Hi all! I unfortunately had to switch a few things around so Concorde will be at the beginning of next chapter, and Linnet is at the end of this one! With that said, quick TW for ableism in Linnet's POV, and for mentions of blood and death in Sera's. Thanks for reading!

…

"And my destination

makes it worth the while

Pushing through the darkness

just another mile"

Sera Velasco, 16, District Five (She/Her)

There's blood everywhere.

Sera is in the doorway with her favorite polka-dot backpack halfway swung, askew and poised to be thrown to the floor. There's a book wedged beneath her elbow, the newest crime novel featuring her favorite kid detective. She wants to be just like her. She wants to be better. She wants to absorb all truth and find the right path and—

And there is blood all over the walls, and it smells of iron and tang and salt and she could choke, she could die from the way it stuffs her lungs—

And in the center of it all, her mama and daddy, splayed like they've been under surgery, they're just asleep...

Except they're not. Because anyone, even a ten-year-old, especially an aspiring detective, could see the truth.

And Sera has always been so very good at seeing. Seeing everything.

She picks up her backpack. Hangs it on the hook like Mama is always telling her to do. Sits next to them and tries not to see but of course she does and the door is still open, she'll let in the chill...

It's cold. Their bodies are cold.

She sings some kind of lullaby beneath her breath and tries to keep vigil in case someone else comes, in case they come back to kill her because...

Because she's read the books. And anyone with a mind like hers knows that murderers don't just vanish. Not with... with a scene like this...

(The kills weren't quick. They were messy and cruel like whoever it was took their time.)

And when the neighbors finally come to peek around the gaping door, when they see the little girl with blood soaking her shoes, they cry out.

And Sera's jaw finally relents and everything comes loose and she screams.

She screams and the scene fades away until there's more blood, years later. She's older, calmer, something sparkling having left her eyes. Enzo is next to her and they've finally found him, the culprit. A kid without a home who must've been desperate.

(But if that's the case, why was nothing missing but her parents' heartbeats and the last remnants of her innocence?)

The boy has tear tracks on his hollow cheeks, prison uniform slipping off his shoulders. He's bleeding from the gunshot wound, clean and quick. Mouth still open in pleading, telling them he's innocent. Those haunted eyes staring up at the sky.

Sera looks at Enzo, hoping to find refuge in his gaze, but all she sees is the glittering glaze in his eyes. The way he smiles, just slightly, the way he always has when the riddle finally unfogs.

And anyone else might've seen her hands shake, but he just nods and says, "That's it, then."

And Sera is half-grateful that she has Enzo, who never asks if she's fine, who just accepts things the way they are. But in that moment, she also wishes that someone would scream, break the dam in her mind because she is ten again, watching the life fade from someone's eyes and wondering how something like that could be possible. Wondering who ever invented murder in the first place.

"Sera."

She's confused for a moment; someone is speaking to her and it sounds like Enzo, but he's still smiling with that satisfied look in his eyes, and the dead boy is still dead, but that must mean...

And suddenly she's not in that square where the execution took place. She's sweating and screaming in her bed, the folds of recollection pulled back until it is only Sera in the Capitol bed, screaming and screaming.

Enzo puts an awkward hand on her shoulder, looking faintly dismayed. "You were loud," he says, sounding genuinely distressed.

She stops abruptly, gasping, pulling herself up to sitting. Watery sunlight hesitates to break through her window. She hasn't nightmared like that in years. Not since she grew up enough to hide her sorrow beneath the promise of absolution for the killer.

But her conversation with President Graymore must've brought it all back. "I'm fine," she murmurs, voice clogged with tears. She brushes them away, embarrassed. "Really."

Enzo doesn't look convinced.

"It was just a nightmare."

(But that's not really true, is it? The worst part about the nightmare was that everything truly did happen. And her mind preserved it in excruciating clarity.)

"Want to walk with me?" She stands up quickly, dusting herself off.

Enzo nods, and they don't say anything else. Arms almost touching, they walk in quiet harmony down the hall. Everyone is still asleep, but training should start in a couple of hours.

