Rubin took the lance, and snapped it in half with one hand.

The two of them could only watch, wide-eyed, as the two halves of it clattered uselessly to the cobblestone.

…

(…they had to run.)

(…NOW.)

It was Fete's idea this time. It was Fete's impulse, as he grabbed Gil's hand. Gil had moved. Rubin had had their turn, but now, last but not least, Fete had his turn, and his decision was to run.

"LET'S GO!"

He didn't look back, he didn't look to see Rubin chasing them, despite knowing damn well they were. He just took Gil by the hand and pulled, pulling the boy as hard as he could, bolting forward, and running, running, running…

(Those girls from Six could do it. Out of the corner of his eye, as he searched for Gil, he had seen them bolting away through the streets, escaping them all. The only question now, was…)

(Could they?)

(…)

(…he allowed himself one look back.)

((no))

The girls from Six had experience on their side.

But these two didn't.

Rubin was rapidly approaching them now, clearly not off-put by their chase, and not amused in the slightest. Their eyes… Fete couldn't stand to look into their eyes, Fete couldn't stand to see such eyes… like a bull, glancing at those tones of red they despised so.

Directed at them.

(…he kept going, but he had to come up with something. Anything to put them off their scent. They needed an idea, or some sort of miracle. They had to work something out, as soon as they could. Could he think, could he think under pressure…?)

(He had to.)

(He must.)

(…)

(…the streets were lined with houses. The road, covered in ice.)

(It was such a long-shot.)

(But regardless, he had no other option but to try it.)

Rubin was practically at their heels now, despite their pace. They were right there, so tantalizingly close to them, so absurdly within range… they could see, both of them could see, from the corner of their eyes, that they were reaching, reaching, reaching…

But Fete took a sharp turn, right then and there. A perfect ninety degrees to their left, throwing Gil to the side. He lost his footing, he fell over as Fete yanked him in such a different way, so suddenly, so quick!

But Fete kept that grip on his wrist. Such an iron grip, that he held him still, held him close, pulling him back to his feet as he ran.

(Their eyes met.)

(…)

(…what did the other gaze say…?)

…

(…)

…they ran, Fete pulling them to a red building on their left, ripping the door open with a huge THUD!

He looked back, to his right.

They needed a miracle.

…

(…and so it was.)

(For just an instant, Rubin was caught off guard. For just an instant, despite how unlikely, they slipped. At just the right instant, they fell onto the ice, and there was leeway…)

…Fete ran inside.

Gil didn't have a choice but to follow, eyes still trained on Rubin.

(They were getting up…!)

(They'd be here soon!)

The building only had one room. It was a kitchen, or so Fete could tell, based on all of the interior decorating, complete with a small dining table, and a tablecloth… and another door on the other end of the house.

(…it was a miracle.)

(It was so unlikely, but the stars aligned, just this once. Just this once, the stars decided to give Fete exactly what they needed…)

(…)

(…the footsteps outside were getting louder.)

(Move.)

He kept his hand firmly clamped onto Gil, bolting to the other side of the room, and bursting the door open with a huge BANG! It hung limply open, exposed to the outside air, begging for someone to follow…

But Fete didn't leave.

Instead, with one last pull, just before Rubin saw them, right before they could be exposed, at the last possible instant, Fete took Gil, and dove under the tablecloth.

…

…THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP…

…

…THUMP THUMP THUMP…

…

(They were gone…)

…

(…run.)

"Hey…!"

Run. Run, don't look back. Looking back would destroy them. The volunteers could catch up at any second, they could find them at any point. They could bring them down, they could crush them, rip them open, stab, shoot…

"Fete, can we… Can we slow down?"

Keep on moving, keep on going, go go go… through the pine trees, through the snow, kicking up cloudy dust with every step, not caring where they were going, just move, move, move!

"FETE!"

…!

And finally, Fete's attention snapped, and they fell to their knees as the moments, those crucial few minutes, all came crashing to the forefront of his mind at once.

(…)

(…how come that trick always worked on them?)

…

…he was huffing now, his heart thumping so thoroughly that he could barely hear the world surrounding him. His breaths… he was breathing deeply, and yet, nothing satisfied his lungs, nothing could stop the ache in his very bones from singing out in agony…

…

…but at last, he stopped, letting his hand slip from Gil's, and falling to his knees into the snowbank.

("Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow on snow…")

…

(…get it together, Fete.)

(He could be more composed than he was now. He knew that. At his shop, selling dresses and corsets. To the public, showing them who he was, at the Interviews. But now, now he was acting out. Now he was falling and hugging and running and running and running until he dropped.)

(Why was it that he was feeling so utterly inconsistent as of late?)

(…)

(…he probably didn't need to ask that question. Not knowing where he was, right now.)

(Snow. It had to be snow, didn't it?)

…they were in a forest, now.

Pine trees, Fete thought they were called, evergreen pine trees— and they surrounded the two from all sides. Each of them tall and foreboding, and covered in the white powder covering all they could see, shrouding the two in shadows from all directions.

Fete stared at the tree…

(…)

(…it was Christmas Eve. There was a tree just like that decorated in lights and adorned with a star, standing below them, from outside her windows.)

(Oh, Christmas… that holiday had long since been lost to time, or so he'd heard. What did it celebrate? No one could say with absolute certainty, but it didn't stop the fact that she loved it. Loved it enough that her wedding was on that night. Loved it so much that when he was born just a few days prior to it, she was disappointed that it wasn't exactly on that day. She loved it so much… that when she died…)

(…)

(…why was he thinking about her now?)

(About that snowy Christmas Eve, nine years ago?)

(Why couldn't he ever give the wintertime a break? Why did— despite everything that's happened— why did his mind always wander back to that night, of all times? Why did it still jeer at the sound of a train and snowflakes falling from the sky? Why did that incessant song still buzz in the back of his mind?)

(Since that night, his father became an alcoholic.)

(Since that night, Melanie was beheaded.)

(Since that night, his father died.)

(Since that night, the business was shut down, and since that night, he was brought here, and since that night, he entered an impossible scenario with the one person on earth to still care about him.)

(And yet, despite all that has happened since that night, that accursed, horrible night, he still went back to her, again and again.)

(…why?)

…

He didn't want to ponder it. Not now. He didn't have the time for reminiscing.

He had work to do.

It was Gil who spoke up first, behind him. Like Fete, he panted heavily, the run clearly still taking a toll on him. He held his head in his hands, but regardless, managed to smile all the same. Now, Fete could never read Gil. He never came even close to being able to— but at the least, at the very least, he could see one thing in that smile.

It wasn't real.

"You managed to get something, at least?"

…

"…I did?"

"That bag. You managed to find that?"

Oh, yes.

In all of the chaos of recent times, Fete completely forgot that, despite the near failure of both of them, he actually did manage to snag something from the stockpile. He slipped the navy blue backpack off of his shoulders, looking it over. It was… rather sizable, now that he saw it properly, although it was somewhat fragile, since there was still that hole in it…

"…it was right next to me when we came up from underground," Fete told him, looking it over, "the Nine girl tried to stab me, and I blocked her with this…"

Gil came over, eyeing the bag, intrigued, somewhat. He hummed in amusement, or was it curiosity? He couldn't tell.

"That's a good haul…"

Fete couldn't help himself this time, he snorted, "Yeah, and you had one too, but you threw it at the Two's face."

A half-lidded stare.

"I was trying to save you."

"You did a bang-up job of that."

…

…Gil chuckled.

(When was the last time Gil chuckled, even?)

(Fete couldn't remember. Time and time again, he couldn't remember… Was Gil happy? Was he now? Could he be now?)

(They hadn't spoken so casually with each other in so very long…)

Gil looked away, hands on his knees as a smile lingered for just a bit longer. Fete couldn't help but stare at that…

Until Gil spoke up again.

"What's in there, even?"

Without warning, he took the bag from Fete's grasp, and unzipped the one and only pouch, digging through it, eyes wide. He hummed in interest as Fete stared indignantly.

"Hey, that's my bag—" he reached—

—but Gil just took it out of the way, rolling his eyes.

