Day 8:

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Navarro's blood turned to ice. Collapsed against the ground in the dark, he stared up into the twinkling eyes of the Seven boy, set against the night sky. The boy wore a smirk, softly illuminated by distant firelight; he leisurely tossed a knife over and over again, catching it effortlessly after every throw.

Was this the end? The only sensation pressing through the numb terror was the burning in his abdomen, which now dripped blood into the dust. He propped himself up; he scrambled back as the hard ground below scraped the skin on his elbows.

The Seven boy shook his head. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. "You know you can't run."

Navarro blinked, his eyes frozen in a dead stare. Of course he couldn't run; he could barely walk. But Azolla desperately needed him alive, and not just him—she needed him back with enough water to save her from dehydration. No way out, but he'd search for one anyway. Gasping for air, he pulled himself back, even as the Seven boy watched him with amusement in his eye.

Then Seven gave him a sharp kick in the ribs, and Navarro crumbled again under the painful blow, hitting a faceful of sand. The dock boys back home were undoubtedly jeering at him through their television screens right now. He couldn't blame them. After all these years, all he'd done to them had finally come back around to bite him.

But he heaved for air; he had to live. Death wasn't an option when Azolla's life depended on it too.

"You should see how you look right now," Seven said, a harsh whisper under his breath. "Why don't you just give up? You can't escape."

No hidden tactics, no secret weapon. He had nothing. This couldn't be the end—he wouldn't let it be the end—yet there was no further road to take. He raised his gaze in a glare, though there was nothing left of him to back it up. Nothing but refusal to die and the thought of Azolla.

Seven chuckled. "Almost like a street dog. Can't do nothin'."

"Knocked you out last time," Navarro said, between heaves that shook his core. "That's something."

The boy momentarily peered down the dark roads around them before returning his ugly smirk. "Don't see her around this time, so you're outta luck. But thanks for reminding me. I didn't appreciate that."

Navarro spat. "What are you gonna try? Torture?"

"Don't think so. The screaming's no fun."

The boy cocked his head. His stare intensified; Navarro bit his lip and locked in his glare. As if! Even if it did end up being torture, he'd bite his lip and swallow every scream, just to deny them the pleasure of seeing him suffer, just to prove he wasn't weak like Seven always implied. By Snow, the only reason he was in this position in the first place was because of the wound; he'd gladly taken Seven on in a fistfight otherwise.

But this wasn't otherwise.

Seven's eyes lit up. "You know? No one likes killing street dogs anyway. Here's the deal."

The words rushed out of Navarro's mouth. "Don't wanna hear no—"

"Then I'll kill you now. I'm sure your district partner will appreciate it; you're insufferable."

Not insufferable enough for Azolla to leave, by some miracle, but that was hardly the point. Navarro narrowed his eyes; the world was beginning to spin. As if he'd trust Seven to come up with anything good. "What is it?"

"I want you to beg for your life," the boy said, crossing his arms. "If you do a good job, I might let you live."

Bile rose in Navarro's throat. Back in training, he'd thought that getting pinned down by Seven was the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him. He hadn't ever expected history to repeat itself. "Well, fu—"

"Don't say I didn't give you a choice." Seven shrugged. He bent down; his knife glistened, reflecting the fire where the Ten boy sat. His breath faintly whispered in Navarro's ears. "Let's start with your fingers."

A liar, Seven was! A filthy liar. So much for not enjoying torture! It was like staring through early morning fog on the ocean as Seven's calloused hand pulled Navarro's wrist up, leaving only the arm that Eleven had stabbed a week ago to support his weight. A sharp jab of pain from that arm left him fully collapsed once again as metal teased against his thumb.

Even now, he couldn't muster the energy to fight. It simply didn't exist. For all the times he'd ever thought he was worthless, he'd never been reduced to this.

This couldn't be it. After he'd been Reaped for the Games, he'd thought of a few likely ways he could die. Nearly every scenario had his death the result of a brutal fight, one taken to the extreme ends of both combatants, in which he would bring down his killer with him with everything he had. Not a single time had he imagined himself crumpled in the dust, unable to fight as his killer slowly bled out his life.

Azolla would die too, wouldn't she? Her eyes had been so dim, so devoid of the light and warmth he'd always associated with her. Her cannon could ring any moment now; she'd been so tired, so dehydrated. And she would've been fine if she hadn't thought so much about him!

How terrible. The only person who'd ever cared about him would die for her compassion. Considering how useless, how worthless he was, maybe this shouldn't have come as a surprise. He'd been wrong to think that anything could change, that things could be any different than what they'd always been, now that he and by proxy Azolla faced certain death.

Well, not certain death. There was still one option left. One terrible, sickening option.

"P-Please." He gasped for air. The words were acid in his throat, but Azolla was dying right now and— "Please… Don't kill me."

The metal stopped. "What's that? Speak up."

Navarro gulped. The nerve of this man. "Don't kill me."

"Is that it?"

Metal cut into the side of his thumb. He winced, cursing under his breath. Hadn't he suffered enough humiliation already?

"Come on!" He pulled his arm back, but Seven's grip was iron. "What do you want?"

"I already told you. Beg."

Navarro growled. Out of all the trained tributes, it just had to be Seven. By pure luck and no fault of his own, he'd be dropped in hot water. "You sick piece of—"

He yelped as the knife cut deeper; he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, how he hated Seven, and his taunts, and his smirks, and his twisted brain! He couldn't be reduced to a sniveling dog; he wouldn't. Especially not to Seven. Anyone but Seven.

But for Azolla?

"Stop. I'll do it. Just—" A gasp burst from his ragged throat; he blinked rapidly. No tears. Not with Seven here, not before the cameras, not ever. "Please don't kill me."

"Good boy. I knew you'd come around." The sick piece of human refuse almost sounded pleased. He released his grip and rose to his feet, towering over Navarro. "But you gotta do better than that."

How far would Seven force him to go? With the image of Azolla fixed at the forefront of his mind, he lifted his weary gaze. "How?"

"Kneel."

He could count on one hand the number of people he'd ever met that deserved even the slightest bowing of his head; forget about kneeling! Who was he now—Seven's slave?

The longer he took, the greater the chance Azolla would die before he returned. He swallowed the curses; he rolled himself onto his knees, head bowed towards the ground. Sand sifted into the deep cut in his thumb as the movement seemed to tear his abdomen in two, all while blood dripped onto his knees. Would he faint? He once considered himself beyond something as pathetic as fainting, but he wasn't sure anymore.

"Please," he said, for what felt like the millionth time. "Don't kill me."

Seven hmmed. His tone was light, as if he were on a stroll through the woods instead of humiliating a wounded person before the entire nation. How sadistic could a person be?

"Happy now?" Navarro mumbled.