She still can't believe she had the courage to talk to the President. It's what she came for, after all, but Graymore himself? The more she looks back on it, the more euphoric and shaky it makes her. She's finally going to find the truth, with the help of the President himself. How her parents would've smiled...

Part of her wants for that boy to be guilty, just so she can sleep at night again. Another part wonders if that would even justify his soundless, unmourned death. But it doesn't matter that she has reservations—what matters is the outcome. And she's finally going to find it.

As they enter the elevator, Enzo steps back, looking a bit put out. Sera glances up to find that another boy is leaning against the wall, looking exhausted.

That explains Enzo's panicked look.

"Oh, hello! May we ride down with you?" Sera says, hoping the vestiges of tears are gone from her voice.

The boy nods. "Oh, sure." He leans further into the wall and Sera crooks a beckoning finger at Enzo.

They ride in silence for a minute, before Sera clears her throat. "Couldn't sleep?"

The boy—from Ten, she realizes upon closer inspection—looks like she's just asked him for his home address and every bit of money to his name. He folds his arms.

"Sorry. I just meant that I couldn't sleep either. Nightmares."

The boy looks a bit calmer, but still closed off.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," she says, speaking more gently now.

The boy sighs. "How'd you know?"

"I deduced from the fact that your sister shared the same last name. Also, she talked about you in her interview."

"Wow. You must be a detective or something."

"We are, actually!" Sera beams, realizing too late that he was being sarcastic. "I'm not the only one to puzzle that out, am I?"

"Nah. But you're the first to actually look me in the eye." He shrugs sadly. "I haven't had more than one conversation here."

"Then maybe you'd consider an alliance?"

Sera gapes at Enzo, standing just a little behind her, silent up until this moment. She hadn't planned to take allies. It was just going to be her and her longtime partner.

But the boy is looking a little friendlier. He eyes Enzo and Sera with new interest. And Sera can't find it in herself to protest. Enzo looks interested, even happy. To call him antisocial would be understating, but if he's suggesting a partnership, maybe he has the right idea.

And maybe she's not so alone after all. Perhaps there is more to her life than bloodshed and silent heartbreak.

She smiles. "Sounds like an excellent opportunity

…

Malibu Mokarran, 18, District Four(They/Them)

Nothing has ever been quite so enchanting to Mal as Ithaca Dominica Marquesa Sotavento.

And they don't say this lightly either: the Four skyline has always held them rapt, the sparkle of fish as they steal through the sea a welcome beacon for their gaze. And Malibu can't deny that they are an absolute knockout when it comes to looks—they've learned to cling to self-inflating platitudes in the hopes that they will someday feel true. But Ithaca... Ithaca is on a whole new level. That's true for a lot of things when it comes to the One girl. Not just the enchantment, though that's obviously taking up most of their focus right now.

There she is, across the training room and still well within sight. And there is Malibu, staring like a creep and unable to move. Mal, who effortlessly garners attention and keeps it like a reservoir to draw from when needed. Mal, who has not been afraid to move, to be bold, in so very long.

But this isn't fear. It's a whole lot of complicated, inconvenient, ridiculously sentimental feelings that neither of them have time for right now. And that's ignoring the fact that Ithaca definitely does not like Mal back, nor does she likely know they exist.

(Ithaca has to remember… the walks along the beach, the conversations sifting through the hours as easily as flour through fingers. The feeling of connection, a tenuous thing, which Mal still has yet to let go of.

How could they, when Ithaca is so utterly dazzling?

And there they go again, repeating like a Capitol advertisement because of course their penchant for annoyance would spread into all areas, including a crush. Which is fine, of course. It's perfectly fine.)

It just also happens to be oddly stress-inducing. And Mal's never been hesitant to approach someone before.

Ithaca is surrounded by other Careers. The boy from Two swaggers through the stations, exuding that easy charm that boys tend to adopt when they discover everything is going to be handed to them simply because they're rich. The girl from Two is also pretty nice-looking, though she has nothing on Ithaca. They stand together, heads bent in strategy. Malibu curls their fingers, dancing from foot to foot.

