"Once there was a way

To get back home…

Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry

And I will sing a lullaby"

Concorde Zemītis, 18, District Six (He/Him)

"Do you know where my mama is?"

Concorde jolts, nearly bumping his head on the pull-up bar above him. He'd been meaning to do some more exercise, really, but after the first hour he'd started thinking about wings and all their burnished beauty. He's good at fixing cars. How hard can it be to build something that can fly him away, from the Arena, from the Games? He'd have to dismantle the force field but that wouldn't be too bad… he knows what not to do, at least—

"Are you okay?" It's then that he remembers the little girl crouched beside him, watching him with big brown eyes. She's currently drawing a heart in the foam-rubber mat with a practice spear. "I'm Pandora."

Is he okay? He wants to laugh. He spent years concealing his hurt beneath layers of parties and girls and drink, convincing himself it would all be alright if he just kept forgetting… now all he wants to do is remember Laura and the baby and he's still not… he's not sure if he ever will be…

But it doesn't matter, right? Because he's always been so very good at smiling. And at this very moment, he's still catching the chemtrail of the happiness he had just moments ago, but he's afraid he will never reach cruising altitude again.

So he meets the little girl's big doe eyes and tries to summon up just a scrap of comfort, hidden somewhere beneath the brokenness and violence and leaving that has been his life. "Uh… who is your mom? She a Mentor or something?"

Sad as it is, sticking some Victor's barely-teenage daughter in the Hunger Games is discouragingly on-brand for the Capitol.

But she shakes her head and pokes him in the nose, kicking his old reflexes into gear. He tightens his fists. "No, silly! She's from Ten like me!"

"And, uh… what is she doing here?" Concorde is starting to get a vaguely weird feeling, but he's never been good at intuition. So he waits.

The girl squints at him. "My sister told me that she left! And so I was thinking she probably found out about the Games and now she's finally gonna come down here to the Capitol so she can pick me up!"

Concorde looks away. Squeezes his eyes shut.

"She looks like me! Except I can't really remember what she looks like sometimes.."

"When's the last time you saw her?" Concorde says wearily, trying to keep the unease from his voice.

(He thinks of his own mother, Citroën, crumpled like a rag doll, hollow eyes and thin wrists, balancing trays at the restaurant, forgetting to turn off the lights… Citroën, amid a wasteland of needles, Zeus passed out beside her with one eye half-open, heedless of her corpse beside him…)

"Not since Amity was born, when I was eight. Well I actually didn't get to see the birth but after that she left…"

Concorde is starting to feel sick. He moves from beneath the bar and gets to his feet.

He's heard about miscarriages, but never in great detail.

Pandora doesn't seem to understand. And Maybe Concorde is just spiraling, maybe he's being stupid the way he sometimes does, his flighty brain drawing connections where they don't need to be…

"She was really sick before," Pandora continues in a rush. "But she was gonna get better and she must have!"

He tries to imagine it… a baby, labored into the world. A life given for a life brought. What if that happens to Laura? What if Concorde dies and there's no one to watch the baby and heaven knows the Mayor would be all too hateful and eager to get rid of the whole scandal and it's not as if Concorde has anything left, he'll have nothing left…

Nothing but his baby. And even that's not a guarantee.

"You look sad. Why do you look so sad?" Pandora stands on her tiptoes, staring intensely into his eyes.

He looks away, furiously trying to fix his face. He's angry, suddenly, inexplicably. Angry at himself, how he's never been able to see things coming. Angry at his wheeling mind and the cruelty of the world for taking mothers just for ushering something beautiful into the world. How can that be right? How can it be just?

There's no such thing. There never has been.

He wheels on Pandora and she is the dozen boyfriends he used to knock senseless, the father whose sin was showing up in the first place, the specter of the baby he's already failing. She is his shame. "I haven't seen your mom because she's not here! And you're just… you're just hiding from the truth! You'd better leave before I say something I regret."

(He shouldn't have put it on her… that's like the first parenting rule, isn't it?

But it's not as if he's had very solid examples. What does he know?)

Pandora's lip starts to tremble and her eyes get all teary and suddenly everything is softening, redefining. He sees his grandparents. He sees Laura, devastated and gentle and so full of… humanity. Of aliveness.

Of how he's always wanted to be.

He reaches out, guiltstruck, hands still smelling of oil and steeped in strength. He goes to touch the girl's hair and falters.

"Hey… hey, it's okay, kid. It's alright. We'll find her. You'll go back to her."

