.

vi. fervor
✦ ✧ ✦
feelings of great warmth and intensity

girmyr schutzhund
eighteen / / district two
—

Berengar won't stop peeing indoors.

Even though Girmyr's been clocking in to Crested Creek's main Peacekeeper station for a good few years now, she's never been this responsible for a puppy. Bear, as Gir usually prefers to call him, is a good boy — she knows he's a good boy. He just pees. A lot. And Gir isn't sure how long she'll be able to deal with it.

"Can you believe this guy?" She whispers over to Sir-Bites-A-Lot, her most closest companion. "You were never like this! I just don't get it."

Sir doesn't say anything back because he's a dog and dogs don't talk, allegedly. But, if he could talk, Gir reckons he'd say something along the lines of, "I sure wasn't. I may have had my issues but I was never an indoor pee-er."

"You sure weren't," she whispers. Again, it really would be great if Sir could talk back to her. Unlike Bear who's just a "good boy," Sir-Bites-A-Lot is the best boy. With his pointy ears, shiny black fur with adorable white splotches, and strong posture, Sir is the most handsome man in town too. Never mind that he's kind of an enigma to the other dogs, and everybody else who works here; to Gir, he's absolute perfection.

(Literally nobody shares that opinion with her, probably because Sir bites well… a lot, hence his name. That's everybody else's problem though, not Gir's.)

(Okay well actually, it is her problem in the sense that she's been working on training him to not do that, but whatever.)

(At least he doesn't hold back when biting criminals. What a mighty-fine executor of justice and righteousness.)

She sighs, and goes to find a mop so she can wipe up Bear's mess and try to get him better at sitting still. At the very least, he needs to stop with the peeing before Gir leaves next month. It's crazy to think that when she gets back, Bear might be as big as Sir, or even one of the biggest dogs like Princess.

Because, even though Gir technically isn't the official volunteer yet — still has to go through her final Atonement Day and the Mock Games — she knows that she'll return to Two with a crown forged from broken bones on her head. It's the only way her life will make any sense, the only way she can atone for — ugh. Even just thinking about her parents makes her feel sick.

(She can't shake the feeling that she's supposed to miss them, even if she's the reason why they're locked away now.)

(She also can't shake the feeling that she did Two a favor by reporting them.)

But that's awfully sad, now isn't it? Misery isn't an emotion Gir has the luxury of feeling, especially not when it relates to the people who raised her just to use her. Not that Springridge and the Peacekeeper stations are much different, but that's neither here nor there.

All things considered, she has it good. Officer (both his first name and his title) Blitz is a better man than her father ever was, and who's to say she even needs a mother? Everything is fine. She'll never see her birth parents again, and that's for the better. Eventually, they'll fade away from Gir's mind, the way they should've faded from the world when they betrayed her.

"I never really needed them anyway," she says as she tries to clip on Sir's leash, only for him to start growling. "Oh, you're feeling feisty?" He nods his head so Gir puts down the leash. "Yeah, you're really feeling feisty!" Gir drops to the cold linoleum floors and mimics Sir's noises. "Who's my feisty little boy?"

He starts barking louder, wagging his tail and chasing himself in circles. Almost tempted to get on all fours herself, Gir runs after him and lets out a howl. Sir turns around and gives her a look, like he's trying to say "You're a human, why are you doing that?" but Gir simply laughs in his face.

"Tell me, Sir." She licks her lips and cackles. "What would you do if my stupid, traitorous parents were right in front of us?" Gir bends her knees so she can make proper eye contact with him. "What would you do, Sir?"

He gnashes his teeth and lets out a howl far more frightening than Gir's, snapping his jaw again and again like a vicious beast. He extends one of his paws and dramatically swipes it in the air, then jumps and howls once more.

Gir sits down on the ground and puts her hand on Sir's back, calming him instantly. "That's what I thought, buddy." She nuzzles him, then rests her head on his back. "That's exactly what I thought."

—

Gir's brows furrow. "Why would I be nervous for Atonement Day?"

"I dunno…" Brigid, her best human friend, says with a shrug. "It's just different this year."

"Because it's happening in the fall and not in the spring?"

"Yeah, that's probably it..."

But both of them know that's far from the truth.