It's not the end of the world. They've always been a good bartender, never struggled at conversations. Why should this be different?

Besides, they're a little worried someone might see them having a small crisis, which would likely just gain them a new friend... or perhaps someone to tell off for being judgy. Either way, Mal would take any excuse not to walk over at this point.

Still, their parents did not raise Malibu to be a coward. They raised them to be nothing. And then Mal and Navarro proceeded to trash that conditioned self-hatred and become all the more fabulous for it. And they're not about to let that go, not after all the progress they've made.

So they waltz right up to the Career alliance, winking at the outer District kids as they watch Malibu breach the unseen borders. "Hey there! What's crack-a-lackin?"

The girl from Two looks up with steely eyes, meeting Malibu's gaze. Mal doesn't break the stare. "Oh I'm sorry. Did you all hear something?"

Mal can feel them making snap assessments about their easy swagger, their sun-kissed skin, their amazing hair... they can only be thinking good things, right? The fact is that Mal has spent a little time training; they're not wholly unprepared for this.

"I think it was the sound of your alliance expanding." Mal grins.

Now the boy is watching them. Mal hasn't dared to check Ithaca's expression yet. Their courage is hoisted like a sail of a ship, but it's still gathering wind.

"No." Swagger Boy shakes his head. "I could've sworn a Reaped kid was daring to speak to us. Though I could be wrong."

"Oh please, this isn't high school. Besides, I'm from Four." Malibu smiles easily, a bit of sarcasm peeking through. "And if I'm not mistaken, it looks as though your alliance is half of last year's. But what do I I know? I'm just a stupid Reaped kid, and definitely wrong—"

"You aren't."

Mal looks up to those inevitable, beautiful eyes. Panem help them, but she is even prettier up close. Mal clears their throat.

"If it isn't the double-District darling."

"Malibu." Ithaca steps closer, subtly moving between them and the other Careers. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Oh please, the other clowns could never have measured up to me."

"Isn't that the truth..." Mal smiles at Ithaca's polished words, the way they gleam like One's finest gems. Still, what could she possibly mean? Could it be that the barest edge of a smile is lifting the corner of her mouth?

"You know this... intruder?" The girl from Two tips her nose up like she's trying to balance a book. Still, she could never come close to being the princess that is Ithaca.

"This is Malibu." Ithaca seems to war briefly with herself; Mal watches her closely, trying to understand the intense mechanisms behind her eyes. "They've some training experience, and they work at a bar around Four. The Shanty Shack, is it?"

Mal beams. "That's the one."

She remembers...

"And what could they possibly offer?" Zean's gaze is heavy with contempt.

"I don't think you know Malibu." Ithaca gives Mal a look, somehow both reprimanding and fond. "They're in the alliance, whether you want them or not."

Something blooms in Mal's chest, warm and swelling like the August waves. Ithaca knows them. She wants them around.

And Malibu intends to embrace Ithaca's generosity for as long as it lasts. They're going to take each moment for all that it's worth, and the Careers will forget to be haughty.

Because Mal is going to outshow them—if not with skill, then with presentation. And if they happen to bring joy to a certain inscrutable girl along the way... if she happens to decide that Malibu is worth her time, lowly as they may be... then the joy in Mal's heart will surpass even the vastness of the sea.

...

Donna Waterloo, 18, District Three (She/Her)

It's... peculiar, being in the presence of Sammy again.

That's all she's willing to call this feeling in her chest—entirely peculiar. It gives that parasitic emotion inside her less power. It's peculiar when she catches the flash of his profile, the soft hush of his voice as he speaks with the trainers. When she swears she catches his salty-sweet scent, the scent that cut through the smog of Eight and persisted through the cruel cycle of heartbreak. That scent she feels so stupid for remembering.

It must be yet another trick of chemicals, but she's not willing to let them win. She ought to punish herself every time her mind strays to his name, thinks about confronting him... but then, with the amount of times she's transgressed, she'd likely have pummeled herself senseless. Which would make it rather inconvenient to fulfill that lovely urge to punch someone.