"I'm not hiding," she says firmly. "I'm right here! You can see me!"

"Yes, yeah, of course I can…" He rubs a hand over his face. Regains his composure.

He's so afraid of his own anger. So dependent on it.

"Will you be my friend?" The girl grins cheekily. "We could play hide and seek! And you could tell me about grown-up stuff! Like how are babies even born anyway?"

Concorde spends one more moment in refuge beneath his hands. How did he get in this situation, some farm girl following in his wake, looking at him like he's the authority?

He ought to get used to it. He's going to be a father soon. It's real and thrilling and so very dizzying.

But he'd been planning on trying to join the Careers. Blade managed it, and he keeps meaning to talk to that turquoise-haired Tribute who reminds him so beautifully of Laura. But he's no vigilante. And maybe he's meant to remember that he could be a good father after all.

Or perhaps that he never has a chance—that even if he did survive, he'll never be fit to raise another human.

He shakes his head. Tries to pretend everything's fine "We can… coexist for a minute, how about that?"

"Co… exist…" Pandora tastes the word for a moment and then beams. "Coexist!"

He sighs. Perhaps this is the universe, ever-intrusive, telling him this is what he signed up for. This is what it will be like. And he realizes, with some amusement, that it'll be much longer than a minute.

But he refuses to parent this girl. If she's with him, she'll need to keep up.

Besides, he's not ready. He still has secrets to tell Blade that he's been delaying. He still has to learn to fly.

It's not yet time for the baby to come. But while he waits, he might as well let himself be antagonized. It's the least he can do, after everything.

And maybe, just maybe, he will grow wings before it's too late.

…

Flint Kayode, 18, District Twelve (He/Him)

Flint stands on the borders of the training room like a watchman at his post, on the lookout for friends. Asphodel stands beside him, pail-haired, bright-eyed. Flint tries not to take many things too seriously, but this is an entirely dire affair. If he had his way, he'd rally every Tribute and unite them in a sanctuary of peace and liberation. But he doesn't have his way—at least, not in this. The acceptance that he can't change everything, that his kindness can only ever reach so far, is like a lump of coal lodged deep in his gut.

But he can't bear entering the Games with just Del. He might not be able to protect him without someone else holding them together.

So he watches, the closest to solemn he could ever get, dancing from foot to foot until his gaze lands on the perfect candidate. "Do you see that boy standing alone?"

"There are two." Though younger and more timid by far, Del has a knack for noticing things. Flint follows a finger to a dark-haired boy standing at an archery station, fending off the ever-polite Elysande with a frosty glare. She draws back, chastened, and he returns his despondent gaze to the target.

"Oh my gosh, how did I not see him? This is great! We can split up and double our numbers!"

Del smiles wider. "Which one should I talk to?"

Flint pulls back, embarrassed. He'd rather die alone than compromise someone's rights to free will—which is saying a lot for the boy who knows everyone. "I mean, you can always do whatever you want! You really don't have to! I can handle it."

Del smiles gently. "You don't always have to do everything by yourself. I want to help you." He gestures to the boy Flint had been watching, curly-haired and giggling as he somersaults away from a harried trainer. "I think I'll do better with Eleven than… you know."

As one, they glance back at Eight, his grip knuckle-white around a bow, practically daring any soul to approach. They both smile, and Flint laughs softly. "I'm sure he's a sweetheart. Don't worry, he'll be with us in no time."

"Good luck." Del shrugs, smiles nervously, and hurries off to meet Eleven. Flint walks coolly toward Eight, trying to make it seem like he's just taking a nice stroll past him, no confrontation necessary. And either he's tactless or Eight is a master of social espionage, because he turns toward Flint and watches him balefully. Flint grins and walks right up to him.

"Hi there! How're you doing?"

Eight blinks. "I thought it was clear from the fact that I'm at this station that it's being used, but I'm honestly not in a threatening mood so you can take it, whatever."

"No, no!" Flint realizes his voice is rivaling the squawks of chickens and peacocks he sometimes hears at home, and he clears his throat. "I mean, you can keep it. I wouldn't do that. Besides, archery's not my thing."

Nylon shrugs. "Then there's no more need to discuss—"

"But I wanted to ask you something. If you're okay with it, of course."

Eight's eyes go flat and blank, like he's never felt so tired, and in their reflection Flint sees the man he might have become, had he been alone.