Seven's boot lashed out, striking his face. Pain burst out, this time from his mouth as the force knocked him over and the taste of metal filled his mouth. He hit the ground winded. Not that he'd ever fully caught his breath.

"Still got some snark, eh?"

Once upon a time, Navarro would've pummeled anyone who dared to talk to him like that. It hadn't been hard to scare the dock boys into submission with a few bruises and bloody noses. Those days felt like they'd existed in a separate universe, far removed from this one. The thought of beating up Seven was only a distant whisper, drowned out by the mind-shattering pain tearing through his hand, his arms, his face, his abdomen.

"Get up. I'll just give you one last chance," Seven said, "because I'm sick of dealing with you."

There was more. Even after all he'd done. When would this nightmare end?

Seven's voice was fainter now, though his boots were still right there. Maybe Navarro's nerves had finally had enough and decided to shut down. Possibly even for good. It wasn't even a terrible thought anymore, for it all to disappear—Seven, the humiliation, the pain. The dead felt no shame, after all. But amidst the shattered slivers of his psyche, only one image remained in focus.

Azolla.

She'd collapsed against the wooden planks as he staggered forth from the house, leaving her with nothing but a promise that he would make it back. His mind filled with the words that he hadn't been able to speak, to tell her how much she meant to him, that as ridiculous as it was, she was his whole world now and that he so desperately needed her though she deserved so much better than how he'd treated her.

That he'd meant every word that day, when she'd rescued him from Seven and pieced him back together. That he hadn't meant the later cowardly words, when he'd spoken out of embarrassment and utter stupidity—though didn't he always speak from stupidity?

With the taste of blood thick in his mouth, he pushed himself off the ground, each movement painstakingly slow. Seven had started tapping his foot, but any faster and he might black out. The crawl to Seven's boots made the broom-assisted trip here seem like a cakewalk.

Covered in blood and sand, Navarro crumpled on his knees at the feet of the one who'd bested him in every way, who held his and Azolla's lives in his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath; a tidal wave swept over him.

"I-I… I don't want… to die—" A wince cut him off; words refused to join in his mind. "Please… let go. D-Don't kill. Mercy…"

Seven was hmming again. Last time, it'd resulted in a kick to the face.

"Please… I-I… I have nothing left."

With his arms crossed, Adair stared down at the Four boy, collapsed on his knees before him. A smirk spread across his face. So much for all of Four's unbearable bravado back in training! The kid clearly had never had much combat ability at all; at long last Four was right where he belonged—on the ground, begging like the shameless coward he was, all of his pretentious self-assuredness stripped away.

Especially in light of the water incident, the one that'd landed Adair in so much trouble. He should've won that fight—he would've, had the Four girl not come out of nowhere! How could he have known that they'd stuck together? After the last day of training, it had seemed obvious that the District Four alliance was over.

All's well that ends well. He pulled the knife back out of his belt, turning it over in his hand. He'd meant it when he'd said he didn't like torture; it was far too inefficient for his taste and he'd figured that Four would eventually give in and beg.

But everything else he'd said? He'd never had an issue with using the necessary words to get the necessary results, and now that he'd gotten the necessary results, there was no more reason to leave Four in his misery. A few good stabs and the boy would be gone for good.

"Hey," Sostonio called, confined to his chair by the fire.

Adair raised an eyebrow. Unfortunately, he already had a pretty good guess what the bleeding-hearted Ten boy had to say. "What do you want?"

"Hasn't he done enough?"

"I didn't ask you." He turned; he re-crossed his arms and cocked his head. "Why do you care?"

"You've put him through enough. Might as well let him go."

So much talk from someone who could barely defend himself! The Ten boy's eyes were big; his face twitched, as if afraid—and rightfully so. If Adair wanted to, he could easily kill both of them right now. It'd only take a few knives for Sostonio, and at this point, he might as well be doing Four a service, sending him over quickly.

"It ain't your business," Adair said.

"It don't make a difference."

The Tens were already bound to go sooner or later, especially Sostonio—first letting the Eleven girl's ally escape in the mansion, then defending her, and now this. Why not start the ball rollin' now? The thought sounded nicer by the moment. A few quick kills and his bag over his shoulder and he'd be gone into the night, just like he'd done so many times before.

He raised an eyebrow. "That's bold of you, you know."

Sostonio bit his lip. He averted his eyes, as if he weren't aware of his possibly imminent death. Must've been the same naivety that earned him the wound from Twelve in the first place.

No, if Adair had wanted to snipe a few of his allies and leave, he would've done it a long time ago. Disappearing now would undo everything he'd done so far; it'd rally the others against him, uniting them against a common target—much to Eros' pleasure, for sure. Besides, he'd long gathered… resources, both human and physical. As fun as it sounded to start from nothing all over again on a new expedition, it seemed too wasteful, too disrespectful towards himself.

But that still left the issue of the sniveling coward from Four.

"I'll make you a deal too," Adair said. He smiled, hoping to set Sostonio at ease, and reached into his pocket.

"Not the coin."

So Ten wasn't stupid. Just a little blind sometimes. Adair chuckled. "You're on to me."

"We ain't doin' this again."

"Then I'll just finish him off."

"C'mon—"

"Look, he's basically good as dead. Maybe he even came here for a quick death—I'm being generous here."

Sostonio sucked in a deep breath, glancing between Adair and the boy on the ground. "Flip the coin, then. Heads, and you let him go."

Adair scoffed. "You're really going to stick up for him?"

"You offered a deal. I'm just takin' you up on it."

"Alright then." He shrugged, slipping the coin out of his pocket. He rubbed his thumb over its metal face and then flipped it over and repeated it with the Panemian seal on the back. Which would Lady Luck pick today? "You sure about heads?"

"Just flip it."

And flip he did. The motions were instinct to him at this point; the warm metal was home against his cool skin, chilled by the evening wind. When he removed his hand, it revealed the smooth effigy of Coriolanus Snow, second president of Panem. If he called tails and killed Four, Sostonio would probably believe him. But Luck had spoken, and Luck he would obey, even if she'd been awfully non-violent lately.

"It's your lucky day," he said, nudging Four with his boot. "So get out. If you can even move."

Sostonio gave him a relieved smile, one Adair returned. "Thank you so much, I—"

"Don't mention it."

Adair left Four in the dust and ambled back towards the courthouse. As he passed by, he gave Sostonio a pat on the back and rounded the corner towards the back of the building. He could feel Ten's eyes on him, almost as if the guy couldn't wait for him to leave. A muffled grunt only confirmed it.

Careful to silence his footsteps, he ducked in the shadows and peeked back around the corner. Sostonio had left his seat. He now limped towards Four, barely propped up. He handed Four the broom, which had fallen to the side; his lips were moving but no sound made it to where Adair watched, as the already wounded Ten boy tried to help the other one up. Just as expected for Sostonio.

