Denver Prewitt, 15
District Ten Male
(TW: vomiting)
His mouth still tastes like vomit when they dump him in a room in the Justice Building. He stays on the floor where they leave him, curling up on his side. No one is coming to see him. If Troy knows what's good for him, he'll have already run.
Denver knows what happened. He didn't get the tracker out quick enough. And Troy and Hildy—they weren't exactly receptive to the idea of ripping them out of their arms. If he'd just been faster, just torn out their trackers anyway…
No. There's no way this is happening. Denver is having a nightmare. He's had a lot of nightmares about this exact scenario. They don't usually feel this real, but he's dreaming. He has to be. He can't go back.
He imagines the Peacekeepers returning in a few minutes and taking him to the train. A different train, but still the same. There will be different people on the different train, two Victors who don't know the truth, and then they'll be in the Capitol. He'll stand on a chariot in a stupid outfit but Liesel won't be there anymore because she's dead. Hildy will be standing beside him, not two chariots ahead. He'll go to training and meet other kids, and he'll give another interview like he isn't going to die in the morning, and then. And then. And then.
No. It's not happening. There isn't going to be an arena, he isn't going back, none of this is real.
Maybe this is the afterlife. Maybe he drowned in that river after all, and he's being tortured for the people he killed. It would make sense, right? It couldn't happen to a better guy.
Denver laughs, just a tiny bit. There's that optimistic part of him again—the part that insists that maybe he could be the person he was before again. He hasn't lost his humor. He's just as dark and self-deprecating as ever, right? He could be like that again.
(He can't. Denver knows that he can't. There is no going back.)
They were supposed to be safe. When they were shipped out of the Capitol, they were promised that nothing would happen to them anymore. They were alive, and it was going to stay that way. Denver thinks he might be sick again.
He's going to die. There is no way he makes it out of the arena again. There will be no survivors this time, he's sure of it. The only way he leaves the arena this time is as a corpse. A real corpse, not just on the cusp of death. And Hildy. Hildy will be dead too. She'll be dead before him for certain with her injuries. She can barely run. She'll never escape a Career…
Denver will stick by her side until the very end. She's just about the only person on the planet who understands. He can't abandon her until he knows that she's gone, and even then he knows it will be a struggle. He'll have to stand there and watch as a monstrous Career carves her up, knowing that he can't save her…
Oh. Yep. He's going to be sick again. Denver lunges for the trashcan beside the door and holds onto it like it's his only lifeline until he's thrown up everything he's ever eaten. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gets up to pace.
They told them they would be safe. He isn't safe. He hasn't been safe since his name—his real name—was called at the Reaping. A year ago today. Only a year. It feels like a lifetime has passed, like Denver could never resemble the boy he was last year. Really, he thinks that boy was dead before he drowned in that river.
For the first time, Denver actually takes in his surroundings. It's just like the room last year, but not. The décor is different. The walls are red instead of blue. There's a couch instead of an armchair. But the room is the same. It's still the place where he last saw his family.
He wonders if Burton still hates him. He always thought he was nothing but a nuisance.
In a way, Denver is glad that they aren't here. He wouldn't know what to say to them. Hell, he barely knew a year ago. There's no way to say goodbye to the people you love.
He hopes he never has to say goodbye to Hildy. He hopes that she just dies, or he just dies, and that's that. Hildy is just about the only thing he has left. At the end of the day, Troy loved them, sure, but Denver has never quite been able to get over the fact that he chose this. A year ago today, Troy put his hand in the air at the Reaping and he chose this.
(A voice in his head always whispers that Troy didn't choose this. He wanted to be a Victor, not a survivor.)
It doesn't matter. They can't go back in time. There's no undoing any of this.
The door opens, startling Denver out of his thoughts. They must have realized that no one is coming to see them. He remembers having an hour to talk with his family last year. It's barely been a few minutes.
"Let's go," the faceless Peacekeeper says, and Denver considers refusing. He's already going to die, right? Might as well do it on his terms.
But, for better or for worse, Denver is, at heart, an optimist. There's a part of him that wants to believe that all of this is some horrible coincidence, that the Capitol hasn't found them, that everything could work out alright. He clings to that feeling. Maybe it will get him through his last days alive.