He can't fathom how this boy stands it, how anyone would want such solitude. He doesn't want someone to feel lost or forsaken. And the fact that some people might like a bit of peace and quiet feels like a cover-up to Flint, a small obstacle for him to pass by in order to make them feel seen. Feel a part of something.

"I assume it doesn't matter either way," Eight mutters.

"Of course it does!" Flint shakes his head, feeling awful. "Let me start over. I'm Flint. What's your name?"

Eight sighs—a long-winded, endearing sound—and puts down his bed. "Nylon."

"Want to be friends?" he blurts out.

Nylon steps back, his gaze such a startling combination of affronted, bewildered, and haggard that Flint almost gasps. Almost apologizes. But he's brought light back to the saddest of eyes. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than redemption and reformation. He knows with unquestionable depth that there is unending potential for change and goodness in everyone.

(He still believes this, even when he's been proven wrong again and again. Even when he's seen blackness coalesce in his father's closest friend. But he can't think about that too deeply, for fear that the darkness with slip into the cracks like water until he's drowned.)

"I don't know who you've got me mixed up with," says Nylon hollowly, "but I'm not anything. I'm not a craftsman and I'm not well-read and I'm not some kind of unsung hero. I'm nothing." He says it easily, stony and pitiless and so very certain.

Nylon tries to meet his eyes, but his gaze skitters away.

"Look, I know how you feel. You're going to tell me I don't understand what it is to be you, and I don't. But I do know how capitalism robs you of even a chance at identity, turns you into something hollow and takes everything that you once loved and tells you that it's still not enough. And then when you think you've finally found some kind of peace, they take something else away, but you can't even take it personally because you're only a speck to them! And so you sit there wondering if this is life. Because there has to be more. This can't be all there is." He pauses, emptied and somehow so full.

Nylon watches him. "You an inspirational speaker for children or something?"

"I'm a reformer!" he chirps.

Nylon blows out a breath. "Psh. Figures. Well I'm not a good cause."

Anyone else might've given up right now. It'd be the sane thing to do—leave this apathetic, passionless boy to his fate. Maybe Flint is selfish for pushing like he does.

But he wouldn't recognize himself in the mirror if he started giving up on people.

"Are you sure?" Flint says. "Haven't you ever cared about someone? Have you ever fought for the one good thing in your life you can't let go of? Have you ever been angry?" He waits a beat. "There's gotta be something."

Nylon turns his gaze away. "You don't want me."

Flint goes to kneel at his side, softened until the fervor has left him entirely. He clasps his hands together earnestly and he whispers, "Yes I do."

And Nylon looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself but then he sinks to the ground and he nods like this is something he must resign himself to, but there's a light in his eyes. And Flint's father is dying and Twelve is probably going to relapse without him and he might not make it to the next full moon but for the first time in a seeming eternity, Flint Kayode is entirely, wonderfully fulfilled.

…

Sammy Kalakari, District Four, 18, District Four (He/Him)

Sammy watches the Careers through a curtain of sandy-blonde hair, observing the fluidity of their movements, the occasional furtive glance he'll catch from them in return. It's a kind of dance, the way they exchange blows, sizing each other up like dogs in a litter. If he's not careful, he might get swept away on the tide of imagination, wondering what it might've been like to have puppies, to have something to nurture, to be nurtured himself—

He can tell they are watching him, the Careers. Taking in his round glasses, his green eyes. What must they think of him, soft weakling that he is? Are they dismissing him already? Does it matter?

He's among them now, laughing along with some joke Zean makes, scalding his fingers as he starts a fire. Mal and Ithaca are busy stealing glances at each other. Arya is brutalizing a practice dummy. So Sammy is alone, always alone with his thoughts and the vacancy in his head.

His parents are gone. Sometimes he catches himself flinching, ready to bear the next flood of criticism or cruel glare. They'd scoff and gawk to see him gazing silently at his new fellows.

They accepted him without much ado. He might've expected a bit of a shake-down, maybe an interrogation? But no, he came calling and they opened their ranks for him. He's not sure what to make of it, scanning the floor every other minute for secret trapdoors that will swallow him whole.

(Oh, Sammy, so head-in-the-clouds. Such an airy, stupid boy he is. Even though he memorizes tomes and practices his rhetoric like the President practices politics, it doesn't matter. He could show his mother the world on a platter and she might shatter it and scold him for being careless…)

They're a nice lot. Arya, cutthroat and sleek and everything a Career should be. Ithaca, elegant and graceful, composed as a poem. And Mal, altogether odd and overwhelming and frightening and wonderful.

