Alastor Cousteau, 18

"It's all up to me now."

The feeling that descended upon the Cousteau household when Nyroc died still hasn't left. It's like Nyroc's ghost is still haunting the halls, always just out of Alastor's reach. In the dark of the night, when Alastor is home from Stander and alone in his room, sometimes he swears he can still hear Nyroc's voice. He's whispering scary stories, or he's complaining about homework, or doing anything but talking about the fact that he's dead.

Alastor always finds himself wishing he could talk to Nyroc, just one last time. Their five minutes before Nyroc was whisked away on the train wasn't enough.

He always wonders what he would say to him, but today he knows exactly what it would be.

"I'm following in your footsteps," he would say. The words tumble out of his mouth of their own volition. "I'm going to volunteer in the summer. Please, tell me how I can avoid your fate."

The other trainees aren't scared. Not in the slightest. In fact, they all think Alastor is weird for being nervous.

Apparently, they've all forgotten what happened in the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Second Hunger Games. But Alastor hasn't. Alastor never will, as long as he lives.

The house is quiet and dark and Alastor's parents aren't home. His sisters are down the hall, shut up in the parlor, probably making a mess. Alastor is standing alone in the hallway, asking a ghost for advice.

"Please, Nyroc," he says into the shadows in the hallway. "Tell me what to do. Hell, tell me what not to do. I don't want to die like you did."

He's pretty sure that Nyroc would say, "Well, then don't volunteer, idiot."

But Nyroc volunteered, and Nyroc swore he would come home. But he wasn't a liar—he was just wrong.

And in the summer, Alastor is going to sit in the same room Nyroc did, and tell the exact same lies to his sisters that Nyroc did. But they won't be lies this time, not if Alastor can help it. His parents already buried one child. They don't need to do it again.

Nyroc's voice is echoing in his head, although it's not the same as what haunts Alastor in his dreams. "So, don't volunteer. Simple as that."

"It's not that easy," Alastor says to no one. "If I don't volunteer, the entire District will brand me as a coward. I'm not a fucking coward. So I'm going to volunteer, and I'm going to succeed where you—failed."

His voice cracks. It's wrong to say that Nyroc failed. He didn't fail—he was killed. He was killed by some fucking District Eleven scum.

Alastor shakes his head. He's halfway to losing his mind already, and he hasn't even volunteered yet. It's just been a long day, that's all. He spent the entire day sparing with the other eligible trainees, giving his all for the honor that is now his.

"Just…tell me what you would do. You always knew better than I did," Alastor says to the ceiling, and, predictably, the ceiling does not answer. He shakes his head again and walks downstairs. He needs sleep. He needs a shower.

But first, the front door opens. His parents, both happily drunk, stumble inside. They are both dressed to the nines, although his father's tie is askew and his mother's makeup is smeared.

"Oh, Alastor!" his father exclaims. "You really should have been there tonight, my boy. I made an incredible deal with a certain Mr. Posner to purchase his mine—the company is expanding!"

"You know why I wasn't there," Alastor says tightly.

"Hm?" says his father, oblivious as always.

"Today was the tournament, remember?" Alastor says. "I was competing for the honor the volunteering in the summer."

The happiness drains out of his parents' faces. His mother puts her coat down nervously and says, "Well? How did it go?"

He can see it in their eyes—they're begging him to say he did terribly, that the spot went to Polaris or Wolf or Graecus.

"I got the spot," Alastor says in a small voice. "I'm volunteering this year."

A vein in his father's neck starts to tremble. "No. You're not."

"Yes. I am."

"I won't allow it," his father says. "What about you, dear? Will you allow it?"

"Absolutely not," his mother agrees. "We tried that once. And we lost…we lost…"

"We all know what we lost!" Alastor exclaims. "So I'm going to volunteer, and it'll be like our…redemption. Yeah! The Cousteau family's redemption. Or vengeance. Whatever you want to call it."

"No," his father says, and he looks remarkably sober. "I will not lose another child to the Games."

"You won't!" Alastor says, even though he doesn't quite believe it. "I'm going to succeed where Nyroc failed."