"Our bag… oh, a sleeping bag! That's definitely useful…"

He threw out a roll, a gray one so delicately bundled up to conserve the most space, and Fete lunged to catch it, so as to stop it from rolling away in the snow. He huffed, holding it close as Gil continued to rustle through the backpack.

"If you're going to go through that," Fete stared, leveling a (half-hearted) glare, "at least be careful with everything in there."

"I am careful…" he didn't look up. Fete quirked an eyebrow.

"What happened to your lance, Gil?"

"Yeah yeah…"

Before another word could be spoken, Gil took out a rather large canteen, the same navy blue as the backpack, and shook it. A sloshing noise could be heard, and Gil whistled.

"Water… nice, good… it goes with all of the food in here."

Fete took a step towards him, arms crossed in interest.

"…how much food?"

"A couple days' worth," Gil said, eyes open, impressed, "Enough to make it to the peak, even, if we ration it right…"

…holy shit.

All of that, and it was right next to him? They placed something that valuable… right next to his podium?

…why?

"Oh, and a lighter too!" Gil beamed a big smile to him, one that, usually, Fete would find himself distracted by. Gil didn't seem to notice his far away expression as he put the lighter back into the bag, "Good, you can't start a fire anyways…"

…

Fete was too far off to even respond to that.

But, as Gil took the sleeping bag and put it back into the backpack, it seemed as if he started having the same realization, the smile falling from his face.

And they locked eyes once more.

…

"…Fete?"

He stayed silent.

(It was so easy to talk with him.)

(But he hadn't a clue of what to say.)

"What did you tell them at the Interviews?"

…

"…hm?"

(What did that have to do with anything?)

He quirked his brow, cocking his head, and Gil sighed as he slung the now zipped backpack over his shoulder. He seemed serious— what was going through his head?

Fete only swallowed, furrowing his brow some more, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well…" Gil sighed, putting his other arm through the backpack's strap, "they put this right next to your podium, yeah? So… it's clear the Gamemakers like you, or at least think you're interesting enough to live— well, same difference, I guess. So… what did you say?"

…

(…of course.)

(That made sense, that made total sense. He was interesting now, wasn't he? Interesting, likable… all thanks to that one comment he made. One line, and it changed his life. It possibly saved it too…)

(But… wouldn't Gil know what he said…?)

(…)

(…no, he wouldn't, would he?)

(Gil went before him, and was put in a van immediately afterwards, like he was. He couldn't have seen what he said to Io in the Interviews. There was no way he would've known the secret he told everyone in Panem.)

(Should he tell him the truth?)

(…)

(…Fete would be dead soon.)

(That was a fact. Fete knew that. There wasn't any way the two of them could make it out together, so he'd have to die, so that Gil could live. And all Gil would have afterwards was a memory of him.)

(Did he want to taint that memory? Did he want to tell Gil now something that would change his perception of him forever? Did he want him to live, questioning if he ever knew Fete at all?)

(…did Fete know Gil at all?)

(…)

…

"…I…" Fete cleared his throat, glancing away.

(…)

"I told them about my father, the Stylist."

…

"…that would do it, yeah," Gil nodded.

He took it, he accepted it.

(Good.)

(Fete didn't have the heart to express otherwise.)

(…)

(…then why did he feel so empty inside?)

In the Town Square, just out of the way of any significant action, was a strange thing that Pippin wasn't sure was a feature… or just an oversight. An empty pedestal. No statue, no commemoration, just… an empty pedestal, with a blank placard. What was the point of it? Was it supposed to have something on it, and be in the central part of town, instead? Hell if she knew, but she still sat on top of it, as if it were her private chair.

She was strumming her bowstring, idly fiddling with her weapon. Now, she knew Sodaniya was an odd Gamemaker, and she was a bit out of practice with the bow, because of that. She wasted a lot of good arrows on bad shots— although, she did still get three competitors out with it, so it was a good deal. No one ever knew what weapons the Gamemakers would throw in there, so she had to train with a little bit of everything, but the bow was always her preference. She was glad it was next to her; she hadn't even mentioned it…

…

…and that was everyone, she supposed.

Every other tribute was either dead or had run off into the horizon, so it was just her team. Well… her. The other three weren't back yet, they were off killing some of them who got away. …but how strange. She had heard seven cannon shots in the distance, and yet, there were already seven corpses surrounding her. Which meant that none of them managed to get their targets.

HMMMMMMMMM…

(…it was so horrifying to think about.)

(Pippin was so close to throwing up, but she couldn't afford needing to eat more…)

(…)

…oh, and speaking of which—

"So, how was your little joy run?"

She sat on the edge of the pedestal, offering a sly smirk (was it real? Pippin could not tell) as she put her head in her palms. Walking in through the Town's streets, Mirus and Mew came in dejectedly, that spring in their shoulders wearing thin as the adrenaline left their veins.

Mew only glared up at her. Their sword bounced as they walked, and as they huffed, they blew a stray piece of hair out of their eyes. There was a pout resting on their features, one oh so familiar, at this point, as the blade dragged against the cobblestone.

"Y'know…" they said, "if you had come with us on our little 'joy run,' with that bow of yours… they probably wouldn't have gotten away."

They crossed their arms, and beside them, Mirus nodded. Boy of few words, was he now? Well, it made no difference, Pippin's smirk didn't waver a bit. Instead, she rested her chin on her palm, condescendingly glaring down.

"And if I did that…~" she said, "who would have prevented all of this from taking our stuff?"

And she gestured a grand gesture outwards, spreading her arms to overlook the whole town. At all of the bodies littering the cobblestone— all of them their victims! All of them killed by someone among them! Three of them by her bow alone!

…

(…Pippin didn't like that…)

(She… she didn't like that at all…)

Mirus whistled in response, hands on his hips. Mew's half-lidded stare met their gaze.

"Mirus, don't encourage her."

He threw his hands up at him in exasperation, "What?! We did get a lot of tributes out early. We can at least celebrate being closer to winning, right?"

From the back, Pippin cleared her throat, smirk gone. The two glanced up to her.

"Excuse me," she glared, "I got a lot of tributes out early. You just ran amok for most of that."

Mirus muled that over, then shrugged— agreeing, seemingly. Mew, however, gawked, hands on their hips at the pure and utter indignity.

"Three is not a majority, Pipsqueak."

"And?" she quirked a brow at them, "It still takes all three of you combined to match my out count. Shut up."

They looked as if they were about to protest, about to start throwing something— their sword, perhaps? But right then, at that moment, prior to any and all chaos about to take place between their bantering, another voice came through, clear as day.

"Let's not waste our time with such arguments."

…

They all glanced to the east end of the Square.

They stood there, hands empty, slowly limbering towards them, a tower of muscle and stone. The voice was a silencing effect, it was nothing but power— they were nothing but power. And so, Mew would listen. Mirus would listen.

…

…Pippin would not.

She kept her hand on her chin, expression bored, even as they made their way to the rest of them. Whatever it was they were about to say… she had something else to say, first.

"Couldn't even catch the gay boy duo?" she interjected, cutting the silence, "First the lesbian socks you, and next, the boy toys get away? Not your day, is it, Rubin?"

…

…Mew blinked, turning their attention to Rubin with a furrowed brow in interest, looking at the very swollen eye on the volunteer's face. Mirus just stood, mouth agape, confused at what he just heard. He cocked his head in confusion, eyes scrutinizing their leader. Did Mirus, perhaps, make a lapse in his judgment?

And Rubin watched them, watched Mew's exasperation, and Pippin's boredom, and Mirus's confusion, taking it all in…

…

(…they ought to have been mad, but they were not in the slightest.)

(It was so endearing, these three…)

(…)

(…they would… they would miss them.)

(…)

…

"That's irrelevant now."

Pippin whistled, leaning back onto the podium, "Is it now? Or did you just want to avoid the conversation?"

"It's irrelevant, Pippin," they said, voice even, level… emotionless.

"It's irrelevant, because we have work to do, getting up there."

They pointed to the south, down to the mountains, to that fluffy peak in the distance. Even now, after all the minutes having passed them by, they could see a train running down the rail in the distance, heading up to the top.