People have been looking at Gir all weird ever since she got here. She knows what they're whispering about to their friends, how she doesn't belong in these ivory corridors, how she could be just like her parents. Two's sake, Gir fucking hates it.

(But she also doesn't understand. She's the one who turned them in. That should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's nothing like them.)

She looks down at Sir, who's shockingly docile at the moment. Usually he tries to bite Brigid, not that she particularly minds it. "I guess it is kind of strange that they insisted I bring him with me."

A few hours ago, after Gir had gotten changed into her all-white traditional Atonement Day attire, one of the workers at the Quarry — Springridge's dormitories — told her to swing on by the Peacekeeper station before attending the ceremony. There, Officer handed Gir Sir's leash and told her that he'd be accompanying her for the day.

Is this some sort of last-year special thing? Gir wonders. It can't be though — she's never seen a dog accompany someone as they help the country's vermin atone for the injustices they've committed to Panemian society. Or maybe she has and she just wasn't paying attention.

"Maybe they think you need emotional support?" Brigid suggests, scratching her head through her short brown hair which makes Gir feel a bit warm and fuzzy. "You know, after everything."

"You think this place cares about our feelings?"

If anything, Gir likes that it doesn't. Even if her peers claim otherwise, she knows that when she walks through Springridge's doors, she's no longer herself, no longer the poor daughter of dirty traitors. Here, she gets to be just another cog in the machine, a good dog that always obeys orders and has unyielding loyalty towards Two and what it stands for.

(But she can't deny the stares don't hurt. She loves District Two just as much as everyone else does — why can't they see it?)

"It was just a suggestion." Brigid sighs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well I guess that there isn't anything weird going on, how about that?" Gir snaps, a low growl to her voice. "Everything is going to be the same as it has been for the past ten years."

"Sure, whatever you say."

The two girls fall into uncomfortable silence, hardly saying a word as they journey through the hallways and up to the booth where people get to receive their weapons and their place in the Atonement line.

"Hiya!" Gir waves to the person at the desk. "I'm Girmy—"

"I know who you are," the person says with a scowl, peaking over the desk to get a good look at Sir. "No need to tell me your weapon of choice. I see he's with you."

"What do you mean?" Gir knows that Sir is a good killer, but so is she. That's why she looks forward to this day so much — it's a chance to show off her skills with her giant mace, the one she lovingly named Teeth when she was maybe thirteen years old. And then once she was done using her Teeth, her fellow cadets and their teachers would tell her they're so proud of her, and Gir loves when people are proud of her!

"Your little pet is going to help you today, understood?"

"Yeah… that's totally fine," Gir grrs through her teeth, something uncomfortable stirring in her stomach. Even Sir seems a bit wigged out, his tail stuck straight upward. Maybe things aren't going to be okay after all. No. That can't be true. Regardless of what happens, today is still her favorite day of the year. "Just kind of weird, don't you think?"

"It's kind of weird for the daughter of rebels to moonlight as a cadet, too."

Gir wants to bite back, snarl that "they're not me!" but she knows she'll only get in trouble if she does. Instead, she gestures to Sir and takes a deep breath as he crawls in a circle, angrily trying to bite his own tail. She reaches down and rubs her hand on his face, and says, "Happy Atonement Day," as if the receptionist's comments meant nothing to her.

"Happy Atonement Day," they repeat, almost mockingly, not knowing Gir was talking to Sir. "Somebody outside will take you and the dog to where you're supposed to be."

People around the Academy being suspicious of Gir gave her two options. The first was to keep a low profile, finish her training and then work with the animals at the station until the end of time, maybe even rope Brigid into working there too. But deep down, she knew that wouldn't fulfill her. She knew that the sharp, biting emotion trying to scratch itself out of her was nothing but wrath and malice, and that there was only one way she could be forgiven.

Hunt. Maim. Kill. Do whatever is necessary of her for six months and then return and be celebrated. Nobody would think she's anything like her parents then. Why would a rebel volunteer for the Hunger Games, much less play them to the most brutal extent in order to win?

(If she wins, everyone will be proud of her. Two's sake, that's all Gir's ever wanted.)

She follows another worker through the alleyway, hundreds of prisoners with shrouds on their heads chained up against the wall. This used to scare her but now it excites her more than anything else in this world. It's admittedly special that Sir is going to be involved for her last Atonement Day, she thinks as he sits obediently by her side, staring up at her with eager eyes.