Then Sostonio pulled something out from inside his vest, trying to keep it obscured. He placed it in Four's shaky hands, but they slipped, and the item hit the ground, lighting up in the firelight. But not sharply, like a weapon. Softly, like a bottle of water. Adair had always known the Ten boy to be a problem but he'd never anticipated him being this big of a problem.

Without a doubt, the Tens had to be first to go. Not just because Sostonio was dead weight, the weakest link in the Star Alliance chain. The boy's soft existence was a direct threat to their survival.

But for now, he'd store that information away, for just the right moment. It'd surely come in handy.

With every step, Navarro wondered if he was about to die, if the next foot forward would be his last before his strength gave out and he disintegrated into the dust, so close yet so far from his single objective. Though the Ten boy had wrapped his abdomen up with a bit more gauze, it was hardly Azolla's work; the cloth was already slipping as blood leaked from the half-healed but now reopened wound.

Darkness clouded the corners of his vision; whether the shadows were of the night or of his fracturing mind, he couldn't tell. Was this what it felt like to die? He forced his eyelids wide open and invited in the torrid air that seemed to steal the last hints of moisture from his eyes, but it did little to stem the encroaching darkness. He cursed. If he blacked out, Azolla would die, and he'd come too far to second-guess or rethink anything.

His foot stumbled. He slammed into the wall beside him, but he pushed himself up and pressed forward. If he stopped to rest, it could be for forever.

The bottle of grape water pressed cool against his skin. Remnants of its artificial fruit taste lingered in the corners of his mouth, from when the Ten boy had insisted he drink some, but the rest belonged to Azolla—if she was still alive! There hadn't been a cannon, but the Gamemakers were undoubtedly ready with hers, should she slip away from reality and her vitals flatline. He hadn't gone through all that humiliation just for her to die!

The house was dark, hidden in the shadow of the larger building nearby. His foot caught on the threshold; he grunted. He tasted dust and wood chips as every inch of his body complained, but he crawled forward, mind swirling in an exhausted haze to the point he might not even be able to stand.

"Huh?"

Her weak murmur rose from a dark spot in the room, not far from where she'd collapsed when he left. He pulled himself towards her voice; his hand brushed against hers, and he ran his fingers up until he found her cheek, hot to his touch. He pressed his palm against her forehead, hoping that he wasn't smearing blood everywhere—even he could recognize that raging fever.

"W-What?" Her voice was distant, barely more than a breath. "Nico? What—"

"Shh…" He fumbled for the bottle with one hand, the other cradling her face. She must've lapsed into delirium while he was gone. "I don't know no Nico."

She gasped; she pushed at him, but her palms had no force behind them. "No! Where am I? I just need— Nico!"

Biting his lip, he held a hand under her chin; he wondered who Nico was but immediately pushed it out of mind. He shakily splashed some of the flavored water where he knew her mouth to be, though it was nearly impossible to see here in the shadows. She stopped struggling nearly immediately as an artificial aroma wafted upwards, filling the room with faux grape.

Her weak hand reached for more. It took every last ounce of self-control in him to pull the bottle away, to keep his trembling hand from pouring the whole bottle down her throat; his dock work had taught him at least this much about treating someone suffering from dehydration. Moments later, he tipped a bit more into her mouth, and then more, pausing between each delivery.

She'd relaxed some. He shifted, as if to pull her closer, but a spike of sharp pain kept him frozen in place. How had the past few hours been for her? At what point did confusion overwhelm her? Who was Nico, anyway?

No, that was completely irrelevant. His eyes wandered towards the door. Though the street outside was littered in a dusting of moonlight, the shadow inside obscured any trace of the blood trail that had to be all over the floor.

The bottle had significantly lightened. He paused and swirled its contents; it couldn't be more than a third left. But she gave a soft cry, so he allowed her one more substantial drink before he took a sip himself and put the grape water away.

His head was a ball of lead, wracked with dull thuds from every angle. He ran his hand from her cheek to the ends of her curls. No cannon. He couldn't have messed it up that badly, though he might've only delayed her death for all he knew. If only he'd paid more attention to first aid in training!

Suddenly, a wave of calm seemed to rush through her as a sigh escaped her lips. She reached up, clasping his arm.

"Oh… By Snow, Navarro—"

He barely felt his heart leap before the world went black.

The gentle heat of the rising sun warmed Clarke's skin, beckoning her into a brand new day, but even opening her eyes felt like too great a task. With an annoyed grunt, she turned her face towards the shadows. Even through the haze of sleep, a relentless weight pressed against the forefront of her mind, as if she'd suffocate the moment she awakened and allowed it to enter her consciousness.

Then the dull, throbbing pain resurfaced, exacerbated by the uncomfortably hot metal against her crushed hand. Sleep wasn't an option, nor did the Arena allow her any other escape from the burden on her shoulders. While she'd been with Virginia, she'd at least had the small bottle of painkillers to help her numb out, but Virginia had taken everything with her—from the painkillers to the food to the water—

And then died. If Clarke were honest, that spiteful side of her had bubbled with gleeful revenge when the Eight girl's face had appeared in the sky. The girl had accused Clarke of lying to herself, of being inhuman, practically of being just like the Capitol. Even now, Clarke could hear the girl's voice in her ear—"I should've let you die." It joined the chorus of voices that never shut up, day or night, from the Six girl's "Not so tough, are you?" to Zeph's "She's a loose cannon" and now even the Eleven girl's screams.

But Clarke couldn't rejoice in Virginia's death. The Eight girl's compassion was the only reason Clarke had even escaped the Bloodbath in the first place. She'd shared her supplies and painkillers, preparing meals and medicine without being asked. Clarke could almost feel the girl's comforting hand on her shoulder again, as it'd been that early morning three days ago.

Virginia had been such a good person, hadn't she.

Where did that leave Clarke? Not good, and not right? It couldn't be, not when her entire life mission was dedicated to bringing down the unjust system that'd brought her into this world. She'd sacrificed everything for this noble goal; had it all been for nothing? Perhaps she wasn't always nice, but that had nothing to do with being right.

The Eleven girl's screams begged to differ.

Maybe Clarke deserved the pain. Maybe the lifeforce of the universe had known from the beginning that she was no good at all, and that was why it'd brought her in as a product of violence and brutality, doomed to forever remain unwanted by everyone from her own birth mom to the Twelve boy she'd first met less than two weeks ago.

It was strange, then, that said Twelve boy still sat a couple yards away, absentmindedly fiddling with the strap on his backpack.

Even though he thought of her as a loose cannon, wild and unpredictable, far too risky to be worth anything. Even though he'd been nothing but cool towards her since she met him in training, nothing but reluctant to accept her in an alliance, as if he thought her very presence was poison. Even after she'd suggested the very plan that must've gotten Zirconia killed—though how was she supposed to know the Twelves would get captured?