"Don't say his name," his mother whispers. "Don't—" Her shoulders start to shake, and she takes her handkerchief out of her pocket and starts to delicately cry into it.

"Oh, now look what you've done! You've made your mother cry!" his father cries. "No child of mine will volunteer for the Hunger Games, ever again, do you understand me?"

Alastor lifts his head in defiance. "No. I'm going to volunteer. It's my spot, it's my honor, and you can't stop me!"

"Dad, what's going on?" one of his sisters says from the top of the stairs.

"Go to your room, honey," his father says, seemingly trying to put on a calm face.

"But, Dad—"

"Go to your room, Wilhelmina! The adults are talking!"

"So, you agree I'm an adult!" Alastor says. "As an adult, I can make my own decisions. And I decide to volunteer for the goddamn Hunger Games like I've been training to do for my entire life!"

"You will listen to me," his father says, voice cold and calm. "I only have one son left, and I will not let you run off and get yourself killed like your brother—"

His mother cries harder at the mention of Nyroc, and his father takes a second to try to comfort her. All the while, he glares daggers at Alastor. Finally, he says, "You should be ashamed of yourself. Coming into the house with all of this talk of going into the Games, less two years after your brother was…was…"

"He was killed, Dad!" Alastor barks. "Stop dancing around it, and just say it! He was killed by some fucker from District Eleven. And you know what? When I get into the arena, I'll take out the District Elevens, first thing. I'll make them pay for their District's transgressions."

"And now he's talking of vengeance!" his father exclaims. "Do you even hear yourself, Alastor? Who do you think you are?"

"The Victor of the next Hunger Games," Alastor says, even though he can hear his trainer saying in the back of head, "Cockiness kills just as much as ineptitude."

His father looks him up and down, still cradling his mother against his side, and says, "Get out of my house."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get out of my house."

"You can't—you're kicking me out?"

His father nods once, sharply. "Until you decide you're going to put your family and your safety above your need for vengeance and "redemption", you are not welcome in this house."

Alastor clenches his hands into fists. Anger vibrates through his body and then—his fist is connecting with his father's face and the whole world is caving in around him. Why doesn't his father understand? Why can't he see that Alastor has to prove to the world that he can do this?

Because he can. He can do this. Even if Nyroc couldn't. Even if everyone agreed Nyroc was more skilled than him. Even if Nyroc was better than him.

Alastor is nothing if not determined.

His fist slams into his father's nose, knocking the man off of his feet. His mother starts to scream and his sisters run down the stairs screaming too and Nyroc's ghost is watching him and judging him and it's raining outside.

The porch is cold and wet and the rain is unseasonable for January. The door slams in his face and Alastor is left fuming on porch. He stands there for a moment, thinking maybe the door will reopen and they can all reconcile.

It doesn't open. Finally, Alastor says, "Fine! I don't need your approval anyway."

And just like that, Alastor is all alone.

He starts down the street, away from the house where Nyroc's ghost is still watching him, and he has the urge to spit on the ground. Why would Nyroc be haunting the house, anyway? If anything, he should be haunting the arena where he died. Or the Tribute Graveyard.

Nyroc is dead. He can't help Alastor anymore. He can't tell him what to do or how to solve his problems. So Alastor will do it himself.

The next time his family sees him, he'll be on the stage in front of the Justice Building, proudly declaring his intention to win the Hunger Games. And when he comes home with a crown on his head, they'll come crawling back to him.

But first, he's got some revenge to get and some tributes to kill.


Denver Prewitt, 15

"I don't know what you're talking about."

(TW: Self-harm)

Every morning, the first thing Denver does is look in the mirror. It's his ritual, one of the few things that keeps him sane in the land of mind-numbing boredom that is the District Ten Community Home.

Every morning, Denver stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror and catalogues all of the reasons it's not quite right.

His hair is red. His eyes are green. His jaw is round. His nose is pointed. If Denver stares for long enough, he can almost pretend it's just part of growing up, not the work of a back-alley Capitol plastic surgeon.