At the very end of the line of sacrifices, there's two people in a spot meant for one. The worker stops and points. "We're here. You're so lucky, you get two this year. Isn't that exciting?"

The two sacrifices clatter their handcuffs together and start whispering with voices that make Gir's muscles tense up.

This is how Two gets its revenge on her, huh?

(Isn't this what she wanted?)

(Isn't this what they deserve?)

(Yes – she forces herself to decide.)

As long as Girmyr Schutzhund lives, she will dole out District Two's justice, no matter who it is at the end of her weapon.

atlas triste
seventeen / / district thirteen
—

A mile underneath Panem's surface lies an elaborate network of tunnels, all encased with metal walls and rubber floors. Public streets and roads are lit by blocks of LEDs, creating a cold, clinical feeling. The citizens who walk said streets wear stone cold expressions, rarely finding something to smile about.

However, on one particular street, there are three teenagers who are by far the exception from this norm, laughing on a school bench after a hard day's work.

"How did you even get this?" Atlas stares at the magazine with utter disbelief — Capitol Couture, one of the fanciest fashion magazines in all of Panem. He never thought they'd see an issue of it up close, much less have it gifted to him.

Callie simply shrugs. "What can I say, Attie-boy? I have my ways."

Gingerly, he flips through the pages, nearly overwhelmed by the bright colors printed inside. They've never seen something of such quality before. This is the thickest paper they've ever felt, and it has a glossy sheen to it that makes the latest works of Flambeau Fantóne seem even more luxurious than they would on a normal poster. In fact, Atlas isn't sure they're even worthy of being in the physical presence of something so nice.

Wow. He chuckles to himself — they didn't mean to sound so self-deprecating, it's just that this magazine has no business being anywhere near the cluttered underground of District Thirteen and if anyone should have it, it shouldn't be a random fellow like themself. He certainly isn't complaining though.

"Please tell me you didn't do something illegal," Atlas eventually says to Callie, eyes still fixated on the pages. "Really, if you get sentenced to eternity in Twelve for stealing a magazine, I'll have no choice but to laugh at you."

"Hey!" Callie's brows furrow.

Galen, their other best friend and the proud owner of the world's fugliest mullet, playfully shakes their head. "Imagine. Callie gone in the blink of an eye all because of some — sorry Atlas — gay ass magazine."

"No apologies needed," he assures them. "Though it wouldn't even be gay of her. People would just think she's an overeager straight girl who doesn't know how to dress herself."

"I dress myself fine!"

Atlas puts his hand over his mouth and snickers. "And who do you have to thank for that?"

"I would've figured it out eventually…"

He and Galin share a look of mutual disappointment. "You think she's being serious right now?" they quietly ask.

"I'm afraid so." Atlas solemnly shakes his head.

Callie slaps him in the shin — rude, those are silk pants and they ain't easy to wash. "You know I can hear it when you talk shit about me right in front of me?"

"I'm well aware," Galin says. "There's no point in dragging your ass through the mud if you can't even hear it."

"So you're just trying to be a little bitch?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Are you really surprised?" Atlas rolls their eyes, sending Callie into a fit of laughter. "Look hon, I'm thankful for the magazine. But please don't steal things."

"I literally never even said that I stole it!"

"How'd you get it then?" Galin nudges her. "Did it just… magically fall out of the ceiling and land in your lap?"

"Not even. I bought it at a vintage store. It literally isn't that serious."

"Oh."

"I have a kleptomaniac phase for one month when I was thirteen and all of the sudden you're accusing me of stealing everything." It was when Callie was fourteen, actually, but Atlas isn't going to correct her. Can't have her catching too many strays in just one day. "If you don't like it, I can always return it."

"You better not!" Atlas cradles the magazine close to his chest. "This is genuinely the best gift anybody's given me."

"Kind of pathetic of you." Callie shakes her head. "But whatever floats your boat."

The trio bursts into laughter only to be rudely interrupted by the clack-clack of 'Keepers boots on the ground. Immediately, their posture straightens and their voices fall quiet, save for Atlas who quickly whispers, "who are these divas?" even though he knows.