Still, he sat there. Near, yet not too near. Close enough to suggest that he wasn't exactly scared of her but far enough for him to turn a cold shoulder and fully ignore her. He hadn't been this cold before they lost Zirconia, but his feelings towards her couldn't have changed all that much. Even back then, he didn't think much of her, as that overheard, early-morning conversation had revealed. He just used to hide it better.

If those feelings were unreasonable back then, surely they were justified now. Zirconia's death might not have been her fault, but Clarke couldn't deny that if she hadn't been there to give the suggestion, the Twelve girl would still be alive. In some sense, she owed Zeph. Just a little. And yet he'd saved her now, only adding to that debt—that debt that she didn't have, not really, not when the outcome had been uncertain and it'd all been a reasonable, calculated risk!

Too much thinking. Zirconia's death hadn't been her fault, and that was that. No reason to dwell on it. Yet a single glance at Zeph started up the whole circle of thoughts all over again—if Clarke hadn't allied, Zirconia wouldn't have died, the idea had been hers—

It would've been better if he'd never stayed.

No, it wasn't true. She'd probably be dead if it weren't for him. Death by dehydration, out in this wasteland. Why had he done it—to rub her supposed guilt in her face? As if he was some kind of saint, with all that judgment towards her he'd stowed inside since the beginning! Then again, Zirconia was dead, and—

There she went again. Down into that spiral that'd drive her insane. Enough was enough.

"Seriously. Why are you here anyway?"

He barely glanced up. "Strength in numbers."

Yeah, right. "Then let's go get 'em."

He silently poked at the dust.

"No use sitting around in this awkward silence. Strength in numbers, right? Let's do it."

"Sure."

So he wanted to be difficult. Fine, then. She'd play along, just this once. For no reason at all.

"Then… I'll try to come up with something." She twisted her lips out of their frown. "Some kind of plan."

"Hmm." His gaze was sharp.

Her shoulders slouched. Just a little. Some nerve! As if the first disaster had been totally her fault—because she obviously knew the future and orchestrated everything to get Zirconia killed. How hard of a concept was it?

"Fine. You got anything?"

"Well…" His voice had smoothed out, as if that accusatory glare hadn't ever been there in the first place. Such a confusing person! "None of the Careers have died since the Bloodbath."

She narrowed her eyes. Of course he had to bring up the one person Clarke had tried so hard to put aside for now 'cause it was simply too much to handle. "Liat doesn't count as a Career."

"Not her. I mean that One girl. Got crushed in the rubble or something."

"Oh."

Gosh, just the mention of Day One had brought images of golden curls and brilliant smiles back to mind, and the timing couldn't be worse. Then again, there wouldn't be a good time for it until she escaped this place and exacted her revenge. Then she'd finally have the time to process. But not yet. All that mattered now was survival.

He rubbed his chin. "You think there are more bombs lying around?"

"And you think I'm the crazy one?"

"It's got to be back at the Cornucopia. Maybe the original plan was to blow up both concrete towers. Let's go."

Clarke pressed her lips together. Maybe she'd spoken too quickly when she told him to come up with something. Since when did she waste her time following others around?

He swung his bag over his shoulder and glanced back. She smoldered at him. "You don't have to, of course."

Fine. Perhaps she did owe him some, so it wasn't a big deal for her to just go along with this little trip he'd thought of. It wasn't like her to "just go along," but he deserved this much, at least. Especially if it'd release her from any obligations to this strange, seemingly contradictory boy who'd never liked her much from the start. Maybe then she'd stop spinning around thoughts of Zirconia and get refocused on the only goal that mattered more than anything else right now.

"I'm coming."

The first thing Ven heard was faint whistling.

It was exotic, almost, wandering into the room from somewhere down the hall. It sang of bold mountain air and wild river rapids; it certainly would've been out of place back in District One, where prissy and pompous seemed to be the norm. Perhap it would've even been charming, had Ven not known who the whistler was. He shot to his feet and brushed off his clothes, at attention and ready for the one. One could never be too alert.

The whistling grew louder; its source, Adair, paced into the room, his regular smile plastered across his face. "Mornin'."

"Good morning to you too," Ven said.

Though he checked the Seven boy's hands for weapons, Ven still smiled politely. All in all, it wasn't a terrible morning for the Games. Not anything worse than anything from the past week. Even the usually relentless sun seemed to have calmed down a little today, its intensity dulled by the clouds that covered the sky.

As he stretched, he spied Sostonio at his place by the door. "Holding up fine?" Ven said, cheeks softening into a genuine grin.

"Fine, fine." Tense wrinkles tugged at the Ten boy's nervous eyes, silently screaming the exact opposite. "Tired, but fine."

Ven resisted a frown. As he bent down to adjust the laces on his hiking boots, he caught the shadow that flitted over Sostonio's face while the Ten boy looked over at Adair. Up till this point, the Ten boy had been the last one of the group Ven expected to get caught up in anything—what could possibly be happening?

Of course, Adair still looked perfectly normal, so it wasn't like Ven had concrete evidence or anything. But Adair had always been a good actor anyway. At any rate, it did little to calm the uneasiness in Ven's gut.

He sat down near Sostonio. "Anything interesting happen on watch?"

The Ten boy shook his head stiffly. "Just the regular. You sleep good?"

If it'd been any of the others that started acting like this, Ven would've started to fear for his life. But this was Sostonio. Ven wasn't sure the Ten boy could hurt a fly; he trusted him more than he trusted anyone else in the Arena—though, given, there wasn't exactly a high bar here of all places.

"Fairly well," Ven said. "I think my back's getting accustomed to the floor."

"Good, good."

"Nice day today. The clouds make such a big difference."

"For sure."

There it was again. Or, more accurately, there it wasn't. Sos' signature genuine smile was missing today, a change Ven had hoped he wouldn't ever have to wake up to. For if even Sos was starting to lose it…

No. It was getting to his head. It was too soon to draw conclusions, too early to give up hope.

Still, he couldn't deny that the silence that surrounded Sostonio today was nothing short of uncanny. The Ten boy always seemed to have had something pleasant to say at any moment; now, Ven was suddenly more aware than ever of how terrible he was at small talk.

Maybe Adair had something on Sos now. Or maybe Adair was up to something new and terrible, which would totally be on brand for him. As if the alliance needed more help to self-destruct!

Plan for the day. Convince everyone to let him stay back on watch with Sostonio, and then figure out what had happened while he'd been asleep.

As if trying to break up his thinking, sudden trumpets blared, shattering the calmness of the morning.

"Good morning, tributes. Congratulations on surviving to the second week of the one hundred and fortieth Hunger Games."

Jovian Vermillius' voice seemed to come from every direction, ringing in his ears. Some Gamemaker twist—or something far worse?