The four of them glanced it over. Rubin, merely pointing, not giving anything away. Mew, in confusion. Pippin without much opinion at all.

Mirus, however, seemed intrigued.

"Why wouldn't we just stay down here?" Mew asked, however, going first. They slung their sword nonchalantly over their shoulder, "I mean… all of the resources are here, right? Why not just stay where they are."

Rubin was about to explain.

But, suddenly, it was Mirus who spoke up.

"There's…." he gulped, closing his eyes as if to think, "if they're going out of their way to make it possible to reach such a difficult to reach place… there's gotta be something there, right? And everyone else will be going there, so we can take them out…"

"…huh."

Pippin hummed along in interest, finally hopping down off the pedestal, and waltzing towards the rest of her group.

"Yeah… yeah that makes sense…" she nodded, "that's… yea, Rubin, good plan."

Mirus glared, "It was my plan."

"It was Rubin's."

"It was mine."

"I…"

Mirus eventually deflated, sighing.

"Fine…"

…

"This is a stupid idea."

Mew said that, and the rest turned to look at them, but they were already collecting supplies, as if to actually carry out the aforementioned "stupid idea."

And Pippin and Mirus went off to join them, Rubin supervising.

…

(…so very much, they would miss these three…)

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

(…)

…hm?

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

What was that noise, now?

And where was he…?

…

Fete opened his eyes, a biting chill already making its way through his skin, causing him to grimace as he shivered, ever so slightly. He was squinting, as the rays of morning light, despite being filtered through the evergreen trees, reflected oh so harshly on the piles of snow…

…oh, right.

He was here.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

And what was that noise—?

He tried to sit up, tried to see what was making that utterly insufferable sound, hammering it through his eardrums at such an early time in the morning—

…but he didn't. He didn't sit up.

(…the early morning. Oh, how he despised the disorientation associated with awakening, of not knowing where he was, or who he was with, or what he had been doing… How could he forget what he had been doing? Especially now?)

(They only had one sleeping bag in the navy blue backpack, after all.)

(So, they had to share it…)

(…)

((…))

((he didn't mind, really))

((…))

((…it was just that he'd never done this before))

((…))

Regardless, his restless stirring only created more restless stirring in the one sitting beside him, the one jammed slightly uncomfortably into the fabric with him, and now cracking open their own eyes as Fete found himself being squished by his movements.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"G…" his body felt like it was being compressed as Gil moved, until Gil's elbow finally jammed its way into Fete's stomach.

"GAH!"

And suddenly, as he was lying by the zipper, Fete found himself rolling out, splaying out of the bag as he tumbled out into the snowbanks.

…

"…uh… good morning, Fete."

Oh, oh snow was cold, holy shit…

He removed his head for the bank of snow, slowly tumbling up from the floor as he dusted off the ugly gray uniform given to every tribute. He grimaced as he saw the dampness absorbing into the clothing, glancing over to the still relatively warm and dry Gil.

He leveled a stare.

"Sleep well, darling?"

(He meant that to sound sarcastic, if anything.)

(…but instead it didn't come out that way.)

(…)

(…Gil didn't seem to notice.)

In fact, Gil didn't even get to comment at all, as he removed himself from the navy blue sleeping bag. Gil was rubbing his eyes, a response lightly on the tip of his tongue, when, yet again—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

He furrowed a brow, glancing up.

"The hell is that?"

Fete put his hands on his hips, glancing up as well. The noise, if anything, had been getting louder, at least. So, he knew that much… and that was all.

"How should I know?"

"Well—"

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"WE'RE HAVING A MOMENT HERE!"

"SHHHHHH!"

(…)

(…neither of them really expected Gil's outburst at that.)

(Shouldn't have they been airing towards the side of caution, anyhows? Not broadcasting their location for all to hear?)

(…)

(They shared a look.)

(They didn't even know what it meant for the other.)

…

…PLOP!

They glanced to the west, suddenly.

It was odd. Out of the blue, as if it was nothing, a pile of snow from the cliffs overlooking them, casting a shadow over both of them— or, at least, it would, when the sun faced that direction, anyhows— had fallen down, crashing into a heap by the evergreen trees. It had just… collapsed, cascading from the shelf above.

…

"…it can avalanche here…" Gil whispered, voice so, so much quieter than before.

And so, it could, it seemed.

Fete didn't know much about avalanches, besides the basics from the geography classes in the little schoolhouse. Too loud of a noise, of a shout… and everything falls down. It all falls away into nothingness. And, it appeared, this area had quite the risk for it.

…great.

…

…BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Despite everything, a grimace still found its way to Fete's face. He frowned, miserably.

"Why is it still going?!" he said, voice in a grave, grave hush.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

…wait.

In the heap, in that pile of snow, there stood out a silver shine, a fabric akin to the kind both him and Gil wore right then. It stood out, among the lump of white, hanging loosely, as if attached to something inside of it.

…hadn't Lane told them something akin to this?

"Be on the lookout for the silver parachute, you two— we'll Sponsor you if we can. If we get enough donations for our Ratings Points to allow that sort of thing, anyways…"

Silver…

Parachute…

Sponsor…

…

…Fete crept towards it, ever so slightly.

"Fete?" Gil whispered, hissing, almost, "Fete, what are you doing? What if it falls on you?!"

He glanced back, through the corner of his eye, as he crouched down to touch the mysterious… possibly Sponsorship.

…he didn't want to touch the snow. And yet, regardless, he stuck his whole hand into the pile, getting uncomfortable, cold dampness on himself. He hissed as he did so, but despite this, he touched sleek, cold metal.

…

…he took out the capsule. Gil gasped behind him. As Fete met his eyes, Gil, nervous to speak at all, just mouthed to him, "What is it?"

He glanced back at the capsule.

There was a… note, attached?

Hey Fete, Gil!

Yea, it's me, Lane. Look, I know it's early in the Games right now… and you aren't scarce on food, or whatever, but we still have some spare points over here, ya. You really made a storm out here with that Interview, everyone's going wild over you two. Wee.

(…)

(…so it worked after all.)

(His gambit at the Interviews worked…)

(…)

We're not in a pinch for Ratings Points right now, so… here. Take this fucking weapon haha. I don't care, you might need that maybe. Also they have super good vodka in the Capitol, did you know that? Deco told me not to write a note… but I did, hehe.

Anyways, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh don't die. And head for that train to the mountain peak, it's gotta have something good. Deco said that, by the way, in case you don't trust me. Which I get.

-Lane Folie

He furrowed a brow, reading that note. Gil seemed to notice, and Fete just shrugged in abstract confusion at… whatever that was.

But Lane gave them a weapon. He… supposed that was wise of her. They had supplies— food, water, a way to keep warm at night. But no weapons, given that Gil straight up chucked his at the volunteer the day prior. Which was not the smartest move in the book, Fete would say.

What was it, though, that was contained in such a small container? Was it useful? Could it be useful, even?

…he untwisted the cap.

And he frowned.

(…the answer was no.)

(This wouldn't be useful at all.)

Gil shot him a look at that, questioning what it was that caused him to react as such. They shrugged, gesturing wildly in confusion. What? What was it? They were Sponsored (they were Sponsored?! well… OK…? he didn't expect that, although he probably should've, given Fete's popularity…), but was it bad? Why did Fete look so disappointed—

He pulled it out of the capsule, frowning still, a half-lidded stare being leveled in sheer audacity.

Oh.

That… that was dynamite.

A fuckton of dynamite… in the avalanche arena.

In the "don't make too much noise" zone.

…

(…day two was off to a great start, wasn't it?)

It had been three days.

Well, no, Mew mused. If Mirus was awake to hear them say anything, he would say that it's only been two days. The dawn was only rising on the third day, now, and as such, he would be weirdly insistent on telling them off on the use of words properly. …he was so annoying like that.

All of them were annoying like that, really. Pippin and her ego, Mirus and his distinctions, Rubin and their… uh… well, scariness, to say the least. They were like some sort of stone monument, chiseled from marble, ugh… They watched the three of them sleep, fiddling with their sword as the dawn came up in the east. They had the last shift on their whole "night watch" thing… which was the best deal, they'd reckon. Sleep first, and make it continuous. Perfect. No notes. At least the three of them could do that right.