(To punch Sammy. Sammy, with his infuriating softness, reminding her of what it was to be kind before her father drove it out of her like he would a startled rabbit. Sammy, promoting the weakness in her until she actually thought... could've sworn he cared about her...

But of course he hadn't. He'd chosen love and all the shackles that came with it, even if being under his parents' thumb made him unhappy as it once had made her, and why should she care anyway?)

He looks fine. Like the freed-faced boy who is just bursting with ambition, ready to join the Careers and leave Donna in the dust, for which she'll honestly be grateful. She much prefers the quiet.

But then... what had that little interaction been about yesterday, when he'd called off the stylists and let her keep her dress? Perhaps it had just been a moment of vanity for his own gift. But he'd looked... almost...

No. She slams a fist against the wall, satisfied by the resounding crack—whether from the wall or her knuckles she does not heed or care. She grunts and punches it again. She was fine without him. Fine on her own. Never should've let him in anyway, tramping all over her peace of mind, having the audacity to make her happy! To make her think of her mother's lullabies before the fire took her, before the screaming matches and the cruel laughter of children and all the moments when Donna realized that all the fairy tales had lied to her. He made her think that perhaps love was real after all, only to give it all up, and Donna has only ever wanted to find kindness in the world, to be the gentleness in someone else's harsh landscape, to fix it...

"Hey! You okay there?"

Donna whirls, practically spitting steam. "Get out of my face."

The other teenager looks surprised, but does not step back. "Of course! I just wondered if you would be interested in a vintage Capitol jewel, half-price, for just fifty!"

"I don't have money, idiot, I'm in the Hunger Games."

(She just wants to be left alone... she's so tired...)

The Tribute seems unfazed. "Completely understandable! You don't have to pay up-front! I also accept cuts from your Sponsors—"

"Are you kidding me right now? Are you absolutely out of your mind—"

"You could also take out a loan from your Escort! And I'd also accept an alliance, if that suits you better."

Donna throws up her hands. "Has this ever worked before? Has there been a single moment in your lifetime when this strategy has made you friends?"

They smile. "Friends? Maybe not. But money? You bet."

"I'm. Not. Interested."

Somehow, her grin grows. "No big deal! I can also throw in a custom—"

"—unless it's a custom promise to never speak to me again, I don't want it!" Donna is done with other people talking to her.

(She doesn't want to hurt them. She doesn't want to be hurt.

She's just... done.

Not that Donna Waterloo would ever be defeated. She could hardly live with herself. But the alternative, letting others in, is worse.)

The Eleven tribute narrows their eyes. "What's wrong? Did someone scam you? Because that's absolutely the worst thing anyone can do—"

Donna plants her hands on her hips. "Yeah. They scammed me into believing I'd actually have a chance in these stupid Games."

Eleven giggles. "Ain't that the truth... the biggest scam of all... least they could do is be open with us."

Donna shrugs. "It's the Capitol."

"Guess you're right." Eleven steps forward, careful, as if worried about scaring Donna. She stiffens at the implication. "What's your name, anyway? Can't make a transaction without a name!"

"I never agreed to that."

But Eleven doesn't leave. She just waits, patient, bright-eyed. Donna shakes her head. "Waterloo. If that'll make you leave me alone."

"Waterloo." The other Tribute shrugs. "Not the worst I've heard."

"Donna," she grunts. "Now will you leave me alone?"

"Nah." The other Tribute sits down, head thrown back, legs outstretched. "Aren't you going to ask my name?"

Donna blows out a breath and stares at the ceiling. She notices that... well, he hasn't crossed her mind for a few minutes. It's sort of nice. "What's your name, you little miscreant?"

"Sequoia Cash-money Caishen!" Sequoia strikes an odd little pose. "At your service!"

"More like my expense."

"Ha!" Sequoia smiles. "I like you! You've got... chutzpah

Donna can't suppress a smile. It sneaks out of her like a bandit.

And it seems she can't seem to shake it loose. But it feels nice to know that Sequoia is, above all, honest about her intentions—however unsavory they may be. It makes her feel almost wanted. And she hasn't felt that way in a while.