"As a reward for all your skill and tenacity, I would like to cordially invite you to a Feast at the Cornucopia tomorrow at noon. If you should choose not to attend, you may soon find yourself at an immense disadvantage."

Ven searched Sos' expression. Were there any answers behind those worried eyes?

"We look forward to seeing you soon. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

The timing of the announcement—was it a coincidence, or was there something far more dangerous going on beneath the surface? He'd done his best to stay positive thus far, but that didn't mean he was naive. First he woke up to find Sostonio hiding something, strongly hinted to be tied to Adair. Now there was a Feast set to happen.

That surely meant that none of them would be going hunting today, staying behind to prepare for the big day. He sighed. No answers until tomorrow. Mere twenty-four hours, but twenty-four hours was more than enough time for disaster to strike. Just bad luck, or was the Capitol trying to help Adair keep a secret?

Too many questions. Too few answers. And there was no guarantee he'd ever get answers.

What in the world had happened last night?

"We look forward to seeing you soon. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Azolla gulped. Though a faint haze still lingered over her mind, it'd cleared enough to know that she wouldn't let Navarro go. "No," she said. "I'm going this time."

"Azolla—"

"You were literally passed out until ten minutes ago. You need to rest."

"You need rest too."

"I'm fine now, aren't I?" she said. "The clouds outside are pretty thick—I'll be okay."

With trouble, Navarro propped himself up. "The whole Star Alliance will be there," he said, eyes glowering. "Two are better than one."

"Look at you! You can barely sit up—what do you expect to do?"

He gave her a glare and clambered to his feet; a sudden wince seemed to suck the strength out of him and his footing slipped. Azolla bolted up, just in him to catch him. As she slowly laid him back out, she sighed.

It wasn't just that he was physically unable to go, though that in and of itself was reason enough. He'd risked his life for her once. She wouldn't let him do it for her again.

"Please," she said, rubbing his shoulder. "Don't make your condition any worse. I'll go."

"What if they catch you?"

"They won't. I'm pretty fast."

His eyes were wide. "Promise me you'll fight back."

"Who do you think I am? Some dumb sheep?"

"So you'll kill?"

She sucked in a deep breath. There he went again. "I won't get caught."

He shook his head. "You can't avoid it forever."

She'd like to think that she was nimble enough to avoid landing in trouble, and that even if she were spotted, she'd be able to escape without having to really hurt anyone. It'd maybe even be safer to avoid getting entangled in a fight, especially if the other tribute was a trained one. No use picking fights that she'd surely lose.

Still, he did have a point, one that she'd again conveniently forget about for now.

She smiled at him. "You're right," she said. Now just to hope he'd let the topic go too. "Maybe it's time to deal with it. But let's both hope it doesn't come to it."

"What if you get stuck out there and you need help?"

Navarro probably couldn't be much help at all in this state, but saying it would only aggravate him. She tilted her head. "How about this? If I'm not back in twenty-four hours, then that means that I can't come back here, and we'll meet in the rubble of the fallen tower."

He nodded.

"Then that's that. Let's not worry about it today, okay?"

"O-Okay." He let out a deep breath. His hand clasped hers. "Okay. But you better be drinking water."

With a reassuring grin, she took a sip of the grape-flavored water he'd brought back, more relieved than anything that somehow, she'd managed to talk him down. Maybe he was in more pain than she realized—the blood all over his shirt couldn't be good, especially with the dust too. When she'd first awoken, she'd done her best to patch it up, but without any antibiotics or really any first aid left, this was an infection just waiting to happen.

Maybe there'd be antibiotics at the Feast, or even fancy Capitol medicine that would fix him up better than anything she could ever do. All the more reason for her to go. She'd done so much to keep him alive till now. She was too far in to just let him die.

He was staring at her. She fixed the smile back on. No need to cause him to worry about her; he had enough to worry about with his own wounds. "Hmm?"

"Who's Nico?" he asked.

She gave him a quizzical look. She didn't remember ever having brought her brother up in their conversations. Strange, considering how she'd been stuck with Navarro for almost two weeks now, but Navarro wasn't the type of person you talked with about family. "You know him?"

"So you have someone back home?"

"What? Oh, no. Nico's my brother. How did you hear about him?"

He visibly relaxed. "When I got back last night, you were calling for him."

"I was?"

"You probably don't remember; you were… pretty out of it."

She chuckled. "Yeah, he's my big brother. He's great. He's the only reason we survived on the streets."

"Mmm."

"Do you have any siblings?"

He snorted. "Probably best that I don't."

"At least you have your parents."

His brow darkened; he averted his eyes. "Might as well not have any."

Duly noted. Topic of family was off the table with him. It didn't excuse any of his actions, but who he was as a person suddenly seemed to make a lot more sense.

"I'm tired."

"I'll be on watch."

He nodded and then turned his face away from her; he took several deep breaths as he seemed to calm down.

"Thank you so much," she said. "I know I keep saying it, but… thanks."

"De nada…" he murmured. "It was nothing."

Seated in the corner of the main room, Adair tore off another bite of beef jerky as the others talked, discussing a plan for tomorrow.

'Cause there was 'bout to be a Feast. Interesting.

It made a lot of sense, actually. Though Feasts were usually late-game Gamemaker devices, it was the eighth day, to be fair, and there were still eleven tributes left in the game. How the rest of his allies had survived, he wasn't sure, but it seemed like the Gamemakers were more interested in interpersonal drama and sheer gore this year. All the better for him.

"Okay, then," Ilithyia said. "Does anyone other than me want to go for sure?"

Eros immediately volunteered, to absolutely no one's surprise. The guy was so desperate to stay on Ilithyia's good side it made him look pathetic.

Adair shrugged. It wouldn't hurt to go get another kill or two under his belt, but he'd get a chance to set some things up if he stayed behind. After all, the end game was rapidly approaching, and it was about time he got the ball rolling. His fingers played absentmindedly with the detonators in his pocket, which he'd collected from the dead District Three girl way back on that first night of the games. He'd had a good time so far, taking it easy with the rest of them, but he was ready for some action now.

"Adair?" Ilithyia said. "You good with going?"

So Lady Luck had decided for him. "Sure."

"Then that leaves Ven and Sos on watch?" she said. "Everyone fine with that?"

Adair broke out in a grand smile. Fine? That was more than fine. His two least favorite people, left behind together on watch? He couldn't have set it up better himself if he'd tried. He whispered a thank-you to Luck and headed for the storage room to pack.

Sostonio leaned over from his seat near the hall. "Hey, Adair?"

Adair held back a snort at the Ten boy's nervous eyes. With his gaze fixed ahead of him, he brushed past Ten, as if he hadn't heard him at all.

No reason to play nice with tributes that would very soon be dead.