He can almost pretend that that is his face staring back at him, not the green eyes of a stranger.

And every morning, Denver will step out of the bathroom and greet Hildy, and he'll catalogue everything off about her too. Her hair is blonde. Her eyes are brown. Her cheeks are pronounced. Her jaw is sharp. She walks like every step causes her pain.

Maybe it does. Denver has never asked. Hildy has never told.

Then they'll join the throngs of Community Home kids heading to school. The two of them will walk side by side and pretend they can't hear what their classmates are talking about. As the next Hunger Games draws nearer, all of their classmates are stuck on the topic of the last one.

When they get to school he'll write the name Denver Prewitt at the top of his papers, but that's not quite right either. His name used to be something else, back when his hair was brown and his nose was round and his hands were clean.

And he'll sit through classes about raising livestock and proper butchering techniques and pretend this is what he's been learning for his entire life. He'll sit at his desk and live the life of someone else, someone who is named Denver and has brown hair and a round nose and clean hands.

But Denver—because that's his name now, even if it wasn't always—will stare at his fingers and remember a time when he looked down and only saw hands, not the horrible things he had done with them.

If he stares for too long, he'll see a bloodied key clutched in his fingers. He'll smell metallic memories and hear running water and it will be like he never left.

School will get out, and Denver and Hildy will walk back to the Community Home, where the television will be on. They'll be playing reruns of the most recent Victory Tour, and Denver will watch Ashe Illyrian gets to live and keep her name too.

Then they'll go visit Troy, who lives in a trashy apartment down the road, and Denver will catalogue all of the things wrong with him too.

His hair is blonde. His eyes are blue. His skin is freckled. His jaw is heart-shaped. There's a lump on his arm, where the tracker didn't go in right and—

Denver lifts his head from where he had been staring at the counter and meets the stranger's green eyes in the mirror. Troy's tracker. Troy still has his tracker.

Denver still has his tracker.

They promised before they shipped them off that the trackers were disabled. Denver stares down at his forearm, where he can just make out the disturbed bit of skin where the tracker rests. He swears it's buzzing, humming, handing him the telltale signs that it's still working on a silver platter.

What if the Capitol is tracking him right now? What if they were lying and the trackers were never disabled and they want the Capitol to find them? Peacekeepers could be right outside, just about to attack him and drag him back to the arena. Denver's ears start ringing and all he can think is that he needs to get it out of his arm.

There's nothing suitable on the bathroom counter but there's extra razorblades stored under the sink. Denver picks one up and nicks the tip of his finger, but it doesn't matter. He needs the tracker out, right now, and there is nothing that is going to stop him. If he leaves the tracker under his skin for one more second, it'll burn a hole in his flesh.

And then he'll have to tell Hildy and Troy, and help them get rid of their trackers too. But it will be okay because then the Capitol won't be able to find them and they won't be able to send them back to the arena.

Denver stands in front of the mirror, watching a stranger take a razorblade to his skin and dig into his own flesh. The face that scrunches up in pain is too round, covered in too many freckles. Denver briefly wonders how long it will take until the stranger becomes him, until this face is his and this name is his and who he used to be really does die.

The tracker is small, white, and covered in blood. Denver drops it in the sink, debating what to do with it now. It needs to be destroyed, but how? He could simply smash it under his boot right now, which would probably be satisfying. But if he did something more drastic, like setting it on fire, it would make good and sure it was permanently ruined. He doesn't spend very much time thinking about it, because the wound in his arm catches his eye.

He managed to carve a small crater into his forearm. It's dripping blood onto the countertop.

He's pretty sure it hurts, but he's also pretty sure that the wound belongs to the stranger in the mirror and not him. He's just lifting a finger to dig at the wound when the door opens with a bang.

"Denver? What in Panem are you doing in here?"

It's Hildy. At the very least, it's Hildy.

Denver turns away from the mirror and shows Hildy the crater on his arm. "Look, Hildy. I got rid of the tracker."

Hildy stares at the wound in horror and says, "Why would you do that?"