So call her weak if she gives in, just this once.

…

Linnet Lammora, 31, District Nine Mentor

She's never actively disliked her Tributes before. She has no idea what to do with this new burning anger beneath her sternum, spreading through the roots of where she's been. Reminding her of days she wishes to forget.

She's never been fiery or hateful—that's Mirabelle's job, the woman who keeps the flames of revolution raging. Linnet is the softness to Mirabelle's determination, the flexibility to Rima's steadiness, the stillness to Yomi's vitality. Joy is its own revolution; that's what she's always believed. But right now, joy is like a skipping stone disappearing into the lake and Linnet is bereft, cloaked in this foreign feeling.

Perhaps it's been waiting, tight-coiled, for its time to strike. And maybe she's tired of being peaceful all the time, when she's been given no reason to be content.

They scoffed when she told them she'd be mentoring them. Willow and Leland, bitter as barley, hollowed all the way through. She could feel it, the mockery rolling off them like waves.

"You?" Willow had said, voice a husk. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"How did you win the Games anyway? They must've felt bad for you and faced you off with a group of bunnies."

"Nah. It would have to have been cotton balls."

They'd been very real bodies, her competitors, flesh and blood so easily broken. Her new Tributes can't possibly understand the way it feels to be faced with the idea that there is no other way to go on but to hurt someone else. That when faced with the question of sacrificing yourself or pushing toward survival, you will almost always choose the second option. Even if that means damaging someone beyond repair.

People act as if she's only been blind for a few days and she's still growing acclimated to it, a foal on shaky legs. They know they would fail in her place, so they turn her into a token to be slotted into their machine of pity.

But Linnet's victory doesn't fit in the Capitol's narrative. She was expected to be a good girl and die at twenty-fourth place so that the ferocity of their Games could be further emphasized. Why couldn't she have just had the good sense to become someone else's tragedy? An ornamentation to another person's success?

But Leland and Willow don't know that. They've not seen the home she left behind, simple and loving and woven with sweetness. They could never know the war inside Linnet's heart, how she grapples with the question of whether she even deserves her Victory.

But it doesn't matter, because she is still here. And her story is no one's but her own. Surely that has to mean something.

Linnet Llamora stands at the edge of the Training Room and listens to the bustle and joy, the frantic pursuit of knowledge and the buzzing hum of life.

"Pandora! Scout! You are not to use the camouflage station for finger painting!"

"What about face painting?" comes Scout's mischievous reply. The Trainer huffs with exhaustion, and Linnet smiles softly.

The Capitol has always dared her to take up less space than she deserves. And for a long time, she believed their version of the story—that she should be ashamed. That she would never bring in a Victor. But as she listens to the Tributes, she realizes that life is about overflowing the borders of others' expectations. She remembers what it was to be young and dauntless and free. To scream at the sky and say 'I love you' a million times a day and to be angry for no reason except that she just was.

And for the first time in a long time, Linnet allows herself a scrap of entitlement. Perhaps Willow and Leland will fare better without her. Maybe she would only impede them.

But it doesn't matter, because they are not her concern anymore. She is a revolutionary and a story keeper and a blind woman in a world desperate to smother and consume her.

And for once in her life, she allows herself to be contrarian.

She will not let them.

…

I Have A Dream- Abba

HI lovely humans! Welcome to the ABBA CHAPTER! I'm on a new device so if the italics don't work or if there's a way to format stuff that I just don't know about please let me know! But beyond that, thank you so much for reading and it's so good to post again! It's summertime, so I'm going to try and write as much as possible before college happens. But how have you all been? I'm sorry for being behind on all your stories, I promise I will read soon lol! Life was crazy there for a minute, but things are finally starting to calm down which is great!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I don't know what to say this time other than that I love your kids and also my Linnet, and I'm sorry if this caused you all as much emotional damage as it did me, but I tried to keep it at least semi-hopeful! Anyway, I think that's all for now! See you soon for Concorde, Flint, Sammy, and Sequoia!

All the love,

Miri