And imagine what Hildy would think. He can't do that to her.
(Besides, he knows that they wouldn't kill him for refusing to leave the room. They would just drag him to the train, and there's no dignity in that. Not that there's much dignity in Denver's life in general, but still. On the other hand, he already threw up live on national television. He can't really sink much lower.)
So, Denver follows the Peacekeeper out of the room, and leaves on the train he'll never return on.
Alastor Cousteau, 18
District Two Male
For a while, the room is quiet. Alastor sits on the couch by the window and waits. He's not really sure what he's waiting for. He said his goodbyes to his friends yesterday, wanting to leave this whole time open. Just in case, you know.
It's not that he expects his parents to come, or anything. He hasn't seen them since January, and he isn't really sure that he wants to. If anything, he thinks it would be more satisfying to have them come crawling back only once he's won.
Briefly, he wonders if anyone has come to see Cannon. He'll admit that he doesn't know as much about her as he would like to. They've spent most of their time together in the past six months, learning the ins and outs of the Games. But they don't talk about things that don't involve of the Games. Really, they don't talk about much at all.
Cannon has never mentioned a family. She's never really mentioned much of anything, though. But she doesn't really seem like the type to have a big, loving family.
And he wonders about Pylades, the reserve volunteer. Wonders if he's angry that Alastor didn't chicken out. At least he respected the system and didn't try to steal it from Alastor.
He just doesn't want to think about the last time he was here. He was sixteen, and it was Nyroc sitting in this chair. Nyroc promised that he would come home, that they had nothing to worry about, that he would see them soon.
No. He's not thinking about it. He doesn't need to. Thinking about Nyroc right now is pointless. Nyroc is going to come up plenty in the coming days, but for now, Alastor needs to keep him out of his thoughts.
There are more productive things to be thinking about right now. Such as, what the Career pack might look like. He wonders if they will get anything from District Seven. He knows they've had an established academy there for a while, but they so rarely produce volunteers. He supposes the culture just hasn't adapted from the outlier mindset to the career mindset.
Outliers see themselves as prey that have to pretend to be predators. Careers are predators, and they have no confusion about that. He thinks about Galen Keane's unfocused and wild technique, and wonders how that ever could have tied with Nyroc's practiced ease. There are some things that the academy cannot prepare you for, he supposes. Like desperation.
Damnit. He decided he wasn't going to think about Nyroc anymore, and by extension, he isn't going to be think about Galen Keane, either.
God, even his name makes Alastor's blood boil. The fact that Victory can so easily stolen from someone so deserving by a fucking nobody is the most maddening part of the Hunger Games. Alastor knows, logically, that the same thing could actually happen to him. But he's going to be better. He has to be better.
That way, when Alastor comes home, triumphant, vengeance fulfilled, his parents will finally see how wrong they were. And it will all be worth it.
He's sure it's going to be worth it.
He's so sure it's going to be worth it.
Maybe there's a part of him that isn't sure it's going to be worth it.
No. He's sure. His parents will see that they were wrong, and they will be so excited to have a Victor for a son that they'll forget about the rest. They'll forgive him for hitting his father, because Alastor will be a Victor. It will be okay. He knows it will be okay.
The door opens, startling Alastor out his thoughts. His two younger sisters race into the room, unaccompanied.
"Alastor!" Wilhemina says. She looks so small next to him. Wilhemina and Valentine are so much younger than him. Just twelve and ten. Sometimes, he wonders if Valentine will ever forget about Nyroc. "I'm sorry that it took so long. We had to convince Mom and Dad really hard to let us see you."
"I'm glad you did," Alastor says, gathering the two of them into a hug. "I'm so glad to see you."
"Are you going to come back?" Valentine asks.
Alastor shuts his eyes for a moment. "Of course I am."
"Nyroc said that too," Valentine says. "And he's gone."
"That's not going to happen to me," Alastor says. "I'm going to come home, and we'll get to live in an even cooler house. We'll all be famous! Won't that be amazing?"
"Yeah!" Valentine says. "So…you're really gonna come home?"
"Of course," Alastor says. He's sure that he means it.
It isn't lost on him that this is exactly what Nyroc said to them two years ago. He'll come home, they'll get a nice house, they'll all be famous. Everything will be great once he's a Victor. It's not a lie. Nyroc wasn't a liar. He was just wrong.
