Sparka Hernandez, 15
"Each time I try to escape his rage and his belt. Each time I was sent back to him. I wonder if I should just... end it all."
(TW: Mentions/implications of physical child abuse, contemplation of suicide)
Listen, Sparka knows it's never going to work. She doesn't need to hear it. At this point, it doesn't matter to Sparka whether she'll ever actually get away or not. What matters is showing that she is still willing to run.
Her ankles are starting to burn, but she only has to go a little bit further. The warehouse is just up ahead, and once she makes it there, she'll be okay for a little while. She'll hunker down for the night, and she'll move on to the shack outside of the city tomorrow. Maybe Rai or Gidget will even come by.
(And then, inevitably, the Peacekeepers will catch her and return her to him and it will be—)
Sparka tramps down that train of thought before it ever gets out of the station. That is not what she needs to be thinking about right now. She slows her pace as she reaches the warehouse, peeling open the door carefully to avoid making any noise. She slips inside and surveys the place.
It's not nice. Sparka is well aware of that. She doesn't expect it to be nice. It's just one of the places that she and her friends have set up ever since they were forced to return to their parents. Sometimes, they need their safe places—the places they can go where their parents can't follow them. If Sparka could, she would stay in this empty warehouse forever. But she knows how this works—she knows how this ends.
Sparka idly kicks an empty can on the ground. It's almost her fifteenth birthday. She hopes she can celebrate it with her friends, and not stuck in the house with no one but him. He doesn't like it when Sparka makes noise, but he also doesn't like it when she goes out. But her window isn't hard to unlatch and definitely not hard to fit through.
She wonders if anyone is going to get her a present. Not that they need to, or anything. Her friends are in just as unhappy of situations as Sparka is. But maybe Dean will make her something. She would like that. It would give her something to put in her room (somewhere where he wouldn't find it, of course).
Sparka moves away from the windows and settles in an alcove. It's a pretty nice evening. The night shouldn't be that hard.
Still, it's lonely. She finds herself wishing that maybe Gidget would have the same idea as her tonight.
Maybe Gidget will get her something. Maybe Gidget will steal something from her parents and give it to Sparka. It would be kind of silly, and a little bit dangerous, but it sounds like something Gidget would do.
Sparka leans back against the wall and stares out of the warehouse, breathing in the musty scent. She wishes she had her old room in the Community Home. Not because it was nice, or spacious, or anything. But there were four other girls in that room and they had some kind of personal touch. It made it feel like home.
Because it was home. And Sparka doesn't have that anymore.
She's thought about it before. Just ending it all. She would never have to suffer again—maybe it would even be peaceful.
But Sparka is, at heart, an optimist. Or at least, she's hopeful. She has to believe that things will get better, because she won't survive if she doesn't.
If things don't get better, then she might as well just go through with it. But Sparka doesn't think she has it in her, in the end. She doesn't think she could ever actually end it all.
(And then she remembers that she might be taken back home on her birthday, and he won't remember, and he will only take it as an invitation to hit harder and—)
She's turning fifteen in just a few days. Things are getting better—she's getting older. It won't be long now before she is old enough to get away from him. Just three more years. She can take three more years. She put up with it over a decade before, and she's stronger now. Bigger. Not nearly as big as he is, but she's not a little kid anymore.
She wishes she could say that she's not scared of him anymore. But it would be a lie, and Sparka isn't much for lying. There is nothing that scares her more than her father. Not dying, not getting Reaped. Every day she fears her father's wrath, fears what he might do to her as some kind of screwed up retribution.
The warehouse is so quiet. Even the surrounding neighborhood seems desolate, but she supposes that that makes sense. This area is so deserted that she hardly ever sees anyone when she comes down here. The only people who spend time here are the people who don't have anywhere else to go—like Sparka.
Another thing she isn't much for is quiet. It makes her think too much of the house, where her father sits on the couch, drinks alcohol that they can't afford, and yells at Sparka for stepping on a creaky floorboard. At least he goes to work and Sparka goes to school. They can avoid each other for a little while.