"They were tracking me. They were going to find us."

"They weren't," Hildy says gently. "Don't you remember? The trackers were disabled as soon as we were out of the…"

She trails off, because neither of them know who might be listening.

"Doesn't it hurt?" she finally seems settle on.

Denver glances at the wound, now dripping blood onto the grimy tile floor. "I think so."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure."

Hildy seems, impossibly, more horrified. "Come here, let's clean that up." She closes the door and locks it, and sets about berating Denver about being more careful.

"You should be very, very glad that it was me who walked in on you," she says as she digs through the cabinets for a first aid kit. The one she finds looks like it's at least ten years old. "Imagine what would have happened if Matron McCole had been the one to find you."

Denver tries to imagine it and gives up. He doesn't have the energy for this shit.

"You should probably get in the shower," Hildy says. She sprays antiseptic on the crater. "What did you use to make this, anyway?"

Denver points to the bloodied razorblade in the sink. "We need to destroy the tracker."

"Well, now that it's out of your arm where anyone could find it, yes we do," Hildy says, exasperated. "You need to shower, though. You can't walk out of here with blood all over you. People will ask questions."

"They'll probably do more than ask questions."

"Stop changing the subject. Take a shower, Denver."

Denver's left eye twitches. Hildy should know better than to suggest that—she should know what happened to him. She knows how he died.

"Hildy," Denver begins, but finds he doesn't know what to say. He never knows what to say anymore. "Um. You remember…"

Hildy finally looks up from where she's bandaging his arm and says, "What? You can't spend the rest of your life cleaning yourself with a damp rag, Denver. You haven't actually bathed in six weeks. And before you say anything, yes, I remember how you died." Her tone drops. "I remember how all of us died."

Denver is reminded of a day a few months ago when Hildy shattered a teacup against a wall. At the time, he hadn't connected the dots, but eventually it had occurred to him what must have happened to her. It explained her stiff way of walking, the injuries she was healing from when they were still in the Capitol…

"It's just…the Reaping." Denver fiddles with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. "What if it's one of us, Hildy?"

"Oh, please. What are the odds of that?"

Denver looks down at his lap, trying to convince himself he believes her. "Heh. Yeah. What are the odds?"

There's a moment of silence before Denver decides he can't make himself believe her. Both of their names are in the bowls, and they both had bad enough luck to get Reaped once. "But what if it is one of us?"

"We can play the what if game all day long, Denver," Hildy says. "There's no use in it. We're here to stay safe and stay out of the way, and so we're going to do that. Until they need us, we're going to be happy with what we've been given and be grateful that we were the ones they were able to save, okay?"

"I guess," Denver says. The wound on his arm is starting to hurt now. "Do we have any pain medication around here?"

"Seriously?"

He shrugs. "Thought it was worth a shot."

Hildy cleans up the bathroom, wiping away the bloodstains on the tile, while Denver wipes away the bloodstains on his skin. Then, they go outside and smash the tracker onto the curb until there's nothing left. Somehow, Denver feels a little bit freer. At least there is one less mark of the Capitol on his skin now.

And Hildy's right, anyway. The Reaping will come in six weeks, and as soon as it's over, the anxiety buzzing under his skin will go away for another year. The Capitol will never get its hands on him again. Denver can convince himself of that.


Colson McCalister, 18

"Family comes first."

Everything happens early in District Twelve. People get married early. People have kids early.

People die early, too.

It's not that Colson is learning this for the first time. All of his young life in the Seam was marred by sudden deaths of playmates or their parents. Everyone knew someone who starved or got sick or…died in a mine explosion.

There's a baby in Colson's arms—his baby, his daughter, he reminds himself—and his husband is dead.

It's amazing. It takes nine months for a life to come into being. It takes only a second for it to be snuffed out.

There's not enough left of Ashton to bury, and there's not enough money for an empty coffin. Colson was barely able to shell out enough money to get him a headstone in the District cemetery.

Colson holds his daughter closer to his chest and pretends that he's anyway but here. He pretends that in a little while he'll go home, where Ashton will be waiting for him after a long shift in the mines, and they'll hug their daughter and be so glad that everything turned out okay.