Now all they had left to do was make it to the top of that damn mountain and kill whoever was left.

…and that wasn't much. It was cold. And dark, and frightening. And eerily quiet, much of the time, what for? Mew didn't know, all they knew was that they were rapidly losing tributes to actually fight against, and make everything worth it. This whole trek… What was it for? It was to kill, and after the slaughter on the first day, where seven went, there were four more— none of which from the four of them.

And… two more yesterday. One of which actually did stem from the group, when they found a girl from Twelve, and…—

(…)

(…so that was thirteen gone, eh?)

(Just nine of them left, and so soon.)

(The lights in the sky, the ones that displayed the dead, the hopefully buried… they were able to discern who still lived, based on who hadn't appeared at all. The four of them.)

(A small girl from District Seven.)

(The duo from Six, who had evaded them on the first day. Delilah and Junebug, their names were?)

(And then the two from Eight.)

(That was it.)

(All that remained, on this freezing mountain, this peak of snowy death, this evergreen wasteland, were nine tributes ((children)). Eight of which stood in Mew's way of glory. Eight of which ((who must die)) lying between Mew, and getting home, and finally getting out of the slums, like they promised their dad…)

(And three of them stood right beside them…)

((…))

((…they had so much blood on their hands already))

((the Four girl))

((the Twelve girl))

((they perished by their sword))

((and these three… annoying as they were))

((could Mew count them as friends…?))

((…maybe))

((…))

((…they'd just have to kill someone else, for now))

((they could stick together… for now))

(…)

(…to the right, there was crunching in the snow, and the faint noise of chatter.)

(…)

…Mew brandished the sword, flipping it in their hands to test their grip.

Time to make it seven.

"Fete…" Gil whispered. It was quiet, it was faint, but Fete still heard it as the two of them pressed ever forwards, glancing back to get a good look at him.

He… he still had trouble discerning what Gil was trying to convey with his face, but from the looks of it, he could at least pick up some hints of anxiety, some hints of suspicion, which… was fair, that was completely fair, yeah.

Gil gulped, keeping their head up, arms huddled in on themself, on the dawn of the third day in the arena. Sure, they had the sleeping bag, but… damn, the wind still bit them and threw the cold in their faces. Keeping warm at night was nice, but with a massive ice shelf looming overhead, and being in below freezing temperatures all the time… Fete was surprised he didn't have frostbite, honestly.

Gil's eyes wandered still, glancing up at that ice shelf, biting their lip, "Why are we heading up towards the peak, anyways?"

…

…Fete just kept moving forward, taking the note left on the Sponsorship out of his back pocket, passing it back. Gil took it, reading it over with a furrowed brow.

He blinked.

"O… K…?" he asked, but he handed the note back, sticking it back into the navy blue backpack, next to the entirely useless dynamite. Gil… didn't seem to accept the answer, however.

"And… Why does Deco want us to head to the peak, then?"

…Fete could only shrug at that.

"Don't ask me, Gil, I just know our food's not gonna last forever, so…" he said—

PLISH!

But at that, he realized he might have been just a tad bit too loud, watching some snow fall from the ice shelf to their left, coming down in a pile.

…

It was harmless, but the two of them huddled closer together, watching with bated breath for the rest of the snow to crumble…

…

Gil sighed in relief first.

"OK, we need to be quiet, holy shit…"

Fete only nodded, not taking his eyes off of the pile.

Snow, on snow, on snow…

(…)

(…he hated this.)

(Words could not fully articulate the amount of pressure in his lungs, despite the thin air. The amount of anxiety swirling in Fete's gut, killing him slowly, poisoning his every move.)

(One wrong move, and what then?)

(One wrong move, and what happened after that?)

(He was just one major fuckup, one missed shot, one failure away from ruining everything. From killing them both, and ending them forever.)

(And what would he do then?)

(…)

((irony was a cruel mistress))

The sword swung down right beside Fete, at the moment when everything slowed to a complete stop.

For an instant, Fete hadn't been paying attention.

For an instant, Fete didn't look to his left, and didn't see the swordsperson, that accursed volunteer from One, swing their horrible blade in their direction.

It was nothing more than a brief instant, that Fete found the blade about to chop their head off, that it swung to meet their jugular, and it was so brief that they couldn't dodge, that they couldn't react at all—

(Was this how Melanie felt, all of those years ago, on the deck of that ship?)

(Cold and utter demise…?)

…

But in that instant, that terribly drawn out instant, that instant of near death, where the reaper's winds blew softly and screamed all the same, Fete had forgotten about the one standing beside him. About the one who saw the volunteer first.

And Fete was thrown to the ground by Gil, slammed in the chest, head swinging under the sword as he collapsed backwards into the powdery snow.

But what neither of them expected was for him to keep going—!

"Fe—!" Gil began to shout, watching him tumble away down the incline, down and down and down, reaching out to save him, reaching, reaching—

(No, no, don't fall. He couldn't handle that, Gil couldn't handle Fete falling away. Gil wanted… Gil needed…)

But two things stopped them from continuing this course of action, right then and there.

PLOFF!

To their now right, snow fell, snow from the shelf, dangerously close to Gil, they grimaced, looking up, and taking a step away from the cliffside.

(Quiet. They had to be quiet, and now?!)

But the other factor, of course, drew their attention immediately next.

A sword. Pointed at their throat.

…

For a second, Gil, with his hands slowly raising up in surrender, just breathed. It was all they could do, as they stared the volunteer in the eyes.

…

(…their eyes… so very big, those eyes. So frightened, or was it supposed to be intimidation, instead?)

(It didn't matter.)

…

"…go on then," Gil said, between breaths. The volunteer's hand did not shake, as they held the sword, so tantalizingly close to Gil's throat. Almost punctured it already, "If you are going to do it… then do it."

…

(…they caught a quiver, the slightest shaking from the sword. Ever so slightly. The faintest vibration Gil could see, ebbing out, getting larger…)

…

(They didn't move.)

((Mew wouldn't move, not now.))

((…))

((…Kira from Four ran when they sliced her open))

((…))

((…the girl from Twelve was screaming…))

((…this Eight didn't do a thing))

((why))

((why didn't they scream, why didn't they run, why didn't he… he…))

((please run))

((please, don't make them do this, not again…))

(…Gil just stood there, watching. Not daring to move. No sudden movement… they could stab at any instant, and Gil was unarmed. What could the volunteer be planning…?)

((…))

((…just… breathe…))

((…))

…

…their hand shook.

((just… seven))

((make it seven now, Mew))

((make))

((your father))

((proud))

"I will."

And with a sudden swing—!

"GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL!"

They stopped mid-swing.

From the other end of the area, from the east, the two of them were caught off guard by an incredibly loud shout, from the other boy from Eight cupping their mouth and screaming—

((screaming))

"GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL!"

Rubin's eyes shot open.

Immediately, from their spot on the ground, they stood up, facing the southeast with a concerned expression, and beside them, their exhausted comrades ((friends)) began to yawn as well. Mirus was relatively quiet— he never wasn't, to be fair. Pippin was rubbing at her eyes, leaning up as she smacked her lips. She squinted up at Rubin, the eye bags speaking for her.

And also… her, speaking for her.

"The hell is that?"

…Rubin didn't respond.

Because, one, two, three…

No four.

…

Mew.

And without answering her question, Rubin sped away to the southeast, leaving two very confused tributes following behind in their wake.

An instant made all of the difference, as Rubin came speeding up the incline.

An instant made all of the difference, as Fete, in a complete and total panic, saw Gil in trouble, and did the only thing he could think to do.

An instant made all of the difference, as Gil heard Fete's voice.

An instant made all of the difference, as Mew failed to complete their swing.

An instant, just one instant, could change everything. It could change the trajectory of the whole Games, forever…

Because, in one instant, Gil dove away at the sound of Fete's screaming, landing far away, in the snow bank. Gil spent the instant very, very wisely.

But the volunteer from One didn't know how to react.

And when they did…

The instant was up.