It hurts to know that her father doesn't love her. All because of the circumstances of her birth. It's a tale as old as time—or as old as Panem, anyway. Her mother was the light of her father's life, and her mother died giving birth to Sparka. He hates her because she took away his only reason for living. He calls her a killer.
Sparka Hernandez is not a killer. She didn't kill her mother, even if her father spent her childhood telling her that she did. All she did was be born the wrong way.
Her father looks at her and sees a girl who doesn't look enough like her mother.
Sparka's pretty sure that they were both much happier when she lived in the Community Home. He couldn't hurt her anymore, and she wasn't around to remind him of what he lost. That should have been that—he didn't want her back anyway.
It doesn't matter. The Community Homes were overcrowded with runaway children, so Sparka was returned to the father that didn't love her and the mother that didn't exist. She feels the pain of her mother's death every day—pain for a woman she never met, pain for a woman she doesn't love. Her ghost haunts the house, sitting in the spot on the couch that no one is allowed to touch. Her things are left untouched, turning half of the house into a museum dedicated to a dead woman. And always quiet, so quiet. The quiet locks the house between its fingers and forces it to remain a monument to Sparka's greatest sin.
Sparka clenches her hands in her lap. She doesn't like to think about her mother. It just serves as too ugly a reminder of the life she could have had. Her father's friends say he used to be a great guy.
She doesn't much believe them, but it's a nice thought anyway, that she could have had a good life. It's better than believing that her life was always meant to be this way.
Feeling jittery, Sparka gets up and starts to pace in circles. She just has to make it a couple more years. Soon she'll be eighteen, and she'll be free from all of this. She can do whatever she wants with her life, and when she comes home, she'll know that no one is going to hurt her. Maybe she'll get a really good job, and make a lot of money. She'll buy a big, attractive house with all of the utilities. She'll end up with a beautiful wife and they'll have children together, and they'll raise those children with as much love and respect as they deserve. Everything will be good, Sparka will be happy, and most of all, Sparka will be safe.
(The Peacekeepers find her on the morning of her fifteenth birthday. They drag her kicking and screaming back to her father, and all of Sparka's predictions come true.)
Jasper Adair, 13
"I will love you without any strings attached."
(TW: minor self-harm)
Jasper doesn't like eggs.
Most people don't get why, and most people don't want to know why. Jasper doesn't tell them, because most people have a weird reaction to it, and when people have weird reactions to things Jasper says, they usually stop liking him, and if they stop liking him, they won't want to hang out with him, and if nobody wants to hang out with him he'll be alone forever. So Jasper doesn't tell people that he doesn't like eggs.
Really, only his mom knows. She knows because every time she goes to the market, he reminds her not to buy eggs. Because if she buys eggs, then eventually they will run out, and she will have to go out to buy more, and then she'll get mugged and she'll die and it will be all Jasper's fault.
(Not again. He can't go through that again. He won't survive going through that again)
But his mom doesn't buy eggs. So everything is okay for a little while.
Only a little while, though, because then Jasper goes outside and there are cars passing on the road and he wonders what would happen if he stepped out into the street. Would the cars stop? Or would they hit them? They would probably hit him. So Jasper doesn't step out into the street.
He goes looking for Staff and wonders what he would do if someone attacked them right now. They're standing on a crowded street in the evening. What if someone came out of that alleyway with a knife and tried to hurt them? Jasper would have to protect Staff, but what if he failed? He can't let Staff get hurt. So he steers Staff off of the crowded street and back toward his house.
Staff says his parents are taking him out to dinner in honor of his good grades. Jasper wonders if he's making some kind of dig about how Jasper's grades weren't as good as his this semester. So Jasper responds, "That sounds pretty cool."
But maybe that wasn't nice enough? It's hard to tell, because Staff isn't looking at him right now. Right now Staff is looking at a guy walking a weird looking dog, and Jasper wonders if he isn't interesting enough for Staff. Maybe he and Staff aren't cut out to be friends because they get distracted so much when they hang out.
