Quick Note: Overseer is the D8 term for the trained tributes, because I hold to the idea Career is 12 only.

Day Twelve: Warmth

"Taffeta, please. I want to die. myself. Not like, not like." The hiccups are coming fast to Muslin's throat, it's all she can do to keep it down and not let the terrified wails building up inside her throat spill out onto the floor. She doesn't want to die. She's been a good girl. Followed every rule. Muslin came from up the hill she was blonde for goodness' sake. She shouldn't be trapped down here like an animal, waiting for her turn to die.

But she is. And she wants to end it properly, as herself. Muslin wants to make it quick, learn how to handle it. But Taffeta, of course she is, is telling Muslin no. Telling Muslin she's pretty, she has a chance. Fuck all chance, but a chance.

Muslin knows she's wrong. Muslin knows that the only girls with a chance are the girls who fight, and Muslin can't fight. That's why the bigger girls picked on her at school, called her names. Why Weff, for all their friendship and that one stolen kiss beneath a scraggly apple tree until an apple fell on her head, said he was going and she didn't even try to tell him no, push for him to stay.

Maybe that was why she was sent in. His pa was the chief reaper or whatever they called the guy in charge of printing slips for the Reaping, and though he'd said there were Peacekeepers watching how hard would it have been, really, to fuck with it? To cause issue and make sure that it would be Muslin Larochelle who was called?

Hopefully it wasn't that. But still, Muslin wants to die. Sure, the food is different from Eight, fills her belly and keeps her nice and toasty. Hot drinks and thick clothes and all kinds of things that means she isn't as cold with air conditioning rolling as when she was in a heated room back home. She doesn't have to trudge through slushy snow any more, doesn't have to sneak down in the night and take the blankets off the sofa because she'll return them in the morning papa, and he'll get angry if she doesn't.

She sobs through three days of training. Tries to learn, but she can only pick up a few things. Like how to hide herself, under leaves and brush and other things that stink and are foreign to a girl from Eight who would do anything if she just was allowed to go home. The closest she has to this is when the lawn is mown by papa with his mower. And that's not it. Still, it's a bit warmer under all the stuff, even if it is gross. It's safe, and drier.

Muslin muddles through the next few days. Continues to wear warm clothes when she isn't training, continues to learn how to start fires and have fun on the obstacle course and does some learning with a knife. Not because she has a chance, she still wants to make it end quickly. Taffeta's still trying to help, trying to offer advice, but Muslin is staunchly ignoring this like it's a promise of torment.

Because it is.

That terror lasts until Muslin looks around. Sees a thin blanket, matches, waiting on the ground metres from her. She doesn't step off the platform, waits the sixty seconds to

She has fire now. Fire always works. Fire will always keep you warm. Fire lets you sit beside it and warm your hands, warm and dry wet clothes where you trudged through mud and stagnant water and got everything to the knee soaked in your flight.

Fire draws in predators. Predators like the girl from One, who slinks towards her with a grin and that long knife like Muslin's the only thing that matters in the world. And now Muslin's very sure that she doesn't want to die, that dying is a big adventure she's not ready for.

Then One closes in, and there's a whimper from Muslin and the knife comes down. Cuts a bloody gash into her cheek and Muslin's screaming. She's trying to kick, to punch but she can't and One's whimpering pleas for Two to 'let her have a bit of fun with this one'.

Muslin doesn't find it fun, but she can feel warm blood. One's bringing down the knife over her eye, reversing course and stabbing it into Muslin's stomach when she's told that it wouldn't be fair to let One have three chances to do her thing in one day. It's all Muslin can do not to scream again, but she weakens and this one's even louder. Pierces through the forest, and she can hear moving animals, wildlife running and what must be birds taking flight.

Just like it isn't fair that now Muslin has hot blood filling her jacket, soaking her undershirt and keeping her warm as she sobs and the Overseers laugh, girl who'd stabbed her looking pleadingly at the boy from Two with big blue eyes. "I could still make it look so pretty, Cato! I could do so much and we'd get sponsors, and-" "Glimmer, no. I want Twelve. Dead. So we're going to handle this. Understand?"

A pouting nod, and 'Glimmer' leaves Muslin alone, bleeding in the soil. She swears she can hear footsteps, but now she's just whispering. Begging Mama, Papa to know that she was a good girl, that she did nothing wrong. Muslin's sobbing, whimpering, but nobody's coming to help her. No hovercraft is coming, no mutt to finish her off. The fire's kicked out before the Overseers leave, a final insult. A final cold hand grasping at her.

The boy comes back. One of them, the one hanging on the edge like a moth to clothes. Comes back, kneels down, takes her head. Lays it in his lap.

"I'm sorry." The knife slips down, cool and then warmth blossoms in her neck and she cries but no sound comes out.

The warmth lasts a handful of moments, before it fades.

Everything fades.