Snow had fallen, snow on snow…

It piled up on them, the shelf collapsing down at the sound of Fete's screaming. It all tumbled down, in slow motion, all coming down, and down, and down…

Snow on snow on snow…

And above them, as Rubin saw, as Pippin and Mirus saw, as Gil saw, on the ground, as they stumbled to their feet, and as Fete saw in mounting horror— what all of them saw, as Mew was instantly buried.

In the bleak midwinter…

The boulder, buried under it, which toppled down now.

Long ago—

BANG!

The sword flew out of their hands, landing far away, landing right at Rubin's feet.

Rubin, eyes staring forward in shock, fell to their knees.

((…))

…

(…they picked it up.)

(…Mew.)

(…Mew, beloved Mew, the one so proud of their skill…)

…

((…))

((…they stared in shock, for that was all they could do))

((and the two from Eight were already gone))

"Can we take a break, please?"

"Can't."

"No… please, I… I need to sit down."

Delilah had been out of breath for the last seven hours of their trek— or, at least, it had felt like seven hours. Time estimation had been a bit of a bitch to her, thus far, and, despite the sun only rising and falling a few times in this arena, she already was struggling to remember how long it had been since the two of them had entered their personal icy hellscape.

…usually, she was better at censoring herself, too, but the longer this dragged on, the more and more she felt like passing out, and not swearing took too much energy to give any significant thought to.

Junebug had been holding her hand; she was always holding her hand, it felt, and it wasn't like Delilah was in any position— or had any desire— to say no to her. At the very least, their breakneck pace had been slowing down, as of late, but they still kept on walking… and walking… and walking… and when Junebug glanced back at her, as they trudged through the snow, the look in her eyes, for once, brought only dread to the girl, instead of the usual joy.

Because she could tell what she was going to say. She could quote it before it even left her mouth.

"We don't have any time," Junebug told her. The usual jovial light in her voice wasn't there— neither was the grin normally plastering her features. Instead, uncharacteristic as she found it, what was there was a look of complete and total seriousness.

Indeed, they didn't have any time, Delilah knew…

They got lucky.

Junebug had a reputation as the speedy type; it was why, back home, she was always the one to stay out of trouble— because no one could ever catch Quintaro the Quick. And she didn't get such a name without skill. Quite possibly, out of all of the tributes scrambling in and out of the starting town that day, running and dying and falling and slipping and hiding, June had been the only one to snag one of the genuinely valuable big bags at the center of the pile, without being taken out by one of the volunteers. Because she was quick. Because she could do it all…

(…so, so dreamy…)

She carried the bag still, the white fabric bouncing up and down and up and down with every trudging footstep through the snow. It used to bounce less, Delilah knew, but as much of the weight in it had been long since removed, it was bouncing more and more as time went on.

Once again, the two of them had been so lucky with what June had found in that bag… winter coats. Winter coats, which they wore now, but more importantly: rations. Food and water.

…dwindling food and water.

Food and water that would soon run dry.

And what then?

…

(Her lungs were burning, burning so bad.)

(They might not have been running anymore, but Delilah couldn't take this. Not with the nonstop walking, not with the air as thin as it was. In the past few days, the two of them have rested only minimally, to eat, to drink, and to sleep. They had been on the move, constantly, and without an end in sight… even getting lost in the woods so, so many times.)

(They needed… she needed… just to stop.)

She huffed, lagging behind Junebug even still, kicking up snow as, despite the chill, she could've sworn there was sweat dripping from her brow.

"Ju… Junebug…" she managed to say, and with her one free hand, she held her aching head, "June, plea—"

"Dee, I told you," she whipped her head back to look at her— even her responses were quick, goodness— "We need to keep moving, we can't dilly-dally! We can rest when we get there!"

She huffed some more, her breathing not doing her any favors; despite how deep her breaths were, everything just felt shallow. She glanced up, and had to squint, as to not be blinded by the evening sun on the snow.

"And when is that going to be?"

…

…it was only then that Junebug, finally, finally stopped going, for just a few seconds. She seemed to contemplate the idea. Eyes fluttering to the side, as if she hadn't pondered it.

…

…she tightened her grip on Delilah's hand once again.

"Soon."

She said so curtly, ever so quickly, but with a hint of uncertainty to it. And then, she was off again, dragging her around. Delilah felt herself being pulled forward once more.

(…no.)

But this time, Delilah stood still, letting her hand fall out of Junebug's grasp. She was breathing so, so heavily now, her breaths the loudest thing she could hear, and yet, nothing felt like they could fully fill her lungs. She had heard a doctor call it something along the lines of "asthma," once, although, with how much money was actually in her possession, it wasn't like Delilah had ever been in a position to be proactive about it.

Junebug's eyes widened as she turned back, hand still raised, as if she hadn't expected Delilah to do such a thing; not once, not ever, had the girl considered that as a possibility. But Delilah only squinted up at her, panting all the same, with her hands on her knees.

"…just a… few minutes, June… that's… all I need," she managed to say, struggling to get the words out in-between her huffs.

Junebug just stood there, mouth in a line. Delilah had glanced down again, but she could still tell that in the girl's head, the gears were turning…

…

…she felt her grasp her hand, once more.

"Sorry Dee…" June's voice was just a whisper, "but we don't have a few minutes."

And she felt herself being tugged forward agai—

"NO!"

And with more strength than she had displayed yet in these Games, Delilah tore her hand out of June's grasp another time, pulling June to her instead.

…

Junebug clearly didn't expect her to do that, mouth agape as she stood helplessly, eyes sparkling in both confusion and betrayal.

And Delilah was silent too, as she looked at her own hand.

(…she had never been able to tell Junebug no. Junebug was kind, and sweet, and always had Delilah's best interests at heart, but… she still dragged her along to wherever she desired, regardless of the cost. She still made Delilah come with her to whatever dangerous or thrill seeking adventures she wanted to do.)

(Delilah never had the heart to refuse.)

(…but now, she couldn't back down. She didn't want to tell June no, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't take it anymore.)

She met her eyes.

And with another huff, Delilah managed to stand up tall, standing eye-to-eye with her, instead of looking up.

"June, June I can't… I can't do this."

…on reflex, June went to grab her hand again, but before she could, Delilah flinched, and June looked at her. At the exhaustion in her gaze. At the huffing and puffing, at the fact that Delilah Rovos was just a few more steps away from passing out.

…

…Junebug took her hand away, stepping back from the girl. She averted her gaze, slowly lowering the hand.

…

"…I'm sorry."

…Delilah nodded, halfheartedly. She didn't really have the heart to respond— she just couldn't respond this time.

And she looked down…

…

…and felt pressure on her hand again.

"I'm so sorry Dee, but we're not gonna make it at this rate."

Without warning, she felt Junebug's grip on her increase tenfold, squeezing her hand to oblivion as she TUGGED her again, this time at a rate even faster than it had been all day. She was taken aback, too shocked to even protest, too shocked to fight back or start screaming or shouting or— anything!

"Hey, J… Ju—!"

She couldn't get a word in, as June's shaking voice, a voice on the edge of breaking, on the edge of despair, prattled on as she did, interrupting her as she turned back to look at her.

"The train to the peak is going to leave soon!" she shouted, and she tried, she really tried to sound assertive, despite how much her voice shook, and the water glossing over her eyes, "It only stops twice per day— at the peak, and here! At the station! We can't miss it— we can't miss getting over to the peak tonight, Delilah! We can't!"

The pace was getting faster now, and Delilah's legs were burning, her lungs splitting pain across her side as she struggled in vain to keep up. She could collapses any instant now, she could feel it in her bones, she felt it, felt it—

She shouted as loud as she found herself able to shout, her heart thumping, and thumping, and thumping in her chest, "And… and what if there isn't anything up there…? W… what if there isn't another… day's worth of food, and we came all this way for nothing?!"

"There has to be! Why else would they build this train over…" June gulped, choking a strangled sob back into her throat, "…over a chasm?"

"June, June, please—!"

"We can't stop! We can't… we can't!"

"JUNE—!"

Delilah struggled to protest. She always had. The struggle with being heard hadn't ever been something that she was able to properly deal with.