He only pretends for a few seconds, because pretend hurts even more than reality. He'll never have that again. He'll never be able to go home to Ashton again. They'll never get to raise their daughter together.

Ashbie is six days old. It's been eight days since Ashton died. He never even got to meet her.

Colson holds Ashbie closer to his chest and gathers up the courage to read the inscription on the gravestone.

Ashton McCalister

y. 133-154

If Colson had the money, he would have added something more personal. Beloved husband. Or maybe, beloved father.

It's hard to think that it's only been a week. Just eight days. Barely any time has passed since he and Ashton were excitedly discussing baby names, arguing over whether the baby would be a boy or girl, and wondering just who their child would be when they grew up.

Colson holds Ashbie impossibly closer to his chest. He never wants to let go of her. Maybe if he does, she'll be ripped away from him too.

(It's a possibility he hasn't allowed himself to entertain. The infant mortality rate is terribly high in the Seam.)

"Colson? How did I know I'd find you here?"

"Camber," Colson says without turning around. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she says. Colson finally turns to look at her. Her skin is pale and there's dark bags under her eyes. The past week has been hard on all of them, but Camber is the only one who gave birth since Ashton died.

"You should have stayed home," Colson says. "You look sick, are you…okay?"

"Are you okay?" Camber says in lieu of a real answer.

When Colson doesn't respond, instead just looking down at the sleeping baby in his arms, she says, "And are you sure it's a good idea to have a baby out here? There's still a lot of coal dust in the air."

"There's always coal dust in the air," Colson says quietly. Still, he hadn't thought about that. What if the coal dust causes Ashbie to…pass away? "Maybe I should take her inside—"

Camber puts a hand on his shoulder, directing him back toward the grave. "It's okay, Colson. We're all going to be fine."

"Yeah," Colson says, although he doesn't believe it.

After a few beats of silence, Camber says, "Why are you here, though? I thought you didn't want to come see the grave."

"I…wanted to introduce Ashton to his daughter."

"Oh."

The silence that stretches between them is tense. It never used to be. Growing up, Colson and Camber were thick as thieves and it carried into adulthood. But the last week has been the worst (yet somehow, best) week of his life. His husband died and his daughter was born. The emotions are conflicting, and he hates knowing that his daughter's birthday will always be tainted with the death of one of her fathers.

"He would have loved her, you know," Camber says.

"He did. He already loved her, the moment he knew she existed," Colson says. "I took an earlier shift that day. Because I wanted to come home early and check on you. If I hadn't…"

"Don't play that game, Colson," Camber says. "You didn't. So Ashbie still has one dad. That's what matters, right?"

"Right," Colson says, and almost feels like it's true. "She deserves the world."

"She does," Camber says.

Both of them know that they cannot give Ashbie the world. Not in the Seam. Not in District Twelve. Not in Panem.

"Are you worried about the Reaping?" Camber asks after a moment. "It's only a few months away."

"What?" For a moment, Colson forgets that he's eighteen. After the week he's had, he feels so much older than that. "No. Not really. Not until Ashbie turns twelve."

Camber just nods and looks down at Ashbie. "She really is an adorable baby."

"Yeah." Colson looks down at Ashton's gave again, reading the inscription over and over again. He wants to remember exactly what it looks like, because he's not sure he'll ever be able to come back here. This is the last piece of Ashton in the world—aside from Ashbie, that is.

She's Ashton's daughter. He can see it in the shape of her little jaw, the point on her nose, the little whisps on brown hair on her head. When she grows up, she's going to be the spitting image of him.

It might hurt to see so much of Ashton's face in Ashbie's. Or maybe it will make him happy to see a bit more of Ashton in the world.

Ashbie wakes up and starts to fuss. "I should probably head home," Colson says, trying to sooth Ashbie at the same time. "There's a lot of work to do."

Camber nods and bids him goodbye. Colson starts to leave the cemetery, glancing back at Camber as he goes. She's still standing by Ashton's grave, so Colson leaves her to pay her respects in peace.