But Jasper doesn't have any other friends so if he and Staff stopped being friends he would have to make new ones and they would think he's weird so they wouldn't want to be his friend and then he'll be alone forever. So he stays friends with Staff.
Eventually they reach Jasper's house and his mom greets them at the door. Is she happy? Does she look happy? What if she doesn't want to see Jasper? What if she still blames him for her wife's death and is regretting ever having adopted him? What if she's thinking about giving him back?
But Mom invites them in and gives them lemonade. So she must not be thinking about getting rid of him, or else she wouldn't be giving him lemonade.
(Unless she's just trying to butter him up before breaking the bad news? Maybe she just wants to make his last memory in this house a nice one.)
But she invites Staff to stay for dinner, and he refuses because his parents are taking him to a restaurant in honor of his good grades. Is he repeating it to make Jasper feel bad? No, Staff wouldn't do that. Would he?
Mom asks Jasper to come sit down in the living room. Oh no, she's going to tell him that she's giving him away now. He starts thinking about how he's going to pack his things.
"Jasper, are you doing okay?" she asks, which is not what Jasper was expecting at all.
Jasper shrugs. "I'm fine."
"You just seem quiet tonight," Mom says.
Is that a bad thing? Mom likes it when he talks to her, because she says he's witty and silly. Maybe he needs to talk more so Mom will be happy. It's that time of year, and Mom is never really happy that time of year.
"I'm just…thinking about Mama," Jasper says, which is the truth. He likes telling the truth, because when he lies he fears that someone is going to figure it out, and then they'll tell everyone, and everyone will hate him for lying, and he'll be expelled from school and he'll get Reaped for the Hunger Games and he'll die. So he doesn't lie.
"Oh," Mom says. "I am too."
"I miss her," Jasper says, which is also the truth. He misses her every day. He feels guilty every day.
If he hadn't dropped that egg, none of it would have happened. If he hadn't wanted to bake cookies, none of it would have happened. If he hadn't been born, none of it would have happened.
"It's still not your fault," Mom says, which is not the truth.
Jasper looks down at his lap. He doesn't want to answer, because he can't give Mom an answer that is both the truth and something that will make her happy. He can't tell her that he doesn't feel guilty, because that wouldn't be the truth. But he can't tell her that he does still feel guilty, because that will make her sad. So Jasper says nothing.
"What do you want for dinner?" Mom says, perking up. "I'll make whatever you want."
Jasper considers for a moment. What if he makes the wrong choice? What if he asks for chicken, but the chicken gives both of them salmonella and they both die? What if he asks for fish and Mom chokes and gets brain damage from a lack of oxygen?
He takes a deep breath and tries to remember what Mom always tells him. That's not going to happen. Probably. He can't rule it out, but Mom is probably not going to choke on fish and get brain damage.
"Jasper?" Mom prompts.
"Um…can we make homemade pizza? I'll help!"
Mom smiles. "Sure thing. Come on."
She beckons him into the kitchen, and Jasper gladly follows. Nothing makes him happier than helping his mom. She always looks so tired and worn out, and he knows that deep down she must resent him for getting her wife murdered. But she still loves him, and he still loves her. So he loves helping her. He loves making her happy.
They get to work. Mom sets Jasper on dough rolling duty, which he happily obliges. They work well together, even if their team is missing a member.
Everything is okay for just a little while, because Jasper is helping someone and his mind is a little bit quieter. Mom always did say that he thought enough for the whole district.
But then Jasper bumps into the bowl of tomato sauce, sitting precariously on the edge of the counter. It goes sliding off of the edge, dumping all of its contents right onto Mom's shirt. She looks down at herself, frozen, and Jasper's world tunnels.
He ruined it. Of course he ruined it. He always ruins things.
Mom's going to get rid of him for sure now. He should go start packing his things—he turns around to head to his room, but then he freezes.
Forget Mom kicking him out—she's going to have to go out now and buy more tomato sauce, and he can't let that happen. If she goes out she won't ever come back. He has to make sure she stays here.