But what Junebug couldn't argue with, and what Delilah couldn't argue with over, was her own legs. Because, at that very moment, without warning, the strength in Delilah finally ran dry, and her legs gave way to collapse in the snow.

Her hand fell out of Junebug's grasp, as she tumbled face first into the white powder surrounding them.

…

Junebug turned back, gasping in horror.

"DEE!"

…

… …

… … … …

(…her head was spinning so much.)

(The blood was pumping through her ears, so much so that she couldn't hear a thing. She felt heavy. She felt weightless. She felt as if she was about to fall through the earth, that she was even falling now.)

…

(…she felt a presence there.)

(She couldn't see it as her vision blurred.)

(…)

(…it was hard to tell what was happening, from how disoriented she was, with how blurred the sky looked and how loud her own heartbeat drummed, but Delilah couldn't feel the snow anymore. She couldn't feel anything, except gravity pulling her down, causing her to limply hang…)

(…)

(…she was being picked up.)

…gradually, Delilah managed to turn her head to her right, where she once again saw Junebug. She said something, something she failed to hear, and her expression was full of something Delilah couldn't place. But the words— she repeated them, over and over and over…

…and it wasn't until she could feel them moving once more, with her legs dangling limply from Junebuug's grip, and a falling tear catching the light of the setting sun, did she hear it in totality.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

…

…she just wanted to sleep.

She could barely think, not with how exhausted she had become. Everything was sluggish in her head, all she knew now was that she was melting into her embrace, holding on with what little strength she had left to June's coat, as June's arms slightly shook under her weight.

"I'm sorry— you were right, Dee, you were right, I'm so sorry… I'll get you there. I promised we'd do this together, I promised we'd outlast Sodaniya, I promised we'd beat his rigged Games… I'm sorry I pushed you too far… but I promised, and I'll do it, I'll do whatever it takes for you, I'm so sorry…"

…she just wanted to fall asleep.

Just let her sleep… just let her rest.

"I… I love you, I love you so much, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

…

…leaning into June's jacket more, feet still off the ground, legs still unfunctional, Delilah tried to breathe, tried to keep her eyes open still. If only to respond, deliriously, if only to say this.

"I… love you too… June…"

…

…maybe she could rest now, for a little while…

…

…—BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

…?

Delilah didn't know how long it had been, when she opened her eyes, but judging by the now red sun, and the last dimming rays of day, slowly fading into nothing in the distance, it had been… a little while. Not too long, but a few minutes, at the least.

…

(…June was carrying her.)

(…Delilah hadn't said anything beforehand, due to disorientation, but she was carrying her now, bridal style, through the snow, through the mountains. Alone, and still covering distance… with no pause.)

(…)

(…maybe it was selfish of her, but Delilah didn't say anything. She didn't think she could handle walking, and she didn't want to slow her down even more.)

…BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

(But what was that?)

"June…?"

She responded immediately, staring up at the darkening sky.

"I hear it, Dee…"

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

In a few moments, it had come from being a blip in the sky, that both of them merely glanced at, to a rapidly approaching noise, stemming from a device in the sky. A silver capsule attached to a parachute— one both of them recognized, something that, regardless of the arena, regardless of the theme, never would fail to show up in every Games since they began.

And, as they both stared in shock, it floated downward, and downward, and downward… landing perfectly in Delilah's hands.

…

…a Sponsorship.

They had been Sponsored.

…

"I…" for once, June wasn't quick to think of something to say, wasn't quick to get moving, standing and staring in slack-jawed, wide-eyed shock, "I thought… After my Interview, Wilhelmina told me that they hated us— I don't… I don't understand…"

Delilah just held it, staring at it in the same way June did, the cold metal of the capsule feeling completely and utterly unbelievable to her.

They were Sponsored?

The Capitol, something June was openly hostile to, as she berated Sodaniya at the Interviews (something she couldn't even fault June for…

…

…what he did, what he did to them… The man knew all along, he had this all planned out…

…

…), they had Sponsored them. There was enough money being thrown at the Rating Point system, in their favor, that their mentor could send them something. They were actually liked by the viewers? Not… despised? Delilah would've thought— if Junebug had knocked out the volunteer from Two, and they still hadn't been Sponsored… she didn't think they ever would be…

…

…there was a note attached to the package.

Delilah glanced through it, Junebug reading from over her shoulder.

My dear tributes,

Delilah. Junebug. Truly, I wasn't sure if you had it in you. I knew you might make it far, but what I didn't expect was for you to ever win their hearts… especially not now, now that the Capitol is losing viewership. Too little is happening now, and with how uninvolved and spiteful towards the Capitol you two… well, one of you is… I didn't think I'd be writing a note at all.

…the two of them shared a look. But, after a moment, they went back to reading it.

Your spat and show of affection, though… excellently timed, I must say. You drove up viewership and created sympathy in one move. The Capitol's hearts are just bleeding about you two now. For once, when I look outside this horrible apartment complex they put us all in, I see some support for you among all of the Rubin banners and Fete signs. You're creating a name for yourselves— good work.

I still couldn't afford to send much… and truth be told, we don't get any knowledge on what's in the arena either, so I can't say for certain what you'll find when you get to the top of that mountain. But rest assured, you two have plenty of time to get to that train station. So… I didn't send you any food.

Instead, enclosed in this capsule are a few little toys I think will be useful for you. You aren't the only two about to reach the train, and when you get there, I want you to be able to fend off whoever you find.

Be careful now, these are especially poisonous. And, may the odds be ever in your favor.

Your mentor,

Wilhelmina Trace

…

…the two glanced up at each other again, eyes wide, thoughts running too fast to count, too fast to name. What could the other be feeling now? What were they feeling now? They didn't know, and they couldn't try to know— all they knew was that something boiled in them, whether that be excitement, fear, or anticipation, and that it couldn't wait for any more time to pass.

So Delilah unscrewed the lid.

They hadn't spoken in a while.

Not since last night, at least.

…

…it was just… difficult to think about what he wanted to say.

Words came so easily with Gil, most of the time. Fete felt uncensored, when he was near him. He felt as if words just slid off his tongue, like he could say whatever he desired, even what he didn't desire. His whole life, it felt like no one would care, regardless… but Gil would listen…

…and yet, they both had stayed silent.

Both sides, really… both of them had been averting each other's gaze. Both of them just walking forward, ever forward, ever forward…

What was Gil thinking? His face remained eternally unreadable to Fete, despite everything. After the… incident, he tried to figure out what he was thinking, just what he was feeling… at all. Did he feel remorse? Did he feel guilty? Was he terrified? Or… perhaps, glee, even? It wasn't like Fete could know. Why couldn't he read Gil's face, anyhow? Was it an excellent poker face, or… did he not want to know?

…

(…did he know Gil at all?)

(Did Fete actually know who Gil was? Did he care about him because of his life, or just because he was there to help, when no one else was? What did Gil want, even? To be a model? No, that couldn't be it… why did he still bother with him, after all this time? What was worth salvaging from the wreckage that had become his life?)

(And why was he so determined?)

(They could both live together… That's what Fete said. That's what he promised, but all the same, the promise was dead. The dream had been stillborn, it was never alive at all. Fete knew his own limitations. He knew he didn't have what it took to defy the very existence of the Games. It was a lie, all a lie, to get Gil to follow him. To get Gil to stay with him, long enough for Fete to let him survive. Fete couldn't find it worthwhile to let himself live. But Gil was worth it. Gil always had been.)

(And yet… Fete couldn't prove it. Gil's mysterious expression gave nothing away; the cards were close to their chest. Their eyes were blank, their mouth a line, something full and devoid of emotions at the same time. Fete didn't know what Gil was thinking, but he had a hunch.)

(Fete had been lying about keeping himself alive. Was Gil lying as well?)

(But why would they see him as worth dying for, when they weren't?)

(Did they see him as worth dying for?)

(Worth killing for?)

…

(…Mew…)

…

(…Fete knew he'd kill for Gil.)

(He'd do it again.)

(He was all he had left.)

"Is that it?"