Ellis' eyes cracked open in the darkness of the basement. He reached up to rub his eyes and found his cheeks caked with dried tears. He vaguely remembered awakening at some point earlier—morning, probably?—when the light coming in had been dimmer and obscured, but down here in the dark, it was hard to tell. All that connected him to the world outside was the rectangle of light over by the stairway up.

Today, the stagnant air felt cooler than usual. Cold, almost. He pulled his knees close to his chest and tucked his face into his arms, yet he shivered anyway, and not just because it was cold.

What would it take for him to close his eyes and never reopen them again?

He pinched himself. Think positive. He'd always done so, no matter how dull and dreary District Eight was. He was still alive, wasn't he? He'd survived a full week, certainly longer than the betters had originally predicted him to last.

Though that was only because of Virginia. And the sky last night had confirmed that she was dead now too, the latest in a string of casualties that'd taken everyone away from him.

How could she have done this to him? She'd blatantly chosen to let the Star Alliance take her away; she had to have known that she was killing herself in doing so. She'd left him alone here in this spirit-crushing darkness, where he only stayed because it seemed scarier to wander around up there with all the other tributes. If only she had hidden herself in the darkness too. Maybe the two of them would've both survived until now, and then he wouldn't be alone.

But no. She'd practically given herself up for free to the One boy, and all Ellis had done was watch from the shadows, stifling his cry in his sleeve as they took her away.

Would the Gamemakers just let him lie here forever? Probably not. They never extended anyone that mercy. More likely they'd just send a mutt after him and try to lure him out with some kind of incentive, like a Feast.

Oh, yeah. The Feast.

That was what the announcement this morning had been about. Somehow, it didn't seem incentivizing in the slightest. To go fight the other tributes and risk his life for some random supplies? It paled in comparison to just lying here, waiting for the world to disappear.

His stomach growled. He rose with a grunt and stumbled over to where Virginia had left her bag, which he then brought into the light. A pouch of dried fruit, along with a little bit of water. A first aid kit with a couple bandages and a little bit of gauze, along with an empty pill bottle and empty tube of antibiotics.

His eyes lingered on the fruit; his mouth watered. This was wrong. This was hers.

She'd left it behind for him, hadn't she? She wouldn't be mad at him if he took some. If anything, she'd surely force him to eat if she were here. Then why did it still feel sacrilegious, like he was disturbing a memory that ought not to be disturbed? Alas, a hungry stomach was a hungry stomach, and he hadn't had any sugar in far too long for him to resist. He gingerly teased a dried apricot out of the bag and ate.

Immediate regret.

This was wrong. All wrong. He dropped the bag and backed away. His famished body continued to chew on the fruit, tears streaming down with every bite. He mumbled an apology. Perhaps she'd hear it from wherever she was now.

Wasn't he trying to think positive? Was it still worth it to try?

Right. The Feast. It sounded scary. He didn't want to go. Perhaps he wouldn't, but then the Gamemakers would surely start pressuring him, and maybe that was scarier. It wasn't too far either. He was practically right at the site already, here in the basement underneath the remaining concrete tower. It'd barely take any work.

He sighed. It was all too much to handle right now; he'd figure it out tomorrow, when the time came. At least, he hoped so.

The sunset wasn't visible this evening, obscured by the sheet of clouds that'd protected them from the heat all day. From the front steps of the courthouse, Eros stared up at the blotted reds and purples. The Gamemakers were up to something. Nothing that happened here was ever an accident, especially not dense clouds in the desert, where it'd previously been nothing but blazing sun.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Sos asked. The Ten boy sat nearby, right outside the door, with a broomstick in hand for a cane, almost like one of those old guys that did nothing but sit on their porches all day.

"I hope it's not more acid rain."

Sos chuckled, though there was a dryness to it that hadn't been there before. "Me too. At least we'll know to avoid it if it happens again."

Such a funny person the Ten boy was. The guy was nothing more to Eros than an outer district competitor—that was all Eros could afford to let him be; they were set to be enemies from the moment they were both selected to go into the Hunger Games. Yet at the same time, Sos' presence always seemed so… calming.

"You alright?" Sos asked. "Your eyeballs are gonna get stuck if you don't stop starin' into the distance like that."

The Ten boy didn't mean it, he couldn't have. The time Eros had spent in the upper echelons of District Two had taught him that no one ever truly meant anything, that under every unassuming nicety was some selfish motive. Eros didn't have friends back home; he had connections, part of his network that he could leverage for his own future benefit. It'd never crossed Eros' mind that there was another way to navigate the social circles he'd been dropped in.

Eros smiled. "Everything's fine, thank you. Is your leg healing up okay?"

"I can get around a little," Sos said, "but don't expect me to run a marathon or nothin'. Just gotta take it one day at a time."

Just like that, Eros had gathered a little more information on his supposed opponents. It was almost second nature at this point, something he'd never thought to question.

Until now.

Sos continued. "Anyway, you know me. If you ever want to talk about anything, I'm listenin'."

A statement like that seemed so obviously designed to get under his skin, to get him to talk and lower his defenses. From anyone else's mouth, Eros would've put it out of mind without a second thought.

But from Sos? Somehow, that made all the difference. It was almost as if the Ten boy really meant it.

"There's just so much to think about," Eros said, as if to no one in particular. A safe statement, one that pretended to be personal yet revealed nothing.

"Ain't that the truth."

"And it's… a lot."

Sos cocked his head thoughtfully. His warm eyes brimmed with sympathy. "The Games ain't all they're cracked up to be?"

"It's not that. My family…" He bit his lip. Too much information? Somehow, this felt safe. "They've always given me a lot of pressure. It can be hard sometimes."

The Ten boy narrowed his eyes in confusion, and it struck Eros that he'd originally told Sos that he own family was really close, thinking that it would help Sos feel like they were closer than they really were. It wouldn't be hard to connect the stories, add another layer that made the contradictory information click.

Yet he didn't want to. He didn't know why, but it seemed inappropriate here.

"We're not actually all that close," Eros said. "I wasn't even supposed to be here, but Father's set on raising a victor. One thing led to another, and… Yeah. Now I'm here."

"Man… that's rough. I'm sorry."

A tingle ran from his head to his toe as a weight seemed to ease off his shoulders. An unplanned smile crept across his lips. Funny how confessions he'd never expected to ever admit to anyone flowed so easy here. Then again, he hadn't ever really expected anyone to be so real; it was almost nice to not have to hold everything to himself…

Though now those very words had been broadcast over all of Panem.

A silent siren seemed to blare in his ear as he immediately fixed his posture. Chin up. Smile on. A zipper across his mouth, lest he speak another word about home or family or himself. He wondered if Father and Mother were embarrassed watching their son confess to the world that the Worshire family was anything but the picture-perfect socialites they wanted everyone to think. It'd serve them right.

But no more. Not until he'd made it back to District Two and found his own happy ending for himself.