And Zean, well-mannered, well-equipped, bold. He's friendly if not a bit skeptical—"You look too soft to be trained," he'd murmured, and Sammy was torn between being pleased and angry on his parents' behalf. They might have shouted at him. They wouldn't have looked at him.

All this to say, the Careers are nice.

But none of them are her, fire-eyed, quick-witted, strong-willed, so infuriatingly distant. He tries to deconstruct the fibers that connect them, reclaim the emptiness that had once swallowed them. But it's no use; every time he looks over, he wants so badly to be near her and the longing overwhelms him.

He might reach out and—

"Have lunch with me." Sammy glances up guiltily. The other Careers are filing away from their bouts, preparing for a brief midday respite. Zean towers, golden-hued, waiting not quite invitingly to tow Sammy along.

He goes back again to the subject of touch, a favorite form of torture for his thoughts to carry out. He can't fathom why, but the briefest brush is both tantalizing and overly painful and enough to make him want to cry. He never felt very close to anyone romantically, and didn't really care to, until Donna. The ever-exception. Still, he can admit to himself that this is an entirely separate affair, something base, something integral. A yearning for connection that feels stitched into his very bones.

(So ungrateful… so hopeless…)

How Donna exclaimed at Sammy's timid confession that he'd never been hugged, kissed goodnight, scooped up and rocked to sleep until all the hurt faded away. "I don't get much of that these days, either," she'd murmur, smiling at how he shivered at the newness, the beauty of it all.

"You're staring."

He gasps. "Huh?"

Zean watches him apprehensively. "Girl from Three. The one who screamed profanities at the Capitol during the Reaping?"

"Did she?" He can picture it—how vibrant with anger she might have been. How fiercely alive. A tiny smile sneaks past his guard, errant and rebellious. He stows it hurriedly.

Zean's eyes narrow. "I'd be careful if I were you. One could question your allegiances."

Panic flares in his chest. He needs to stay in the Careers, or his parents' reputation will be even further tarnished. He's supposed to be a distraction from their sins, their saving grace, and he's already failing.

"The girl is nothing to me." It's so easy to go blank, to forget.

"Ah, I thought so. The line between hatred and admiration, you know, so thin. You'll forgive my indiscretion."

"Of course…"

Zean smiles good-naturedly. "I'll be sure to save her for you in the Games."

"I greatly appreciate it."

"Go on, take your pick then."

It takes Sammy a moment to realize he's talking about the food. He stares woodenly at the contents of the buffet. He's never been good at choosing what he wants. Donna used to ask him questions, anything from his deepest desire to his favorite snack, and it always left him paralyzed.

It's so much easier to have someone else dictate his life. Let him be in shackles if it means he doesn't carry the weight of will.

He should be angry at himself. But instead he's empty. Empty and frightened. He's so afraid the darkness will swallow him up—and that, worst of all, the darkness will be within himself.

He shovels nothingness onto his plate. And when Zean guides him to a table and chatters on about battle strategies, Sammy eats as he should, the food tasting of salt and chalk on his tongue.

Deep in a corner of Sammy's mind, someone is screaming.

But on the outside, Sammy thanks Zean for his courtesy and smiles most demure.

…

Sequoia Caishen, 18, District Eleven (She/They)

There are two ways to live your life.

One, at the mercy of someone else's choices.

Or two, as your own person, every interaction a means to an end, every conversation a calculation.

Sequoia chose the second. Kept her cards clutched to her chest, played the con like a musician with a violin. Sometimes they struggled to remove their mask at family dinner, wondering how to be vulnerable, afraid that if they were not constantly on guard, someone would come within reach.

And she'd swear by every dollar earned that her relationships would only ever be on their own terms.

This is why she hesitates now, scoping the training room for marks, for weaknesses. At once making sure they're safe and waiting to attack.

Sequoia's not had a single friend beyond their cousin Akar. She's not ready to change that now. But at the same time… she enjoyed cracking Donna open like a walnut. And it might be nice to have a few more cards up her sleeve, fatten her deck just a little more.

They look around, waiting for the perfect catch. The Careers are two large in numbers and Sequoia's always ready for a challenge, but she settles on saving that gamble for later. Some are just too young and innocent—though their heart continues to ache with poverty, their standards are stalwart.

She finds a point somewhere in the middle: a curly-haired boy with sunny eyes who is currently talking nervously with the boy from One. They watch momentarily, collecting the signs of discomfort in both boy's stances before One shrugs sadly and walks away.