They had been searching for days, at this point. Days, and now, as the sun had finally sunk under the horizon on the fourth day, finally, after being soaked in sweat, in tears…

(…)

They had found the train.

…Fete didn't respond, just approaching the train.

(It had been the first thing they'd said to each other all day.)

It was a short thing, parked in a roundabout, prepared to make its return trip to the peak of the mountain. Fete observed it, approaching it via the caboose. The train didn't resemble the ones at home, with their old and rickety joints and rust… but it also didn't resemble the sleek, modern one that had brought them to the Capitol at all.

Fete glanced over at all of it. It was perhaps the most stereotypical train he had ever laid eyes upon. Three cars, four, counting the engine, all of which were a nice black red— save for the engine, again, which had been colored black.

…

Smoke was billowing up from the engine now—

And a shrill noise came from the front, before Fete or Gil could properly react to it.

WOOT WOOOOOOOOOOT!

…

Chugga chugga chugga chugga…

Fete's breathing was hitched.

IT WAS MOVING.

"What's that one called?"

Junebug pointed up, pointing at the stars dotting the night sky, far, far away.

From their spot in the front car, just behind the engine, Delilah had been resting on a seat of the empty train for about an hour now, just sitting there, waiting… and she certainly felt much better now, for it. The agony in her was subsiding, at this point, the burning in her legs leaving her to rest…

Lazily, she glanced up, towards the stars, towards where Junebug had gestured. Stars… Delilah liked stars. Stars were constant, stars didn't change. Stars didn't hurt her. Stars didn't leave her behind. Stars were just there, in the sky, every night.

But, she only frowned as she saw the sky above, looking out from the window of the front car. Junebug frowned in response to her frown.

"What's wrong, Dee?"

Gingerly, for the first time in hours, she managed to get up, looking up to the stars in the night sky. Her legs… they still pounded, still burned, but it was manageable. It was… she could deal with it. It was fine.

She touched the window.

"It's not real."

Junebug quirked a brow, "How… how can it not be real? It's right there."

"I don't know…" she answered, removing her hand from the glass, "but… nothing is in the right position. This isn't a night sky I've ever seen anything like."

Junebug sighed, interested, cocking her head as she looked back up to the sky. That was… that was all fake then, was it?

"How do you think they could do something like that?"

"Well…" Delilah bit her lip, thinking.

For a moment, the two of them paused, both glancing back up to the stars, the magnificent, but utterly false display, all the same. The stars weren't real… how would that work, even— Junebug was right— how would that work? They couldn't make it out… until Delilah snapped her fingers.

"It's a… it's a forcefield, surrounding us, isn't it?" she questioned. June's face made an "oh," and she nodded in recognition. Delilah continued, "So… they project an image. Just like they do when they show the dead tributes every sunset."

"Huh…" Junebug shrugged back. She whistled in admiration at the display. For an image it was still… it still shined down, radiantly. Wonderfully, magnificently.

"Still nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah…"

Delilah took a step back, and eventually found herself sitting back down in one of the train's seats. Her legs… they were fine with a bit of standing, but nothing too substantial. Nothing too much, she could do.

She'd stand for June.

And, she met June's eyes…

…

"…kinda like y—"

WOOT WOOOOOOOOOOT!

Delilah gasped, sharply, pressed back into the seat as she clutched at her chest. That noise, that horrible noise— how LOUD it was! Junebug stood up, all of a sudden, at the sound as well, eyes wide in complete and total alert.

What the… what the hell was that—

Chugga chugga chugga chugga…

However, Junebug's stance faltered as the two found themselves lurching forward, stumbling until the inertia finally caught up to them.

And Delilah just breathed for a second…

Chugga chugga chugga chugga…

…

…oh!

"June, look!"

Delilah pointed behind the girl, whose scattered attention came to as she called her, blinking. She glanced out the window, where she had gestured, and subtly, let her fear fall away.

"June, we're moving, the train is moving!"

June sighed in relief.

…oh, OK.

She thought there was a threat onboard, but no, they were just fine after all… The scenery was just changing, the train clacking away as it coasted on the track, from moving on solid ground to now a wooden bridge, moving across the massive gorge separating them from the peak above…

…

…she sighed again, sitting down. Slyly, a smile made its way to her face, her heart rate deceleration at last.

"We're almost there, Dee… almost there…"

…

Chugga chugga chugga chugga…

THUNK!

…

…hm?

…the two of them met each other's gaze, an equal confusion covering them, albeit, Delilah's was more of fear, Junebug's more of… proactiveness, she'd say.

…

…they turned their gazes, slowly, to the door to the second car.

"…il. We'll be at the peak soon. We can rest now."

"Certain?"

"…how should I know? I didn't build this hellhole…"

Junebug's breath hitched.

Her blood… it ran cold.

…

(…Whilhemina warned them about a risk boarding this train with them. Someone she feared so much she sent them that Sponsorship.)

(Was this it? Was this the one?)

(…)

(…she couldn't let them do that.)

(She couldn't let them anywhere near Dee.)

…she reached beside her, without looking, eyes trained on the door to the second car the whole time, to the open Sponsorship capsule resting on the seat.

And she pulled out one of the three poisonous darts inside.

"How should I know? I didn't build this hellhole."

Gil only huffed at Fete's remark, sitting down onto one of the seats in the second car. Fete, in response, only bit his lip, looking away.

…

…it had been like this all day.

…

…and Fete didn't even know how to defuse the tension.

"June, no—!"

Delilah was whispering, on the floor now, hissing as loud as she could without… whoever was on the other side of that door bursting forth, without whoever they were hearing the two of them.

June, however, didn't respond.

June didn't ever respond.

June never did what Delilah asked, and it just frustrated her to no end.

Delilah grit her teeth, crawling on her hands and knees, looking up to June, and pleading, even still. Even knowing that people didn't change, that Junebug wouldn't pay her any mind.

"June, just leave them alone! We don't need to fight them!"

June just took another step to the door.

It was inevitable, really. Junebug couldn't be stopped. She was Quintaro the Quick, the unstoppable force. The one who kept robbing the convenience store for money, but could never be found afterward. The one who got into fights with the local gang who harassed Delilah practically every day, and won. The one who punched the volunteer. The one who dragged her for three days straight.

Delilah was just one girl. Delilah was just a mortal. She couldn't stop Quintaro the Quick, the unstoppable force.

But she tried, regardless.

"Junebug!"

But Quintaro the Quick had her hand on the handle, breathing in, and breathing out. She didn't look back, didn't look at how Delilah struggled. And instead, she just said the words she had grown so, so accustomed to, over all of their years together.

The words that took away every hope Delilah Rovos had.

"I'm sorry, Dee."

And she threw open the door.

It all happened in a pivotal instant.

Every instant, thus far, it felt as if time had stopped. It had felt as if the universe collapsed and came together again and fallen apart once more in Fete's heart. Every time a sudden shock came, it went by too slow and too fast all the same. It was shocking, the realization of what he managed to fuck up this time, painful, killing him slowly. It poisoned his very lungs, stopping his very heart.

The terrible, terrible realization.

He didn't check every car on the train.

FUCK.

And the girl, the mysterious girl with uneven bangs, threw the dart, in one instant.

…!

And, in the next, only then did the two of them see her. Only then did Gil get up, only then did Fete step back. Only after her arm had launched the projectile. Only after it was too late to do anything, only after she stood, deranged, hunched over as it sailed through the air.

"JUUUUUUUUUUUUNE!"

And in one instant, it sailed closer to Fete.

And closer.

And closer.

…

…but she missed, just barely, as the dart whizzed past his cheek, and in another instant, towards the glass windows.

SHATTER!

(And out it flew.)

…

The two glanced back at her, Fete breathing heavily, heavily, heavily… the shock of the instant finally reaching his lungs. Who was she? Who WAS she?! He… he saw into her eyes, for an instant. Saw her expression. Saw her insanity.

Saw as she quickly grabbed another dart, charging forwards.

And there was nothing in those eyes to negotiate with.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

And it was only then that Fete found himself able to move.

She crashed next to him, blitzing at speeds unheard of as she slipped through the train car, as Fete lept to the seating beside him. She tripped, holding the dart, but clearly, she caught herself, pivoting to her other foot in a rapid spin, leaping right back at him.