Eros grinned at Sos. "I've always been fine, though; it's nothing to worry about," he said. He leaned over; his voice dropped. "But between you and me—be careful around Ven."

"Wait, wh—"

"Shh. He acts nice and all, but he's really trying to play Ili against us."

Sos narrowed his eyes. Sounds of shuffling came from inside; Eros drew back. Gosh, maybe he'd spoken too soon because the Ten boy seemed to have no concept of "act like everything's fine." Should've expected this from Sos of all people, but perhaps his warning would still pay off. The District Ten boy was an unlikely ally—Two and Ten rarely stuck together this far—but Eros couldn't complain.

And maybe, just maybe, he might consider Sos a little more than just an ally. Maybe almost a friend. A real one.

Much later in the night, Sos sat alone, still out in front of the courthouse. A night wind tousled his hair, chilling the back of his neck while the fire in front warmed his arms and legs. After the brief conversation, Eros had gone to patrol the back door of the building, leaving Sos alone under the starless sky.

How could so much have happened over the past two days?

Sometimes, the Eight girl still stared back at him. He could still see the tears running down her cheeks, hear her clear voice that she fought to maintain. She'd stood straight and tall, unafraid to look him in the eye as she claimed her guilt.

If only he had let her go.

It was a fool's dream, of course. He would've had no way to explain it to the rest of the Star Alliance, much less all of Panem watching from the other end of the camera—especially when the girl herself had pleaded guilty. But it had still been his ruling. He'd had a choice; he could've set her free and the others would've gone along with it. The universe had dropped him an opportunity to make a stand and he'd caved to the pressure, not only from the Star Alliance but also from the entirety of the Capitol, who'd set up this despicable Game in the first place.

The firelight danced in the wind, lighting up a ring of gravel and sand, but beyond the circle was nothing but darkness, hidden from sight by the lack of moonlight. Was there anyone out there in the darkness? For the entire first week, the watches had been uneventful, but the Four boy had also come just the night before.

The poor kid. The blatant wound across his abdomen. The sand and blood caked on his face, Adair's work. Sos hoped the Four boy had made it back to his district partner. It was hardly a stand; he'd done it secretly in the dark, a coward, too fearful to face the evil around him head-on. But it'd been something. Even if that meant that the Fours would continue to be a threat, he'd at least done the right thing at that moment and saved them from Adair.

Of course, that hardly made up for the life that he had taken. The Eight girl would be considered Ven's kill, but the choice had been his own, regardless of what the scoreboard said. What had Mamá thought? How had Snot felt as the boy watched Sos sentence another to death? Did they think that the Games had changed him?

Had the Games changed him?

A light scurry of footsteps, and Nevaeh appeared beside him, as smooth as the wind. She gave him a weary smile. "My watch. You can go sleep."

He yawned. "Gracias."

But as he prepared to rise, leaning on his makeshift cane, Nevaeh stopped him with a hand on his arm. She leaned in until she was up by his ear.

"You think… it's time?" she whispered. "De salir. Like Darah said."

"¡Estás loca! You can't take 'em all on."

"I know, I know. But…"

"Tal vez… we'll give it another few days," he said. "I'm sure the alliance will hold at least that long. Then maybe my leg will be better, and then we can… y'know."

"I don't think I can wait that long."

"You're worried again."

She sighed. "Un poco."

They still couldn't leave now even if they wanted to; his wounded leg kept them planted here like a tent peg. He had no solutions. So he placed an arm around her shoulders. This was the next best thing. She rested her head on his shoulder as he patted her gently.

The two sat in silence. The firelight stole his blank gaze again, conjuring back images of the dead.

"How'd you get over your first kill so fast?" Sos murmured.

She bit her lip in thought. "No sé. I guess it's not that bad when it's self-defense."

"Is it really self-defense, though?"

"If they don't die, I'll die. I think that counts as self-defense." She chuckled. "Now for mi papá, that's different. But he didn't let me get my hands dirty."

"Mmm."

"Why?"

He already knew how she'd respond, but he was too tired to care. "Can't stop thinking about Eight."

"She wasn't your kill."

"Practically was."

She craned her neck to look up at him. "You're seriously feeling guilty over that?"

"Yeah." He bristled. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought it up in the first place. "Seems right to."

"What if it comes down to you and someone else?"

"I hope it won't."

She pulled herself away and turned to face him. "Sos. I need you to try to win."

Win. The word had lost all its former glamor. Now it seemed only to drip red. "Porfa—"

"Please."

"Is it really right, though?"

"Think about the district. The right thing to do here is to win for it."

He glared at her. "Don't you tell me what's right. I know what's right and it's not that."

"Then think about tu mamá! She's staring at the screen right now because she wants you to come home so bad. And Snot. How do you think he'll react if you die? Isn't it the right thing to try and win so that he gets you back?"

He could feel his cheeks burning again. "Neva—"

"And that other girl you talk about—Nini, was it? Don't lie to me; I see the way you smile when you talk about her. You could go home and start a family! Don't you want that?" Her eyes pleaded with him. "You can't give up."

His glare intensified until he felt like his eyes were about to burst. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he said, voice colder than ice. "You have no right to use their names as ammo against me."

She stared, briefly taken aback before she quickly regained her composure. "It's still all true," she said. "You still have to deal with it either way."

"It's still just plain wrong to murder," he shot back. "You ever deal with that? Y'know—"

"Just go to bed, Sos." She took a couple steps back. "We'll talk in the morning."

"But—"

"Buenas noches."

His mouth was still open when she disappeared around the corner. He had half a mind to run after her and talk this out—she couldn't just leave it hanging like that—but his leg held him in place. He slowly sucked in a deep breath, suddenly aware of the steam practically coming out of his ears. Were Mamá and Snot and Nini watching right now? What did they think of what had just happened? He didn't want to know. Because Nevaeh had made points.

He wondered if he'd be able to sleep tonight.

Zeph crept down the edge of the street. His hand glided along the wall to his side, helping him maintain his balance. Apart from the occasional peek, the moon remained hidden behind the clouds tonight, leaving the Arena in darkness. He looked back. Clarke's vague silhouette followed him, just the same as it had been the past million times he'd checked.

This was getting ridiculous. If she really wanted him gone, she would've made a move a long while ago, yet he hadn't picked up on any concerning shifts in her behavior over the past day and a half. Besides, even if she swung at him, she'd probably miss, considering how hard it was to see—and he was confident that he could easily take her down if need be. He had a knife. She did not. Rationally, that should've been enough to ease any worries.

The clouds above moved a tad aside, just enough for a few beams of moonlight to break through. Zeph ventured out from under the awning and into the road, where the view was better. The pitch black silhouette of the concrete tower loomed just a few blocks down. They were on the right track. He beckoned to Clarke and scurried on ahead; better take advantage of the improved visibility to cover more ground.

