Decker Delahaye. District Six.

The walls here are so goddamn thin. He can hear someone weeping loudly in the room next to him. A male voice, middle aged. Asha's dad, Decker supposes.

He's not sure if it makes Asha lucky or unlucky to have someone so close waiting for her, needing her to come home. Like any person, he does find himself wondering how life would've been for him if his mother had loved him, if his father had cared - a foreign, abstract thought, so he didn't spend too long on it. He's sure he would be… more put-together. At the very least, his body wouldn't be in the process of self-destruction if he'd had a real family. So, in that sense, Asha is lucky.

But he also knows that having so much to lose can be dangerous. It can become a distraction, can weigh people down and make them lose their focus on the prize ahead of them.

(That's why he's supposed to win. Out of everybody in that arena, he surely has the least to lose. All he has to focus on is himself. No distractions. It's not a coincidence that the best fighters in his club all came from nothing, too.)

It's been a couple minutes since Chauncey made them shuffle off to their respective rooms, and no one's come by to see Decker yet. It's not incredibly surprising. He's spent the last few months keeping everybody he knew at arm's length, not wanting them to see him so weak. So frail. And to make sure they don't waste their breaths trying to talk him out of volunteering. He's pushed the few people there ever was away. It makes sense for no one to show up.

He's about to give up and walk out of the room, to ask Chauncey when it'll be time to go, but then -

The door opens. A visitor. Decker tenses up, instinctively, but then relaxes when he sees who it is.

"Naomi!" he exclaims, and smiles wide, revealing his sharp set of teeth. He'd stand up from his stool and move towards her, but his strength today is already an uneasy thing. The last thing he needs is for his legs to start shaking publicly. "Hey!"

Of course she'd show up. She was the only one who'd seen him during the last few months, getting him food and running the occasional errand while he stayed locked in his room, shivering under blankets and straining through a set of push-ups.

(It's always felt wrong to him, the idea of a girl as kind as her in a place like this. But even the purest souls get misled in Six.)

Naomi smiles back at him, and he can see the pity in her gentle eyes. He's hardly ever been pitied before. Should it upset him? Make him feel ridiculed, powerless? Emasculated? He's not sure. At least she's helping him. It's all that matters, at this point.

"Hey, Decker," she whispers. "I'm not gonna sit here and tell you that you've done something stupid. It doesn't even matter if what you did is stupid or not - what's done is done. And… and I understand why you're doing this. Giving yourself a chance. It's admirable, really, it is."

Giving himself a chance. One last gamble with the wide jaws of death. One last desperate effort to piece his life together. He's used to it, by now, working against impossible odds, getting back up after being shoved down. And if he dies in that arena, at least he'll be awake when he does, adrenaline coursing through him and alive one final time… instead of rotting away until the Peacekeepers finally shovel his corpse off a sofa.

Jagger hadn't really understood. Naomi told him he'd tried to go see him, but she'd turned him away everytime. He wanted to talk him out of it, apparently, which almost made Decker laugh. Talk him out of something? Does Jagger know who Decker is?

Though, Decker guesses he's more worried about the money he'll be losing if Decker dies. At least he's worried. It's a step up in terms of parental figures.

"Thanks, Naomi," he says. "It's… nice of you to say that. It really is."

A silence falls between the two of them, slightly awkward as Naomi struggles to find words, but also a comfortable one. They're both on the same page, after all.

"Well," Naomi says after a while. "I guess I better go now. You've got a lot to prepare for now. Good luck, Decker." She starts making her way out of the room, but she halts in the doorway, turning around to look at him. "And, listen, if anyone can survive this, in your condition - it's you."

With that, she's gone, softly shutting the door behind her with a click.

It's nice to know that someone else believes in him. In his capability to take hits and keep going. In his magnetic persona that he used to wear every night, preaching his ideology to hungry, bloodthirsty crowds in a downtrodden basement.

It's nice to know that someone still believes in Decker Delahaye, whoever that really is.

Whatever that really is.

A couple minutes pass, and he can hear a younger, female voice in Asha's room this time. A friend? A girlfriend? A sister? Either way, certainly more than Decker's roster of visitors.