He was just barely able to roll out of the way as she smashed into the seat, right where he had been sitting.

He didn't even have the time to process what she was doing.

She just kept on coming.

She leapt to the side, swinging the dart around, clearly intending to stab him with it in some way with it. He rolled out of the way, but she came again, and again, and AGAIN!

He couldn't keep doing this, he couldn't, it was impossible—

(He made a promise to Mourna.)

(He promised her, he said one thing to her, on his way out. Just one thing. Just one, and that's all.)

(Keep Gil safe.)

(Would he… would he be able to do that?)

(All of his years of doing nothing— could he do the one simple task he had been entrusted to complete? Or would he fail, again? Would he make a mess of things, again? Would he let everyone down, dying here, to this insane girl, and let Gil be at her mercy?)

She swung again. He could barely dodge out of the way. She was closer than it ever was to his face.

(Would he?!)

And again.

(COULD he?!)

And. Again.

And, she swung again, pinning him to the wall. No hesitation. No room for error, in any way, shape or form. Just one swing. Just one blow, and he'd be done.

(…)

(…was it enough?)

(Had he done enough for Gil?)

(His own life wasn't worth much at all, Fete knew that.)

(But… had he done enough to preserve the one that really mattered?)

And all he could do then, in that instant,

that

pivotal

moment,

…he only closed his eyes…

…

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

CRASH!

…

Her weight wasn't there anymore.

…

He opened his eyes back up, feeling the cold wind— what he should have been sheltered from in the train car— rush past, covering him in freezing air once more.

And she wasn't there anymore. She wasn't anywhere to be seen.

But what was there, was a hole, in the wall.

And Gil.

…

(Their eyes met, once more.)

(Fete never knew what Gil's eyes contained; the model was so full of mystery and intrigue… something Fete could never properly decipher, not in their right mind. But they didn't need to ask. They didn't need to wonder what Gil's eyes held this time, because they knew.)

(They knew, the instant the girl had left them, and the sound was heard, what Gil had done.)

(And what happened next only confirmed it.)

BANG!

…

…he had returned the favor.

…

"…June?"

((she was gone))

((she had taken her eyes off of her for an instant, and Junebug had vanished))

((she panicked, reaching for the last of the three darts, just for a few moments, and then…))

((June was… was…))

((.. .))

((Delilah was so useless))

((she couldn't save June))

((she couldn't even help June))

((…))

A tear fell from her eye, as she stepped forward, in the car, holding the dart.

The last dart.

The two boys… she didn't bother looking them in the eyes. She didn't bother listening to them talk. She didn't bother speaking to them at all, as she fell to her knees.

((J…))

((…))

Another tear hit the traincar.

And another. And another and another and—

One of the boys ripped something off of a pack, and pulled out a lighter.

"Stay back."

He held Gil back with one arm, staring the crying girl down as he held one stick from their pack of dynamite in front of them.

"STAY BACK!"

"Fete, what are you—"

Fete wasn't listening.

He lit the fuse, and threw the stick to the floor of the car. Gil could only gasp in response.

"FETE!"

But Fete still wasn't listening, slamming the door to the caboose open, and running inside it as the girl continued to blubber away. Fete ignored that, however.

Because she held a dart in her hands.

She held another dangerous weapon in her hands.

She was emotional. She was falling apart, and you know what? So was he. And they had just murdered her partner. She was emotional, she was falling apart, they killed her ally, and she held a deadly weapon in her hands. Fete couldn't allow her near them. Fete couldn't allow her near Gil.

And so he would blow up the car. Get her away. If she lived, she lived, if she died, she died, as long as Gil was safe, AS LONG AS GIL WAS—

(When did he start to think this way?)

(…when did he become the killer he was fearing?)

(He already hit rock bottom. Could he really get lower than that?)

(…)

(…yes.)

((you see, all it takes is an instant))

((an instant, where he wasn't quite as lucky))

((an instant, as the fuse slowly slid down to zero, the girl unresponsive as she sobbed, and sobbed, and cried, and cried…))

((an instant where they could have closed the door))

((an instant of foolishness, an instant of introspection))

((just one instant, where they weren't paying as much attention as they should've))

((that's all it took))

((that's all it ever took))

And Delilah Rovos threw the dart in the air.

And in one instant, it sailed closer to Fete.

And closer.

And closer.

…

And it missed.

…

It missed Fete.

"AH!"

"GIL!"

"JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNE!"

BAM!

…

.. .

. . .

(…no.)

No…

…

…NO!

…

It was all Delilah could think, even long after the train could stop.

No.

No…

No one…

…

(…no one stood beside her now.)

(She was gone.)

(…)

"…no."

(But she was gone.)

(In the blink of an eye, she was gone. She was there. She was right there. And then, in an instant, she made a mistake. In an instant, she made a miscalculation. In an instant, just a blink of an eye, nothing more than half a thought, she had done something she shouldn't have, and in the next instant, there wasn't anybody left.)

(No one.)

…

((…))

((…she was all alone now))

((all alone))

((…))

((Delilah had been alone for as long as she could remember.))

((…))

((It had been her who had shone her the way. It had been her that took her by the hand, and led her out of the darkness of her own mind.))

((…))

((She had been standing on the ledge, staring downwards, staring down from the precipice of life and death. She had hesitated for just a second, shaking… shaking because she was alone. Shaking, because she couldn't take another day.))

((…))

((And she had grabbed her by the wrist, smiled, and dragged her back into the light.))

((Into the day.))

((Into joy, and wonder, and laughter once again.))

((And Delilah wasn't alone anymore.))

((…))

(…)

…

"…"

…she hadn't realized she had stepped out of the train station at the peak of the mountain, until she had fallen to her knees, staring up at the moon.

She breathed.

She couldn't feel herself doing it, so entranced by the light shining above her. The light of the infinite sea of stars, of the moon. They all radiated down, shimmering, sparkling… and a long time ago, maybe she could name every one of them.

She used to sit on the porch and count them, see if she could remember all of the constellations… her parents were never home, but, at least, she managed to get a telescope to keep her company. It was all she knew how to do, all she was good at, even if by now, she had forgotten how to do it. It would be useless here, anyways, under the projected sky of the arena. When she looked at the sky, the moon was always full. When she directed her gaze to the stars, Cassiopeia was nowhere to be found.

But still, looking up to the stars, the fire burning within her was held at bay, if only for an instant.

…

She wondered, once, when she was young, looking through this telescope, if somewhere out there, there was another world.

If somewhere, drifting in space, among the twinkling lights in her sky, there was another world, where they would all meet again.

If somewhere, there was a world with its own moon, and its own stars in the sky, where she could find herself happy in, at last.

If somewhere in the vast, infinite expanse… she would be at peace.

…

…the stars in this sky were fake.

But when she pointed up at the sky, pointing to the brightest star she could see, she hoped, beyond the false backdrop the Gamemakers had created for their world, the world of these wretched Games, that she pointed to a star that shimmered even brighter.

A star with its own world.

A star where a girl with uneven bangs was smiling, waiting for her to arrive.

And Delilah found herself walking, walking to see it, walking until she found herself looking directly upwards at the sky. She kept walking, kept moving, and squinting in vain to see it. To see if there was anything there after all, a billion trillion miles away. Something she knew she'd never see, but had to see all the same.

She kept walking until she found herself at the ledge of the peak, at the precipice of life and death once more.

((…))

((…last time, she ran from behind her, and grabbed her by the hand, pulling her back. And she showed her the way to the light.))

((…))

((But no one stood behind her now, not as she looked down to the abyss she so precariously teetered on.))

((In fact, she was far, far away…))

((…))

((…and this time, she would catch up.))

((She would catch up to her, slow as she was. She would find her, this time, she'd find her again…))

…

She stole one last glance above her, one last look at the brightest star in the night sky. A tear pricked at her eyes, and one droplet found its way to freezing on the stone floor, as she inhaled.

And she whispered, so softly, that not even the microphones could hear.

"Show me the way, one last time…"

…

…BANG!

Delilah Rovos was no more.