That's the one big thing that gets on Atlas' nerves — everywhere he looks when he's outside (well.. still inside because everyone's underground), there's some person of authority breathing down their and everyone else's necks. Sometimes, they don't even have anything to say, they just walk around as a reminder that the concept of privacy is completely foreign in Thirteen.

One of the Peekys looks Atlas directly in the eyes — or it at least looks like they are, hard for him to tell when they're wearing a helmet — then pans down to their magazine. "How did you get your hands on that, young man?"

"My friend gave it to me." He points to Callie. "She bought it."

"Really?" The Peeky cocks his head. "I didn't know there were places where you could buy Capitol magazines 'round these parts."

"Well there are," Callie says. "Do you want to see my receipt or something?"

"Not really. I was just curious, that's all."

And then, just like that, them and their colleagues walk away. Atlas sighs — shucks this place is so suffocating, and they aren't even referring to the fact they're underground. He's a man of vibrant colors, not one meant for dreary shades of gray.

At least they've got less than two years until they can get the hell out of here. It's not that they completely dislike Thirteen — the streets surrounding the Hub will always be their first home — he just knows he's destined for more than this place. Even if a lot of his teachers say that he's bad at paying attention, he's a chronic notebook doodler, always filling in the margins with a new idea for a dress, or a pattern that'd look great on a scarf. He doesn't need to pay attention to Panem's history, or engineering, or whatever else.

He doesn't want to conform to the norm here. If everyone was some form of a mathematical or literary genius, life would have no spice. That's why Atlas is an artist, a designer. They want to replace the various shades of gray that everybody wears here with the best clothes anybody has ever seen. Why is that so difficult for people outside his friends and family to wrap their heads around?

"I totally stole it, by the way." Callie snickers once the 'Keepers are completely gone.

Atlas loudly goans, then shoves her in the ribs. "What the fuck Callie?"

"Attie?" A panicked expression erupts on her face. "Why'd you say that? And ouch… that hurt!"

"Well, you just told me you did steal the magazine."

"No I didn't?"

"She didn't," Galin backs her up.

"Sorry, I just—"

Callie wraps an arm around him. He bristles, even though he's used to this by now. He knows she's doing this because she cares."You're stressed out about something again, aren't you?"

"When am I not?" Atlas shrugs, tapping their foot on the ground. "I don't know why I thought… oh… I'm sorry, Cal. It's um… a lovely magazine, and I believe wholeheartedly that you bought it legally and didn't steal. I'm sorry."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." Galin rests their head on Atlas' shoulder, which he somehow minds a bit more. "I know you'd never mean to doubt us or anything."

"I wouldn't. You're my best friends."

"And you're my best friend too," Callie says. "Galin, you're just alright."

"Bitch."

"Hey, no need to make this into a sentimental moment." Atlas playfully shoves them away. "Let's try and have some fun today!"

But even then, Atlas knows there's going to be a gnawing feeling at the back of their throat, telling him to savor these moments because they won't last forever.

—

He feels weird bringing up his biggest worry to his friends, mainly out of fear that it'll make them anxious too. A lot of Atlas' fears are irrational, but he can't quite say that this one is.

Everyone's afraid of the Hunger Games. It's been all but drilled into their minds — if you get reaped, you're screwed. Nobody from Thirteen has even made it to the finale of the Games in however many years it's been, let alone come back alive. Getting reaped is a death sentence, and like most others, Atlas doesn't want to die.

Especially because once he passes his final reaping — he'd turn nineteen before the one-hundred and first Games — he can have the life they've always dreamed of. Atlas, Galin, and Callie, serving dark academia realness with fabulous trench coats and scarfs as they hobble around a prestigious university in District Three. Their classes won't be dictated by what the peekys want and don't want. Galin will get to take ancient literature, Callie will get to learn how to build a rocket ship, and Atlas— oh, well…

Late at night, he spins in the small studio their mom set up for them. There are various textiles tightly packed on shelves and in cupboards, a beaten-up sewing machine resting flat on the desk, and drawings covering every last inch of the walls. This is Atlas' paradise — his small reprieve from the Peekys and Thirteen's other cruelties, the place where he's free to dream to his heart's content.

Even if they rarely get their hands on any quality fabric, they've fashioned scarves and jackets for their friends and family, and even made a few bigger pieces like a nice corduroy dress for his mom.