He walks quickly through the merchant district, having gotten Ashbie to sleep again, and begins to weave his way through the Seam. He's only a couple houses away from his own when the neighbor's little kids rush up to him.

"Oh my gosh, is that him?" Lianna exclaims.

"I want to see! I want to see!" Caroline cries.

Colson smiles at the group and kneels. "Her name is Ashbie," he says. "Be careful with her—I just got her to go back to sleep."

"We'll be careful!" Harrison insists. "Can we play with her?"

"I'm afraid she's a bit young for that," Colson says. "You'll have to wait a few years."

Harrison and his younger siblings groan in protest.

"I want to hold! Can I hold her?" Caroline, the eldest, says.

"I'm not sure you're old enough for that," Colson says, but he's smiling and the little kids' excitement is enough to make him forget for a few minutes.

"I am so old enough! I'll be twelve next month!"

She'll be Reaping age next month. Colson can't imagine what it feels like when your first child turns twelve.

"So you will," he says, and carefully hands her Ashbie, trying to coach her on how to hold her best.

The group of kids fuss over Ashbie for a few minutes, and Colson watches them fondly. Only a moment later, he's reminded of that the fact that he wanted a big family. He wanted Ashbie to have little siblings to run around the Seam with.

"Colson?" little Felix asks. "Are you okay?"

He puts on a smile for the kid and takes Ashbie back from Caroline. "I'm alright, buddy. It's just…been a long week."

"Newborns are lot of work!" Caroline says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," Colson says, as if that's the only thing bothering him. "They are. But I wouldn't trade her for the world."

The kids' mother calls them into the house, and they all say goodbye to Colson and Ashbie. Colson walks the rest of the way home, and is greeted by no one when he opens the door. It's going to be like that for the rest of his life.


Fergus Pickard, 12

"I don't want to be known as just the funny kid at school and the orphanage and be slowly forgotten. I want to be remembered as someone who was somebody's friend and who made his mark on the world."

The square is bustling as the afternoon turns to evening, and Fergus has half the mind to get back up and go again. But he's cold and he already exhausted all of his good material, and it was worth it, too. Almost thirty caps—more than he's ever made in one day. The people in the square must be feeling generous because it's Capitolmas, and on Capitolmas, you're supposed to give to the less fortunate so that the blessings of the Capitol can shine on them, too.

He has enough caps to buy one of the boys in his dormitory a new blanket, because he knows how cold it gets at night without one. He bets Calloway will be his friend if he gives him a new blanket.

And he'll have money left over to buy that doll Nixie wants so bad. It'll be perfect. He's finally going to give the kids at the Community Home a reason to celebrate Capitolmas. The tradition is to exchange gifts on Capitolmas to remind each other of the benevolence of the Capitol, but the kids in the Community Home never get any presents. This year, Fergus is going to change that. He may have spent most of Capitolmas out in the cold busking in the square, but it's all going to worth it when he gives the other kids their gifts.

That will make them all be friends with him. He's sure of it.

Fergus sits on a bench in the square, watching the crowds go by and giddily counting his caps over and over again. The temperature drops with the sun, and Fergus has barely any winter clothes, but he's too happy to be cold. Finally, when the crowds have thinned a bit and Fergus can't feel any of his fingers, he gathers up his caps and ducks into a store. The blanket he buys is nice and thick. Fergus would be delighted to receive it as a gift. Really, Fergus finds the doll sort of creepy, but Nixie was so entranced by it last week. With his remaining few caps, he buys a small toy car for Rowen, a flower hair clip for Zyra, and a secondhand copy of Saior Waller's new book for Jean.

Once he's out of caps and laden down with gifts, he lays out his treasures on the ground outside of the last shop. This will surely make them all be his friends. He spent his entire day out in the cold, telling jokes and embarrassing himself for the enjoyment of passerby, and then he spent all of his hard earned money on gifts for them. He can't wait to see all of their faces when he presents them with their gifts.