She must be so angry about the mess, and now dinner is ruined too. Jasper just can't stop making a mess of things. He makes a mess of everything he touches. Mom's probably going to tell her friends about her terrible adopted son and how he is constantly ruining her life, and then they'll all tell their friends, and soon the entire district will know that Jasper is just a little fuckup who can't do anything right and they'll all hate him and he'll be alone forever.
Jasper grits his teeth. That's not going to happen. That's not going to happen. That's not going to happen.
He smacks his hand against his forehead several times. It doesn't hurt but it doesn't help.
"Jasper, honey, it's alright," Mom says, leaning down to his level. Why does he have to be so short? Why can't he just be a big kid already? "I'm not mad. I think it's kind of funny, actually."
"You do?" Jasper repeats, disbelieving.
"Well, yeah, just look at me!" Mom says, extending her arms to show Jasper her sauce-covered clothing. "It's okay, sweetie. We'll just order takeout, alright?"
"Alright," Jasper says.
He just wishes his mind would stop. Just for a little while. It's always so loud. There's too much going on in his head. All he wants is a little peace and quiet.
Aderyn Kabel, 16
"Surprise, bitches!"
Aderyn may be absolutely exhausted from performing last night, but Calixa told her about an abandoned factory she'd spotted down on the south side, and how could Aderyn ever pass that up? The signs around the building indicate it's slated for demolition, so Aderyn has got to jump on this one while it's still here. Plus, Calixa said that the rumor is, the building used to be a stronghold for rebels back in the seventies. She can't let this one slip through her fingers.
From the outside, the factory doesn't look special. It looks like it hasn't been operating in a long time. Many of the windows are broken and the doors are all barred shut. So, just about like every other building in this part of town.
Aderyn blows past the glaring No Trespassing signs and marches right up to the building. Most of the Peacekeepers around here know Aderyn and like Aderyn. They go to the tavern every night and watch her amaze them with magic tricks. Usually they let her off pretty easy.
The doors may be boarded up, but the windows sure aren't. She walks the perimeter of the building until she finds a sufficiently broken window and slips inside, narrowly avoiding cutting herself on the glass.
She whistles in appreciation at the inside of the building. It's filled with rusted, rotting machines that once must have produced something. What they produced, Aderyn has no idea. She starts to wander between the machines, hoping to find some clues as to what they did. There's bits of trash all over the ground, scraps and cans so old they've rusted too.
The whole place just seems ancient. Aderyn wishes she knew when it was built—and she really wishes she could know what the machines used to make.
There's nothing Aderyn loves quite like a good mystery. She starts to imagine it as she walks—the failed rebellion in the seventies had tons of backing in Three. They were based out of this building, and they used to produce weapons on these machines while their people camped out on the floor. One day, when the last vestiges of the rebels were being rooted out, the Peacekeepers finally discovered it and arrested anyone still there. Then they boarded up the building and left it to rot.
Maybe there's memorabilia somewhere around here. Weapons, or plans, or something. That would be too cool.
Or maybe there's tunnels! Aderyn found tunnels years ago with Sandra, but they never got the chance to really see where they went before the Peacekeepers found them. The trapdoor they'd found was sealed, but maybe Aderyn can find another way down into those tunnels. That would be way cooler than weapons or plans.
Her parents told her after she'd found those tunnels that they probably dated back all of the way to the Dark Days. What she wouldn't do to explore those tunnels again…
Aderyn ducks between the decrepit machines with renewed vigor. There's just so much to see in the world. Whenever Aderyn isn't making people laugh on a stage, she's out there trying to see everything. In particular, she wants to see the places she's not supposed to—the artifacts of times long passed, the buildings used by people history has decided were wrong. Sometimes, she wishes she could visit the other districts too, just to see what she could find. But inter-district travel is reserved for those with skills to show the whole world. Aderyn may be a master of sleight-of-hand magic tricks, but she doubts they consider that a skill that the whole world needs to see.