Alastor isn't going to be wrong. He won't let himself be wrong. He's going to go into the arena, kill those fuckers from District Eleven, and return triumphant. Everything will be fine once he comes home.
"I'm going to get us some revenge, too," Alastor says. "For Nyroc."
"Revenge?" Wilhemina says. "On who? His killer is already dead."
"District Eleven," Alastor says. "It doesn't matter who. They're going to pay."
Wilhemina stares at him, looking unimpressed. She just doesn't get it. He doesn't know why she doesn't want revenge for Nyroc's death like he does. Maybe she was just too young when he died.
"I believe in you!" Valentine says. "You're gonna win!"
Valentine is young enough that it might be not entirely real to her yet. Alastor knows that she understands the Hunger Games, but she's also just a kid. Ten years old.
"That's the spirit!" Alastor says, raising his hand for a high five. Valentine grins and smacks his hand. "I'm glad to have support from someone in our family, right?"
"Mom and Dad just don't get it!" Valentine says. "I want to be a Victor one day too. The Victors wear all of the coolest clothes and everyone at school loves them."
Why is there a part of Alastor that hurts when she says that? He's going out there to do exactly what Valentine is talking about.
"Just…" Wilhemina says, considerably less enthusiastic than Valentine. "Come home. Promise me that. Come home."
"I promise," Alastor says. "And I never break my promises."
"Hm," Valentine says. "Nyroc never broke his promises, too."
Colson McCalister, 18
District Twelve Male
Colson stumbles into the room, aiming for the couch but missing and landing on the floor. His heart is pounding, his vision is blurry, and he's so sure he's having a horrible nightmare. Any second now, he's going to wake up in his little house in the Seam, with Ashbie safely asleep in her bassinet and none of this will have been real. He pinches his arm. Nothing happens. He pinches it again. Nothing happens.
Of course he knows this is really happening. His nightmares aren't usually this coherent. It's just…he hadn't even considered this. He wasn't supposed to be worrying about the Reaping until Ashbie turned twelve. It was never supposed to happen to him.
He wasn't supposed to be Reaped.
Colson puts his head in his hands, mind racing. He's thinking about Ashbie, about himself, about Ashton, about that little girl that was Reaped alongside him.
It's echoing in his ears, the sound of his own name ringing through the square. He was holding Ashbie, even though Camber had offered to take her. It didn't matter, because he wasn't going to be Reaped, anyway. He had been so distracted thinking about that poor, tiny girl who had taken off running as soon as they called her name that he barely noticed when they said his. It was just horrible watching the Peacekeepers tackle that tiny girl to the ground like she was a dangerous criminal, and then suddenly everyone in the square is looking at him, too. Camber had ducked under the ropes to take Ashbie from him, because otherwise he would have stumbled to the stage with her still in his arms.
Colson squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to get it together. He needs to do this. He has to do this. Ashbie needs him to do this.
God, Ashbie. His only consolation is that she won't end up in the Community Home. She has Camber, and she has his parents, even if his mother wasn't the best. Anything would be better than the Community Home. At least he knows that Ashbie will always be loved.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the door opens. Camber rushes in, Ashbie in her arms. Colson immediately takes her from her, staring down at her little face that is so much like Ashton's like he will never see it again.
(It's because he might never see her again. He needs to commit every detail of his daughter to memory. He will need the memory to keep him moving where he is headed.)
"Oh, god," Camber whispers, standing above him. She sits down on the ground beside Colson, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay. We're going to be okay."
"We're going to be okay," Colson echoes. He needs to start convincing himself of that. "I'm going to be okay."
"I know you are," Camber says.
Colson shakes his head, just a bit, still staring down at Ashbie.
"No. Look at me." She grabs Colson's face and makes him look right at her. "You're gonna do this. You're going to go out there, and you're going to do whatever it takes to get back here, you understand me? Ashbie needs you to do this. Ashton needs you to do this."
"Yeah," Colson says. "I couldn't imagine doing anything else."
But then he thinks about that little girl. The tiny girl with the dark hair and the big, sad eyes, who tried to escape when they called her name. Could he hurt her? If it was just the two of them left in the arena, could he make himself hurt her?