Quickly, Fergus gathers everything up and dashes back through the alleys to the Community Home. When he gets there, he deposits everything in his dormitory. First, he places the blanket on Calloway's bed with a note reading, Happy Capitolmas! Fergus. Then, he takes the doll downstairs and gives it to Nixie, who looks like she could cry with joy. It's all worth it, because Nixie is happy. He bets she'll hang out with him more now. Maybe she'll even get a crush on him!

And Jean appreciates the book and says that he didn't have to go through all of that trouble for her.

"Oh, but what are friends for?" Fergus says, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Jean looks at him for a second as if she doesn't understand something and says, "Thank you for the book, but you're a little young to be my friend."

She doesn't intend to be mean. At least, that's what Fergus thinks. It's all in the tone. It's something he's learned over the years about comedy. The same joke can have a totally different meaning if you say it differently. It's even a bit he's used once or twice. So he knows all about tone, and he knows that Jean wasn't trying to hurt him.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, of course.

Still, Fergus is Fergus, so he laughs it off and goes to deliver his next gift.

Rowen is excited by the race car, and runs off to show it to his friends without saying thank you. But it's okay, because Rowen liked the gift. Maybe he'll offer to let Fergus play it the car one of these days. That would be nice. Maybe they could even play together. He just wished that Rowen included him in his list of friends.

Lastly, he gives Zyra the flower hair pin. She smiles at him and says, "Wow! Thank you so much…um, I'm not actually…sure I know your name."

"Oh," Fergus says, deflating slightly. "It's Fergus." Quicky, he tries to come up with a joke to attach to it. People always remember things that made them laugh. "Or, you could call me Sweargus, because I'm probably someone's bastard child!"

It's a bad joke. It's a very bad joke. But Zyra laughs just enough that he doesn't feel too stupid, so maybe it's okay. And it's accurate, because who leaves a baby on the doorstep of an orphanage if that baby isn't a bastard child?

Zyra puts the clip in her hair, and it matches her eyes. Fergus deflates some more, because he remembers Zyra enough to pick a clip that matches the exact blue of her eyes, yet she doesn't even remember his name. He just wanted to get her something she'd like, just like how he remembered that Jean hadn't read Saior Waller's new book yet. Just like how he'd picked a red car specifically because red is Rowen's favorite color.

Fergus heads up to his dormitory and skips Capitolmas dinner. The meal won't be anything different than normal, and like always there will not be enough to go around. Fergus doesn't mind going to bed hungry. He does it all of the time. Usually, it just leads to him getting a head start on busking in the morning so he can buy himself something to eat from the bakery.

Technically, busking is illegal in Panem. But the Peacekeepers in this part of Five look the other way because they find him funny. Sometimes, they even give him tips. Fergus is certainly glad they don't try to stop him. He doesn't know what he'd do without the extra money it makes him.

Fergus sits alone in the dormitory for a while, not feeling particularly tired. The blanket and note are still undisturbed on Calloway's bed. Surely, Calloway will appreciate the gift enough to want to befriend Fergus. He always laughs at Fergus's jokes. He must like Fergus enough to want to be his friend.

Calloway and his other three roommates come upstairs all at once. He watches Calloway as he approaches his bed. The boy sits, notices the blanket, and unfurls it. He reads the note and says, "Who's Fergus?"

Well, there goes Fergus's plan.

"I'm Fergus," he says quietly.

Calloway looks over to him. "Oh! The funny kid! Thank you!"

And that's the end of the conversation. Calloway ducks into the bathroom to change into pajamas, climbs under the blanket, and goes to sleep.

"Yep, that's me," Fergus mutters. "The funny kid."

At this rate, it's all he'll ever be.


A/N: If you are uncertain what is going on with Denver and Hildy, consult The Bloodiest Place on Earth, specifically Chapter Fifty-One, Hiraeth. It will have the answers you seek.

So, here we have our first round of lovely tributes. Alastor is courtesy of Dospacito, Denver is courtesy of (REDACTED), Colson is from Goldie031, and Fergus belongs to Very New To This. Which one was your favorite?

-Amanda