Sequoia takes their opportunity, as always, to strike. Waltzing through the spaces between groups—ever the drifter—she fits herself neatly into the vacated space.

"Mind if I join the conversation?"

"No worries!" Eleven grins. "Not really a conversation anymore."

"Was One bugging you?"

Eleven winces, a guilty twinge in his eyes. "No, it's not that! He just… well, their alliance is a little too—heavy for me? They all seem nice but I feel like I'm not good enough for their cause."

Sequoia swallows a smile. Her cause has been nothing but herself for as long as their lungs have given them life. You're not given the luxury when you're so hungry you feel like someone spooned out your insides and left you a shell. And Sequoia's not a fan of doom and gloom—so overzealous charisma will have to do.

"I get it!" Sequoia shrugs, nonchalant. "Sometimes people take life too serious! You wouldn't have to worry about that, if… you know."

That was much more on the nose than they'd planned.

Eleven falters. "Look, you know I love to have friends most days. But I don't know if that's the move here. If I'm alone, I won't hurt anybody."

And nobody will hurt you…

Sequoia feels something akin to humanity awaken inside her. They didn't plan on getting this close to honesty here, now, with death looming so near. But she can't say that loneliness has never danced on their doorstep, slouched into their mind without invitation. It's one thing to be with Akar. But here… she is solitary and self-sufficient, which is both beautiful and terrible.

They hadn't expected to feel seen here. It feels a bit criminal.

"You don't have to worry." Sequoia smirks. "I'm not trying to ask for your hand or anything. Just saying… they'll have a lot harder time nailing us if we're together!"

The boy blinks and then grins. "You're a crafty one."

Sequoia claps a hand to their mouth. "Such accusations! I would never lower myself to deceptions."

Eleven giggles, a sound so free it makes Sequoia wistful. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever makes you feel better."

Sequoia grins. "Thanks for the concern for my well-being. Sequoia Cha-ching, much obliged!"

Eleven grins wider. "Oleander Cress! Better known as Omelette."

Sequoia's eyes narrow. "See, that's not even really— a cool name— that's an egg dish…"

"Oh! That's not… your childhood nickname or somethin'?"

"Nope! Honest to goodness swear on my life totally genuine!"

(Oh, to have been given school nicknames, to be so known…

But it doesn't matter. Sequoia has christened herself.)

"I have an extra acquaintance for us! Don't worry, she's super chill, very lowkey, definitely no world-expanding cause."

Oleander beams and skips all the way to Donna's corner, where a scrawny little boy has also taken up residence. The boy is chattering on about rodent facts.

"I'm back!" Sequoia crows. "With a new addition!"

Oleander extends his arms like a daring hero. The Three boy looks up appraisingly, his stream of rambling never ceasing.

Donna's expression turns murderous, then beseeching, and finally settles on resigned. "If any of you so much as dare to call us friends, I will end you."

"You heard her, boys." Sequoia spreads their arms. "No friends, no end!"

"I'm Rat." The boy from Three bounces up to grin, somewhat wildly, at Oleander.

The two boys, both sides of a coin, size each other up and break out into identical smiles.

"Oh, you're gonna be fun!" Rat declares.

"I'm guessing Rat is also a childhood nickname?" Oleander dances a few steps closer, smiling mischievously.

Rat preens. "No. It's legal and everything."

Oleander sighs. "I never know what to believe with you people. It's great, though."

Sequoia feels the scales of balance tipping, the winds of worry stirring. There's a chance this could end in heartache, and she's not about to allow such a thing.

But they'll accept this partnership for now, vowing not to think about the cost of betrayal until they absolutely have to.

It can't hurt. At least, not too much. She won't let it.

…

Golden Slumbers- The Beatles

Hi bestiesssss! It is so lovely to see you here on this mid-Jude Monday! I am coming at you with another installment of "Miri gets carried away with flight and water metaphors." Sorry not sorry.

Also! I am actually for real sorry about the lack of snippets this chapter. I'm on a new device and it can't access Discord and it's been a whole thing but I promise to make it up to you guys in a "I will give you a snippet come the Games" way! But I do still hope you enjoyed your lovely children because it has been a journey to get this chapter to you, in which my revisions and entire POVs didn't save. But that's okay, because we're finally here!

Thank you, thank you, for the kind words and reviews as always! I love you all! See you in another two weeks (we hope!) with Arya, Arden, Enzo, and Zean!

Kisses!

Miri