Who would he be if he did? There hasn't been a Victor in District Twelve in almost fifty years. If he comes home, he'll be a District hero. All of the kids will look up to him. He's always prided himself on being a positive role model. What will those kids think if they see him butchering other kids just like them?
No. He needs to start reframing his thoughts. If he's going to get back to Ashbie, he's going to have to do whatever it takes, no matter how wretched it makes him feel. Ashbie needs him. This isn't about his life, not really. It's about his daughter, who can't lose both of her fathers before she's even six months old.
She's still so small. Only three months old. If Colson leaves today and never comes home, she'll never even remember he existed. She'll have no concept of him as a real person, just like she is already destined to with Ashton. She needs to know one of her dads.
Colson holds her closer to his chest. She's sleeping peacefully in his arms, and he knows he will do whatever it takes to make sure she doesn't have to stop. He can't allow him to entertain any alternatives. It doesn't matter that he couldn't make himself hurt that little girl. Even if it did come down to the two of them, they wouldn't have to hurt each other. They could both go home.
But there will be others. He thinks about the last year, the group of young girls who slowly dwindled in one Victor. What would he have done if he was in that arena? Deep in his bones, Colson knows he couldn't hurt them. But he's going to have to. He's going to have hurt people, even people who are his age.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is Ashbie, and Ashbie needs her dad. She needs him to be alive to raise her.
"I wish I had a camera," Camber says.
"What?" Colson says. "Why?"
"I wish I could capture this moment forever," Camber says, and neither of them say it, but they both know why. It's so Ashbie could have a picture of herself with her father. "I don't want to forget it."
It's a lie, of course. Colson wants to forget that this ever had to happen. He never wanted to see the inside of the rooms where the tributes say their final goodbyes. If—when—if he comes home, he never wants to have to think about this moment again. But for Camber…no. He can't think about it. He can't.
"I'm going to come home," Colson says.
"I know you are," Camber says. "Until you do, I'll keep Ashbie safe. I won't let anything happen to her."
There's another unsaid thing hanging in the air—that Camber has just offered to care for Ashbie indefinitely. It's not that Colson had ever thought different, but to hear it almost said aloud…no. It's not a useful thought. It's pointless. It's only going to make this harder than it already is.
He just has to go out there, and do it. Do everything he has to do and not let himself think about. (Colson isn't very good at not thinking about things.)
"Don't let her forget me," Colson says quietly, so quietly it's almost inaudible. Acknowledging it anymore than that might end him.
"She'll know that everything you did, you did for her," Camber promises.
It's supposed to be a reassurance, Colson knows. But he thinks about his little district partner, those kids from last year, and wonders what his daughter might think of him if she knew what he might have to do in her name.
Desdemona "Des" Lacroix, 16
District Six Female
There is something inside her that is whispering, maybe this is going to be a good thing.
When her name was called, all Des really felt was some vague kind of relief. It's a reprieve, if nothing else. A few weeks where she makes her own decisions.
Now, as she gingerly sits on a couch in the Justice Building, she allows herself to imagine a world where she wins.
It's not like she'll be made to do anything in the arena that she hasn't already done in Six. She's killed children younger than twelve before, and she has always survived it. Even if she lies awake in her cot at night, staring blankly at the ceiling as if she could forget their faces. She has survived it in the past, and she'll survive it in the future.
Because, maybe, if she goes out there and does what she's been doing for years, she'll never have to do it again. Victors have all of the money they could ever imagine. She could pay off her debt to Callahan and still have thousands of caps left over. If she wins, she'll never have to hurt another person again.
She's suffered for years, waiting for the day she gets her payout. And here it is. The world is rewarding her in its own fucked up way. She just has to do a few more horrible things, and then everything will be okay.
The door swings open. For a moment, Des thinks it will be her parents. She wants so desperately to believe that they would come to say goodbye, even if they haven't seen each other in so long.
It's not her parents. It's Callahan.
Des is on her feet in an instant. She doesn't believe in much anymore, but Des wants to believe that he brings good news. "Is it over?" she says. "Am I free?"
"Of course not," Callahan says in a tone that implies she was stupid to think so. Des looks down at her feet. "It will be several weeks before you return. What did you think would happen to your family in the mean time?"