As he stepped into the shadow of the tower, the moon disappeared behind it, though its faint light was just enough to illuminate the rubble in the Cornucopia courtyard, the first he'd seen it since the Bloodbath. It called up the smell of smoke, the rumble of the crumbling building, the dryness of the suffocating dust. He glanced back at Clarke. Even in the dark, he could tell she wasn't too keen on digging through the mess of concrete and metal. At least they were on the same page here.

He knelt down beside the wall, squinting up and down the road. No sign of the red and yellow boxes that'd been scattered around the courtyard on that first day. Perhaps there never had been any bombs here and this was all just a fool's errand. Could it be that the plan had always been to just blow up one tower? Then again, it was dark, and they'd only checked one side. Too soon to tell.

Clarke pointed at the staircase. He nodded; they'd be able to see more up there. Once up the stairs, he crept over to the nearest window, overlooking several blocks of nearby buildings. Not far away, smoke rose from what must've been a street a little ways down a different road.

"Gotta be the Careers," he whispered. No one else would be so brazen as to broadcast their location. For Snow's sake—another complication. It wasn't just a simple find-and-retrieve mission now; he and Clarke would have to do so under the noses of the Careers.

Clarke mumbled a curse. Footsteps sounded from below; Zeph froze. A small beam of light appeared on the road below from beyond a corner, lighting up a strip of sand. The Ten girl rounded the bend, a flashlight in hand.

Her.

Immediately, Zeph's muscles tensed up. His eyes narrowed. His hand closed around his knife; Ten had been the one to kill Zirconia and then try to kill him too, screaming obscenities at him the entire way. If he dropped down on her and caught her off-guard, he could take her out before she knew what was going on. At least, he hoped he could.

It'd serve her right. Zeph had truly believed that Zirconia had escaped when everything happened all too fast. She'd appeared out of nowhere. He'd pulled himself free from Ten's grip. He'd barely had a chance to react before Zirconia crashed into Ten and Ten brought the knife down. Then he'd had no choice but to leave his best friend for dead else Ten would've killed him too. If this worked, it'd just be one fell swoop, and justice would be served for Zirconia.

Except it wouldn't. Because ultimately, it hadn't been the Ten girl that truly killed Zirconia. It was the Capitol, who'd crushed District Twelve into utter despair and forced them into this situation in the first place. There was no guarantee he'd get the kill either. Hadn't Clare and Zirconia been so confident they could easily take down the Ten girl and Two boy on that fateful day?

No, this wasn't wise. He clenched his fists but forced his feet to stay planted in place, watching from above as the flashlight beam paced back and forth, eventually circling back towards where the smoke rose. Because ultimately, the only way to truly get the Capitol back for Zirconia was to first beat the Hunger Games, even if it meant giving up getting the kill himself on the Ten girl, and a miscalculated move right now was the fastest way to send him to the underworld.

He nodded his head back towards the stairs. "Too dark to search," he whispered.

She nodded. Her face was hardened, like the stone walls of the coal mines back home. He couldn't blame her. He didn't like it here much either, with the Careers on one side and the ghosts of the Bloodbath on the other. But between the bombs and the Feast, they still had at least another day around here before they could afford to retreat somewhere safer. Better to hole up somewhere safe and get rest for tomorrow.

Late at night on the eighth day of the Hunger Games, the lobby outside the Mentor Center had calmed down significantly from what it had been on the first few days, much to Rusk's relief. He stood outside the double doors, checking his watch to avoid making eye contact with any of the few reporters that remained, who were likely hoping to get a last interview in with any of the mentors before the big Feast tomorrow. Of course, no one paid him any attention. The awkward misfit of District Nine was hardly ever of interest to the viewership in the Capitol, even less so now that it'd been a week since his tribute had died.

He glanced back down at the time. It was fifteen past eleven, though Darah had said she'd be here on the hour. What could be keeping her? Then again, surely her mentorship duties and two living kids took precedence over anything regarding little ol' him; he could wait as long as she needed him too.

Of course, he could always just enter the room and ask if this was a bad time, but all the other mentors in there would be staring right at him. The trained districts would certainly be wondering what someone like Darah Sommers was doing hanging around a Nine victor; the victors of Eight and Twelve would turn their noses up at him dealing with a Ten.

Or maybe he was overthinking everything. He never hung around the other victors; how would he know what they thought?

One thing was certain, though. Whoever in there was looking after Clarke, they would definitely know by now what he'd tried to do that day at the Sponsorship Office, explaining why Clarke didn't deserve Mati's funds. If only he'd arrived earlier, or talked faster, or anything! Then Van wouldn't have overheard everything. Truth be told, Rusk hadn't spoken to any of Nines since that unfortunate run-in. He didn't have to if he avoided them at every opportunity.

Another ten minutes had passed. Avisa was waiting. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and entered the room.

Thankfully, the door barely made any noise. Aside from the nice lady from Seven, who momentarily glanced up at him, none of the other mentors seemed to notice his entrance. At the District Nine station, Cia sat alone, apparently engrossed with the screen below her. Rusk ducked behind a nearby pillar. It'd be better for everyone if she didn't realize he was ever there.

On the other hand, he did need Darah to realize he was there, so he stared at her—she had to notice eventually, right? A minute passed, and then two. He waved at her for what felt like another full minute until she just happened to look in his direction, after which she whispered something to Palomina and got up, pushing her seat in after her.

"Sorry about the wait," she said, coming up the stairs. Though she wore her regular smile, the bags under her eyes said otherwise. "How are you?"

He glanced past her at the ring of mentors. Some of the others had noticed his presence. "A-Alright. You?"

"Something I planned with the kids isn't working out, but I'll get over it. C'mon. Let's go figure this whole thing out."

He nodded, heading for the doors. He'd be glad to get out of this room. His watch buzzed. The screen lit up—Your extension request for the funds of Mati Strye has been granted.

Immediately, he glanced back down at the mentors below. His eyes met Cia's. The woman's face was haggard; her eyes were sunken, ringed by what must've been sleepless nights. She stared back at him, hurt. Of course she would. Because he'd betrayed District Nine.

But District Nine hadn't been much of a home to him anyway, so he owed them nothing. He turned away and followed Darah out.

Kill Counter:
Ilithyia Aella (D2F): II
Ace Invidia (D3M): II
Adair Ryder (D7M): II
Clarke Brioche (D9F): II
Adora Noble (D1F): I
Ven Piersson (D1M): I
Eros Worshire (D2M): I
Virginia Bedford (D8F): I
Nevaeh Jiminez (D10F): I

A/N: Woah. It'd been five months. Sorry. Hopefully the next one doesn't take five more. I'm aiming for more like three weeks.

Predictions for the Feast? If any of y'all are still reading, I'd love to hear from you and know what you think!