They lay out a sheet of chiffon and start marking it with a piece of tailor's chalk. They've designed his own reaping outfits ever since he was twelve, and for his final year, he needs to be the best-looking denizen of District Thirteen. Even if he'll be scared shitless, Atlas can't not slay.

He cuts the fabric carefully, pinning the delicate pieces together before he starts to sew. He definitely won't finish anything tonight, but any progress is good progress. The actual ceremony isn't for a good few weeks regardless. They still have time to make sure this piece is perfect.

(Sometimes, when he concentrates too hard, he swears the sewing machine starts to move by itself. He hears the gears turning, sees it make stitches into open air, but then he blinks and nothing ever happened.)

(It's a friendly reminder — Atlas can't stand to be alone for too long. Otherwise, the world decides to pay him unnecessary company.)

He's absolutely slaying with his work on the shirt's sleeves when suddenly, he senses something wrong. His heart skips. Nausea builds in his stomach. His breaths get stuck in his throat and the creaky door swings open. Everything around him feels warm, but not like a hug, like an alien force invading him. This is supposed to be his space. They're supposed to be alone here.

Even if it's just their mom and their sister, Ailis, he can't help but feel intruded upon.

"Are you okay?" Ailis asks, slightly scornful. That, or it's resting bitch face.

Atlas switches off the sewing machine in a panic then huffs, "Of course I'm fine!"

"Chill out, jeez."

He suddenly feels how hard his heart has been beating inside their chest. Crud, they didn't mean to sound aggressive or lord-forbid angry. "I'm fine. I'm chill."

"It's six-am," his mom states, matter-of-factly. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

They blink. "Is it really? No…"

"Yes, sweetie."

"Was I keeping you from sleeping?" Atlas starts to tremble, and their foot goes tap tap tap like the foot of their sewing machine."If so, I'm so sorry."

"I was just waking up early to go for a jog and I heard the sewing machine," Ailis says.

"Why didn't you sleep?" Mom says, the disappointment in her tone making Atlas feel sick. "Atlas, you know we talked about how important it is that you sleep more."

"I didn't even realize I'd stayed up this late."

"Are you okay?"

"She just asked me that and I said that I'm fine." They gesture to their sister. Ailis doesn't seem to believe Atlas for a second. Her arms are crossed and she looks almost angry.

"I know you though," Mom begs. "You're lying. It's okay, you can tell me."

But saying it out loud would mean fully materializing their fear into the world. Only when they speak do the voices start to listen. There have been so many times where Atlas Triste messed up by saying how they feel or objecting to Thirteen's norm. He won't do it again, not when his entire future is riding on not getting screwed over by the reaping.

"I'm fine, Mom. I promise."

So she and Ailis leave, the comforting rattle of the sewing machine fills the room once more, and Atlas lets the world fade away until it's no longer his problem.

If only things could stay this way.

adina ofek
eighteen / / district four
—

There's nothing better than an empty beach at sunset.

Mounted on her four-wheeled ATV, Adina feels the wind blowing through her hair as she watches the sun fade beneath the somehow perfectly still Havenside waters. Opposite the beach and ocean is a rocky cliffside — seems easy enough. Her calloused hands grip onto the handles as she revs the engine, once then twice, then turns around and winks at the blonde sitting behind her.

Yara — or maybe it's Yana? Is it bad that Adina forgot her name? She shrugs; yeah, probably. Whatever, she looks beautiful in this light, even if she's shaking. Nervously, Yana/Yara asks Adina, "Are you sure this is safe?"

"If it's safe, it isn't fun, sweetheart." Adina swallows a laugh. "Don't you worry your pretty little head—" she tugs on the strap of the other girl's helmet, "— I'll take great care of you."

"You promise?"

Adina takes one hand off the handles and holds out a pinky. "I promise, sweet thing." Yara/Yana takes out one of her pinkies and intertwines it with Adina's, who in turn pulls back a strand of hair and tucks it behind her ear. "Now what do you say we kiss on it for good luck?"

They do, but it's nothing special. Really, it never is. Adina can't even count how many girls she's taken to this cliff, shown them a cheap thrill and then kissed under the sun and stars. None of them have ever made her feel anything.

Sometimes, she cheaply wonders — am I like, unloveable or some shit? But eh, that's probably untrue. If anything, it just means none of the girls in Four are good enough for someone like her. Then again, is anybody good enough for Adina Ofek?