She continues to explore for a while and finds nothing of interest. There are no clues to what the machines produced, although she has her guesses, and Aderyn is about to leave when she spots something out of the corner of her eye. Underneath an overturned dresser is what must be a trapdoor.
Aderyn can see it now—when the Peacekeepers arrived to the factory, the rebels were expecting them. They filed down into the tunnels as the Peacekeepers broke down the door, and the last person in knocked the dresser down to cover up the trapdoor. Eventually the Peacekeepers got them another way, or maybe they didn't.
Grin spreading across her face, Aderyn kneels down and yanks the door open, revealing a metal ladder descending down into darkness.
A thrill of adrenaline courses through Aderyn's body. She fumbles to get out her flashlight, flicking it on and shining it down into the hole. The light allows her to see the bottom of the ladder, where the narrow shaft opens up into the tunnels.
Practically vibrating with anticipation, Aderyn puts her flashlight in her mouth and clambers down the ladder. Her feet hit the ground with an echo, and she shines the flashlight around.
The tunnel is shorter than she remembers it being, but the last time she was in one, she was eight years old. So that's not much of a surprise.
Disuse is apparent as she looks around. It's probably been fifty years since anyone was in these tunnels regularly. As far as Aderyn knows, most of the entrances have been sealed off. Actually, she's a little bit surprised that the Peacekeepers haven't just collapsed them by now.
"Look, the trapdoor is open!"
Aderyn jumps about a foot in the air at the sound of the echoing voice. Shit, she thinks. There must be Peacekeepers, which means someone snitched on her. She didn't even know there were enough people living in this area to spot her going inside.
She takes a deep breath. She could just march off into the darkness of the tunnels, but it would be far too easy to get lost, and there's no guarantee she could find another safe way out. No, it's better to gamble that these Peacekeepers know her and like her.
Holding her flashlight in her mouth, Aderyn climbs back up the ladder. She pokes her head out of the trapdoor and is nearly nose-to-white-boot with a Peacekeeper. Carefully, she levers herself out of the hole, stowing her flashlight.
"Aderyn Kabel!" one of the Peacekeepers says. "What in Panem are you doing here?"
"Just looking around," Aderyn answers. She recognizes that Peacekeeper's voice—she's going to be fine.
"Did you miss the No Trespassing signs?" asks the other Peacekeeper, whom Aderyn doesn't seem to recognize.
Aderyn just shrugs. Confirming or denying whether she saw them likely will not work out in her favor.
"This is an old, rickety building, Aderyn," the first Peacekeeper says. "It's dangerous to be inside of it. You could get hurt."
"I was fine," Aderyn says. She almost says I do this sort of thing all of the time, but decides it's probably a bad idea. "I was just looking around."
"You were just breaking the law," the second Peacekeeper says. "You could be executed for this."
"What?" Aderyn says. She's never heard that before.
"Those tunnels you were just "exploring"?" the second Peacekeeper says. "Those used to be heavily used by rebels, kid. You don't want to be seen as consorting with rebels, do you?"
"I wasn't though," Aderyn says. "I was just looking around."
"Times are changing," the second Peacekeeper says. "Laws are getting stricter."
"I don't think Aderyn meant anything bad by this, Diggs," the first Peacekeeper says. "She's a good kid. You've seen her at the tavern before, haven't you? She's amazing."
Diggs grumbles something. "I don't think it matters what her intentions were. She still broke the law."
"And she's learned her lesson," the first Peacekeeper says. "Right?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely," Aderyn says.
"Besides, if we executed her, we'd all miss her performances, huh?" the first Peacekeeper says.
Diggs grunts in agreement.
"See? So, Aderyn, we're going to let you off with a warning, alright?" the first Peacekeeper says. "Stay out of this building, you hear? It's old and dangerous. You could get hurt."
"Yes, sir!" Aderyn says, saluting. Being the favorite of the Peacekeepers has its perks.
The two Peacekeepers lead her outside, this time taking her through the one door that wasn't boarded up. They remind her to stay out of the building once more and take their leave.