Des sucks in a breath, still staring at her shoes. She imagines her family being evicted from their home, starving to death on the streets. Just like before. Except this time, Des might not be around to save them. But that's alright. She can do Callahan's bidding for another few weeks, and when she doesn't die in the arena, everything will have to turn out alright. "But after?"
Callahan scoffs. "I don't see why anything should have to change."
All of her hopes come crashing down. It was foolish of her to hope at all.
"But," Des says. "But."
But what? But she'd be a Victor, with more money than she could ever count? But she'd be untouchable, arguably more powerful than Callahan? But her debt would finally be paid?
Des doesn't say anything. She doesn't have anything to say. She never does. Her opinions and her objections die in her throat, and Callahan nods in satisfaction.
"If you don't want your family to suffer in the meantime, you will do everything in your power to emerge victorious," Callahan says.
"Right," Des says.
He starts for the door, seemingly happy that Des is capitulating once again. It occurs to Des that could never see him again after this. She could go out there and just—get unlucky, and this would be the last she ever saw of the man who has saved her life and made it hell, all at the same time.
There's some kind of feeling in her chest, but Des doesn't know its name. It's not sadness, not really. Des knows sadness.
Maybe it's just knowledge. Maybe it's just knowing that Callahan has been the most persistent presence in her life since she was a child, and she might die next week.
Des doesn't know what comes over her. The ticking clock emboldens her, perhaps. Before Callahan can leave, she bursts out, "What if I refuse?"
There's a moment where Callahan actually looks surprised. Des has never done something like that before, but she's never been so close to death before, either. She's certainly courted the reaper before, sure, but never before has it been so guaranteed. This isn't what she deserves—Des deserves a far worse punishment than dying in the Hunger Games. The Hunger Games is where innocent children go to die and maniacs go to kill. Des isn't either. She should hang for what she's done. Des knows it, and some part of her even wants it. Not because she wants to die, but because she wants justice to be served.
Callahan quickly schools his expression, seemingly guessing that Des is nothing but a dying girl lashing out. He laughs and says, "Why ever would you do that?"
Des doesn't have an answer. Saying it's because what they do is wrong feels almost…hypocritical. Des has done everything he has asked of her without question until now. She has no excuse to suddenly have changed.
But she's never said no to him before. Maybe she should live a little.
Callahan laughs again. "Listen, Lacroix—you don't get to say no. You have a debt to be paid, and your current job is to pay me by winning the Hunger Games. You understand?"
Des is back to staring at her shoes. She should say no. She should say no. She should say no.
"I understand," Des says. "I…apologize for my…lapse in judgment."
She only hears Callahan scoff. His shoes scuffle on the carpet as he leaves. The door swings open and shut, and Des swears it's darker in here than before. She has always thought of Callahan as a blackhole, sucking light and life out of every room he's in, but suddenly, she desperately wishes she wasn't alone. She wishes her family would come, wishes she could see her parents one last time, before she goes out there and kills more people in Callahan's name.
Des revises her fantasy. In this world, when she wins, she comes home and nothing changes. She doesn't move her family into a nice, big house in the Victors' Village. She doesn't attempt to atone by improving the lives of those around her. She goes back to her tiny room in Callahan's basement and nothing ever changes.
That's all her future holds unless she can make herself do something about it.
Roland Richardson, 18
District Eight Male
Roland finds himself wondering just how random the Reapings actually are.
It was always the position of M74 that all of the Reapings were rigged. No matter who was chosen, M74 insisted they put into the arena for a reason. Those reasons were never particularly clear, but they firmly believed the Capitol would never leave it up to chance. Roland thought that was ridiculous. Far too many tributes were just random, regular kids to have been expressly targeted.
But this. This has him wondering.
He can't figure out why the Capitol would want to send him, a supposed loyalist who sold out a rebel cell, into the Games. He knows there has to be a reason, but it's not forthcoming. Perhaps they know that Roland has no real loyalties and feared that he might sell them out next. If they knew anything about him, they would know he would never do that.
Roland stays standing, looking out the window onto the street below. The window is covered in bars, which Roland might find offensive if the rest of the building's windows weren't also barred. He should have had bars put on the windows of his house; that would stop bricks from being thrown inside.