Her father told her stories about their family from the minute she could understand what he's saying. The unbelievable Ofek family, generations of men who accomplished the unimaginable! Her great grandpa built his own submarine and traveled to the unreachable depths of the ocean. Her grandpa lived with turtles for a year and got them to worship him like a god. The men before them were equally brilliant — marine biologists and adventurers alike. Her ancestors have made Four the place it is, their legacy wetting the sands like waves of the ocean!

Or… at least that's what Adina's dad told her.

(She can't really ask him if he was being honest, because, well…)

(She prefers not to think about what Jules Ofek was thinking when he built a submersible and went into the ocean one day two years ago, though she does assume that he meant to come back.)

(The Ofeks are unbelievable, they're unkillable. And yet, Jules never returned. It doesn't make any sense to Adina, and she doesn't think it ever will.)

At times like these, she really misses him. Her dad taught her how to drive, and they would always have so much fun together. Now, each adventure leaves Adina yearning for something more, something she'll never get back.

"You ready?" She asks Yara/Yana after pulling away from their kiss.

"Yes, okay. Let's get this over with."

Get this over with? It takes everything for Adina to not scowl at her. This is supposed to be the best part of their outing. She can't snap at Yara/Yana now, though — her hands are wrapped around Adina's waist like she's holding on for dear life.

She revs the engine again, a mix of dust and sand erupting in the air, which of course makes Yara/Yana cough. Adina doesn't pay much attention to that though, instead maneuvering the ATV over the mountain, a typically Herculean task that has nothing on her.

It's an incredible rush — she's lightheaded but in a good way. Using nature as a tool to unlock the best parts of being human really gets her going. To be alive is to explore and leave your impact on the world around you, and even if this particular impact is just tires skidding, rubble falling onto the beach down below, it makes Adina feel whole.

More dust flies, Yara/Yana grabs her tighter, and Adina reaches the steepest section of the cliffside. She squeezes the gas handle as tight as she can, and with a resonant woosh, makes it over the edge.

Her feet slip away from the foot-holds, and she feels her body start to fly off the vehicle. Adina lets it happen — the best part of falling is the few seconds where she gets to fly. It makes it far less painful when her body crashes onto the sand.

"Holy shit! Are you okay?"

That's the second best part of falling. It makes people panic, and then Adina gets to stand up once more and say, "Of course I'm fine. I do this all the time, doll."

"That was insane." Yara/Yana's eyes are so wide, they're practically bulging from her skull. Unlike most other girls, she's completely shell shocked — it's adorable.

"Not particularly. This is just an average Sunday for me."

"Really?"

Adina makes her way back to the ATV and wraps an arm around her. "Yes, really. Do you want to ride again with me sometime?"

Yara/Yana pulls her into a kiss, whispering, "I'd love to ride with you, Adina Ofek."

—

"You just live here alone?"

Every girl that Adina brings home is shocked by this, and Yana (she finally figured out her name, thankfully) is no exception. She sort of gets it — for the most part, everyone in Four lives nice, comfortable lives. It's pretty rare that somebody dies young and leaves the rest of their family to fend for themselves.

(And that just makes it a hundred times worse that her father did.)

(They were in this same grand foyer the last time she saw him, but it was so much brighter. He was always better at taking care of the house, making sure to refresh the paint every year and dust the chandeliers so everything was always well lit. Adina supposes she could hire a housekeeper to do that for her, but fuck will it never be the same.)

(He didn't even tell her about his plans for the submersible. He just said that he was going out for a bit, and Adina probably made some snide comment, to be expected from her bratty sixteen-year-old self.)

(She had to grow up fast after that, too fast even. It's embarrassing how badly she just wants to be a kid again. It was so much easier when she believed nothing will ever go wrong because the Ofeks are immortal. In a way, they still are — Adina doesn't think her father's ghost and memory will ever leave her alone.)

But why would she express such feelings to Yana of all people? "Yeah, it's pretty sweet, huh?"

"I've never seen a house this fancy before." Yana gasps as she takes in the white-wood paneled walls, the birch floors, and the various nautical decor. "I didn't realize you were like, rich rich."

"Haha," but Adina sure as fuck isn't laughing. "Surprise?"