The sun is setting, so Aderyn decides to head home for the day. She's got to perform again tonight, anyway. She would really benefit from taking a nap before she goes on.
As she walks away, she glances over her shoulder at the empty factory. She'll come back in a few days, and just be more careful. Those tunnels are just too cool to pass up.
And the Peacekeepers will let her off easy again. They always do.
Zorya Stroud, 12
"Sometimes, I wish everyone else had to think with my mind, just for one day."
(TW: References to religious cults)
There is blood on her hands and Quinton is keeping secrets. Zorya hates people who keeps secrets, but she loves Quinton, so it doesn't make any sense.
The manilla folder in her (pale, bloodied) hand is still closed, but the pages strewn about the desk in front of her and Winter are easily readable. The secrets—the truth. Normally Zorya likes knowing the truth, but the truth doesn't normally hurt like this.
Winter is mouthing words, or maybe Zorya can't hear. It's hard to tell. Finally Zorya says, "Are you talking?"
"What are we going to do?" Winter says. She's brandishing one of the papers—a (white, weathered) letter from District Eight. Zorya skims it. She doesn't recognize all of the words, but she's got a pretty good handle on what religious means. Cult is a new one, though.
"What does that mean?" Zorya says, pointing to the offending word.
"It means that Dad is a liar, Zorya," Winter says. "He always told me we were trying to take down the Capitol 'cause they were evil. But he was—he was—"
"He was lying," Zorya says.
Zorya hates liars. And she isn't sure she loves Quinton now.
"I can't believe this," Winter says. "The things we did for him—for his cause—and he was lying the whole time."
"He was lying," Zorya says again, just to make sure she understands it.
She looks down at her (pale, bloodied) hands and thinks about why they're bloodied. The Peacekeeper's blood was red, like blood was supposed to be. For some reason Zorya had been surprised by that. She'd never seen the face of a Peacekeeper before, so she had often wondered if they were robots or something.
That Peacekeeper hadn't been a robot. He had been a (brunette, tan-skinned) man who had cried as he choked to death on his own blood. Zorya had put the knife into his throat but it hadn't felt like it. He hadn't seen her coming, hadn't thought a kid like her could do it. She did what she had to do—the Peacekeeper would have killed Quinton otherwise.
Zorya looks at the papers strewn about the desks. She bloodied her hands for a man who was lying.
"What are we going to do?" Winter repeats, leaning on the desktop.
The choice is taken from them—Quinton's footsteps begin to echo up the stairs. They both freeze with their (bloodied) hands on the incriminating evidence, and there's nothing they can do.
"Girls?" Quinton's voice calls. He must be right outside the room. He opens the door across the hallway, leading to the bedroom Zorya and Winter share. "Winter?"
The door across the hall shuts. The door in front of them opens.
"Girls?" Quinton says again, disbelieving. "What are you doing in here?"
Winter and Zorya just look at each other. Finally, Zorya says, "You lied."
"What?" Quinton says.
"You lied," Zorya says. "You lied about why we were doing it."
"What are you talking about?" Quinton says.
Winter shoves one of the papers at him. It's the letter from District Eight offering money in exchange for disrupting coal production. "You don't even think the Capitol is bad, do you?"
"I believe in the cause," Quinton says. "The people of District Eight are grateful for us. When they rule Panem, everything will be okay—"
"You lied to us!" Zorya cries. "Nothing will be okay. You lied to us, and I—"
Her hands are pale and bloodied. It's Quinton's fault.
"We're leaving, Dad," Winter says decisively. "I don't want any part in this. Zorya and I will be better off in the—Community Home, or anywhere but here."
"You can't leave," Quinton says, sounding surprised. He stretches his arms to block the doorway. "You're my daughter."
"Let us go, Dad," Winter says.
Zorya glares at him. One of the only things she hates more than liars is people telling her what to do. And Quinton is not only telling her what to do, but he's trying to keep her here.
Her glare deepens, and she charges right under his arms. She barely even has to duck due to their height difference.