Wait. The brick explains the whole thing. Somehow, rebels must have rigged his Reaping to get rid of him. Yes, it's the only thing that makes sense. The District Eight officials would never want him dead; he was with them, not against them. But the rebels…well, there was never any predicting what anyone in M74 might decide to do to make a statement. This absolutely seems like it would be in their wheelhouse.
Roland wonders if Pam will come to say goodbye. If she did, he could ask her. He's sure she would know. Pam still runs with that crowd—what's left of it, anyway.
The door opens, causing Roland to jump. He turns away from the window. It's not Pam. He has no idea who the guy even is.
"Are you in the wrong room?" Roland suggests evenly.
"I was sent by your sister," the man says, and it clicks. Roland has seen this man before—he was in M74. Less of a zealot than many, he remembers, but he can't place the man's name. "She wants me to give you this."
He takes something out his pocket. Roland's heart stops.
"How did you get this?" he demands. The last place he ever saw that necklace, it was around the neck of his dying brother. He remembers the fire from the bombs glinting off of the tarnished silver as he tried to pack Hawk's intestines back into his body. When he was forced to flee the scene, he left Hawk's body and everything that came with it behind. There was no time to take anything, and he wouldn't have wanted to, anyway.
He hated Hawk for a bit. Eventually, that hatred faded into something else. Resentment, perhaps. Resentment for the fact that Hawk left him here all alone. But he doesn't miss him. He doesn't.
"Your sister wants you to have it," the man says, as if that somehow answers Roland's question.
Roland stares at the necklaces hanging from the man's hand. He remembers the last time he ever saw Pam, too—it was over a year ago now. Not long after he gave up M74. He had just bought his house, and Pam came over to confront him. In retrospect, he should have waited a little longer before using his newfound wealth. Certainly, that was what gave him away.
Against his better judgment, Roland had wanted Pam to stay with him. His house was empty and cold no matter the time of year, but it was so much nicer than the place she was staying back then. Pam called him a killer and said she would never live in a house purchased in blood. And she left. Roland tells himself he never misses her.
He tells himself that he is still angry with her, too. He tells himself that all of the time.
"If she wanted me to have it, she should have given it to me herself," Roland says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Pam isn't ready to see you yet," the man says. "But she really wants you to have this."
Roland stares at the necklace some more. Someone must've cleaned it. There was so much blood when Hawk died.
"She said," the man says. "She said to tell you to be brave. Like Hawk was."
Roland scoffs. "Hawk wasn't brave. Hawk was stupid."
Hawk was killed by his own bombs, stupidly set off to destroy people's livelihoods. Roland told him a thousand times that they needed to get out of this. They had already lost their parents to a lost cause. Roland didn't want to lose anyone else over it.
And then Hawk was gone, and nothing felt like it mattered anyway. It didn't matter that Pam hated him. He had money and he had freedom from M74. That was all that counted.
He doesn't need Hawk's idiocy following him into the arena. He doesn't want any part of Hawk with him if he dies.
(He does. He was with Hawk when he died. It only seems fair that Hawk will be with him when he dies.)
"Your sister's gonna be the last one left," the guy says. "Just take the necklace for her sake."
"You think I'm screwed?" Roland says. He hasn't thought about his chances yet, won't let himself think about his chances.
For the first time since the man entered the room, Roland really gets the feeling that he hates him. "You're a coward. Cowards don't win the Hunger Games."
Roland glares at him. "If I take the stupid necklace, will you leave?"
"Uh, yeah. Of course."
Roland snatches the chain from his hand and points to the door. The man wastes no time and is gone within seconds.
Pam's gonna be the last one left. He cups the necklace in his hands. It's a simple silver chain, no charms or anything. He doesn't remember where Hawk got it, only that he wore it most of the time. Hawk told him once that it was a good luck charm. It couldn't have given him too much luck, since he died wearing it.
Carefully, Roland puts the necklace on. It's not like having Hawk and Pam here with him, but maybe it's somewhere close.
a/n: What up, happy 2025. Hasn't really been that happy so far if you know what I mean, but a new chapter being done is happy to me. Next chapter will be the train rides with Diggory, Lev, Eike, Fergus, and Fetu. It will happen when it happens.
-Ben