What good is money these days if it can't bring her dad back? What good is any material thing?

(There's so much Adina wishes she could say to him. There's so much she needs to apologize for.)

"Sorry if I sound weird…" Yana's voice trails. "Like I know that everyone at CRAP has money, just… not like this."

"You do sound weird."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not, but it's fine." Adina reaches over and grabs Yana's hand. "What do you say I give you a house tour? I bet you want to see my room."

Any logical person would've moved into the biggest bedroom in the house if they were the sole occupant, but Adina can't bring herself to do as such. Her dad's room is exactly how it was the day he left, bed unmade and dirty laundry on the floor. Even if it sort of stinks, she'd never clean it up. After all, they never found his body. Who's to say he won't turn up eventually and clean it himself?

( Adina knows he won't, but she needs to hold on to that small sliver of hope for her own sanity's sake.)

(He's gone. He's so fucking gone and he'll never come back.)

She does, at least, take good care of her own room. Adina makes her bed every morning, fluffs the pillows and straightens her blue and white duvet, and cleans the floor. On her walls are pictures from her favorite adventures with Jules — scuba diving, boat riding, zip lining across palm trees. There are a few pictures of her friends from training or whatever, sure, but she prefers those with her dad by far.

When she stumbles in the room, she scrambles and turns the framed photos of him around as fast as she can. It's kind of awkward having to stare at her dead dad when she has girls over, for obvious reasons.

She dramatically gestures to her bed, even curtseying a bit at Yana. "So here we are, the room where it happens."

The other girl giggles. "You're funny. You know that?"

"I do, yes."

"I hope you keep me around for more than just tonight." Her face is as red as a tomato. "I really, really like you."

Yana gets in bed and Adina sits beside her. "I like you too," she lies. "After six months, I'd love to see you again."

"Six months?"

"The Games," Adina reminds her. "I'll be gone for six months, but then I'll be right back to your sweet little face."

"You're that certain you'll win, huh?"

"Of course I will."Adina winks.

She has no other choice. The Ofeks are immortal and unkillable, Adina just needs to prove it once more. Her dad was a fluke. He had to be a fluke, right?

(Plus, it'll be nice to get out of Four. She's always wondered what the rest of the world is like. Six months in the Capitol seems like a dream come true.)

"Alright then," Yana says. "I believe you."

"As you should." Adina presses a kiss to Yana's cheek, then loudly yawns, an excuse to wrap her arms around her. "It's getting late, y'know. Would you perchance be interested in spending the night here?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

So that's one more night that Adina no longer has to spend alone. One more night where there's a semblance of life in her house, a flame that won't disappear or burn out unless Adina blows (ha) it out herself..

In just one week, she'll be off to the Capitol and she won't have to worry about things like this ever again. Fuck, she can't wait to finally prove she's immortal.

Because if she's immortal, her dad isn't actually gone. Then, these stupid insecurities of hers don't mean shit. Everything will go back to normal — like he never even left.

She'll not only be loved again, but she'll be understood.

It can't be too hard, right?

Because Melchior saying they're immortal turned out so well for them.

Yeah okay umm hey fuckers, prologues are over so I don't need to sound normal anymore.

Hope everyone liked meeting Gir, Atlas, and Adina. Let me know what you think of them, or don't, but I'd prefer if you did. Thanks Nell for Gir, Art for Atlas, and Ama for Adina. Let's clap for them! Also clap for Erik for beta-ing this. Haven't written intros in like 2 years so y'all lmk if it sucked and I'll do better next time.

IDK if next time will be next week. In fact, it probably won't be because college is a bitch and also I have Covid for the first time. Really excited for next chapter tho, so it should spawn in as soon as I'm able to breathe (both academically and medically). It's called Hijinks if you even care.

Umm questions are so back… this time the question is: Have you ever had Covid and what was it like? Also which characters on Netflix's Heartstopper annoy you the most? Lets do six questions actually, to make up for the ones that were missed. That means um… 4 more. What's your favorite flavor of fanta soda? What would Gir, Atlas, and Adina's twitter s be? What company do you wish was under boycott so you would have a good excuse to not give them business and people wouldn't judge you? What the fuck should I do with my life after I graduate?

Thanks for reading. I dap u up and consensually give u a fat juicy kiss.

Linds. Laugh. Love.