She trips on the carpet in the hallway and slams into the opposite wall. Quinton whirls around, exclaiming, "Hey, get back here!"
He looms over her like a monster, but Zorya knows that monsters aren't real. Monsters are just people—people in white suits and masks, people who lie.
Quinton grabs Zorya by her hair and pulls her to her feet. Zorya screams, clawing at his arms with violent ferocity. Winter is screaming too, beating on Quinton's neck and shoulders with her bare hands. With his free hand, Quinton wrenches open the door to their bedroom and attempts to throw Zorya inside.
"No!" Zorya shouts. "No, no! Let me go!"
"You aren't going anyway," Quinton says. Winter grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls, and he cries out, dropping his grip on Zorya. She scrambles away from him, down the hallway. "Come on, girls, we just need to talk—you'll understand, I promise!"
"I'll never understand!" Zorya yells. "You lied to me. I hate liars!"
"I'm sorry, Zorya—" Quinton says as he finally throws Winter off of him. She hits the wall and cries out in pain. "Let's all just calm down. Everything is fine."
He starts to walk toward Zorya, glancing over his shoulder at Winter, who is still on the ground, cradling her left arm. Anger and revulsion flares in Zorya's chest. How dare he hurt Winter? Winter is the only person in the world who understands Zorya. She's the only person who gets that Zorya just wants to be alone sometimes. She's the only person who also thinks talking to people is overrated. She's the only thing that Zorya has, because Quinton is a liar and Zorya hates him.
Once again, Zorya charges. She catches Quinton off guard, and suddenly he is tumbling backwards down the stairs. Zorya stands on the landing, shoulders heaving, breathing hard. She's so angry that her body is trembling.
"Winter," she says, turning around and rushing to her side.
"I'm okay," Winter says. "I don't think it's broken."
Zorya can't tell. She doesn't know how to tell if something is broken. "You're okay?"
"Yeah," Winter says, flexing her wrist. "I'll be alright. What about you? Are you hurt?"
Zorya remembers that she has a body. She takes stock, trying to find somewhere that hurts, and comes up short. "I'm fine."
"I'm glad," Winter says. "Where's Dad?"
Zorya leads her to the top of the stairs, where Quinton is still crumpled at the bottom. He isn't moving.
Eventually they move down the stairs until they're just a few steps away from him. There's blood pooling around his head and his right leg is bent wrong.
"Is he dead?" Zorya says.
Winter shudders. "I think so."
"Oh," Zorya says.
Her hands are pale and bloodied because of Quinton. She killed for him and then she killed him. Her hands feel dirty. Ignoring Quinton's body at the bottom of the stairs, Zorya dashes into the kitchen to wash her (pale, bloodied) hands. He lied and he died and she hates him.
She becomes aware of the sound of Winter speaking. "Yes, I think he fell down the stairs…no, we just got home…I don't think he has a pulse…"
It takes her a moment to realize that Winter is talking on the phone. She must have called the Peacekeepers or something. Zorya wanders back into the living room, where Quinton is still at the bottom of the stairs. She doesn't know why she thought he might have moved. He will never move again, and her hands are still dirty.
But he was going to hurt them. He did hurt them. He was a bad person.
Suddenly Zorya can't stand to be inside for another second. She turns and marches out onto the porch, and Winter doesn't try to stop her. Winter knows better. She plops down on the front step and stares up at the stars. The fence surrounding the district is within view. It's tempting, so tempting. Zorya has been out there before, has made it like her home. She could just run, right now, and never have to deal with anything ever again.
But Winter likes her. Most people don't like her. Winter would probably miss her.
So Zorya stays.
A/N: Hello again. I'm back. Hopefully with a quicker turn around time for the next chapter.
This chapter is, to me, the sad little kids chapter. Which of them was your favorite? Which do you think is most likely to win?
We just have one more intro chapter to go. We will meet our final four tributes—Davian, Roland, Lev, and Briar! I don't know about you, but I'm pretty excited to get this show on the road and get to the pre games.
-Ben