Then, the door opens again. Decker leans forward, a bit curious despite himself to see who it is. Did Jagger actually show up, ready to berate him because he was his cash cow and now he just threw himself into the meat grinder? Or, worse, is it Violet, because God only knows what she'd have to say to him and -

Decker freezes on his stool, a frigid cold seeping into every single cell of his body. His heart stops, or maybe it starts beating too hard, he's not fucking sure, because the person in front of him might as well be his childhood nightmare.

His mother.

Haloed by the light from the hallway behind her, she almost looks like the saintly nurse she pretended to be, an angel cursed with a broken son. It's laughable. He would laugh, but he wants to throw up. All over her. Wouldn't be the first time he's done so. At least it wouldn't be because of the pills she shoved down his throat this time around.

She steps into the room, careful, as if she's wary of him. Or like a predator approaching its prey. He can't tell the difference with her.

"So," she finally says, her voice so crisp yet grating. Poison to his ears. "This is where you've been hiding." She holds her nose up, sniffs in disapproval, and he wonders if she can smell the filth on him, the sickness plaguing his skin. Like a shark after blood.

Somehow, Decker manages to push out sound from his trembling lips. "What…" and it comes out as a squeak. It fills him with shame, creeping across his stomach and burning its way into him. He shouldn't be scared of her. He has no reason to be. There's nothing she can do, not anymore, and anyway, as a tribute he's a property of the state now. She can't do anything. She can't.

(And yet, it's all her fault. He wouldn't have to play with luck like this if she hadn't signed his death warrant with needles and pills.)

He clears his throat, and steels his voice. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Her eyebrow raises at that, so perfectly manicured it looks more like a knife's blade than anything human. "I see your… behavior hasn't improved in the slightest," she comments. Her voice is so even. So banal. It isn't fair. It isn't fair that she gets to sound so normal when looking at her son, her son who's life she ruined.

"What do you want?" he hisses.

Her mother chews on her lip, pensive. "To be honest, I was morbidly curious when I saw you volunteering. I did think you were dead, for the longest time. So when I saw that I was wrong, well, I wanted to see what you were all about, now. Not much, apparently."

(Goes to show how little she knows her son. Decker doesn't give up and die. Decker doesn't disappear into the night only to be found lifeless in some alley. No, when Decker escaped, it was to make himself a life with his bare hands. He doesn't expect her to ever understand that.)

"Well, you've taken a nice good look now," he spits. She makes him sound like a zoo animal. "You might as well leave."

His mother spins around, and for a second he really does hope she'll leave. "Oh, don't worry dear, I'm about to do just that." She pauses on the doorstep, but unlike Naomi, she doesn't make the effort of turning around to look at him. "I just have a question to ask you - why the volunteering?"

A silence, where Decker tries to find an answer that she deserves to have. She doesn't deserve the truth, of course she doesn't. She doesn't deserve to know a single inch of his new life. She doesn't deserve to be able to say, this is my son, when he returns from the arena victorious.

Venom dripping from his voice, pronouncing every syllable as sharply as possible, he says: "Because I won't let you kill me a second time."

She only hums. Then, as quickly as she came, she leaves. She might as well have been some feverish hallucination of his.

A knock on his door. "Time to leave, Mr. Delahaye."

He wobbles to his feet, still reeling from his conversation. Half registering the world around him, he emerges from his room and back into the hallway, where Asha is waiting for him. Her eyes are rimmed with red, like she's been crying. Decker doesn't have the strength to pity her.

She smiles at him, weakly. "I don't know why you're here, Decker, but, um, you were so kind to me back there, and… I just want to say, no matter what you're running from, things can always be fixed. Just… just remember that."

As much as Decker wants to believe her, he thinks he might be the exception to her rule.

Still, he nods. There's no use in giving up now.

Mirabeau St. James. District Twelve.

"Well. There goes the St. James bloodline, huh?" Mirabeau jokes, but her heart's not in it.

Cannen misses the beat where he's supposed to laugh to make her feel less awkward. Her words settle, uncomfortably, in the weighted silence of the room.

"You don't know that. You don't know that for sure," he says.

Mirabeau looks down at her feet. She's wearing the same boots she's worn since she was ten. She had to repair it the other day, stinging her fingertips with the needle in the process. "Yeah. Obviously not, Cannen. I'm not giving up."

She looks up, seeking his gaze. Her best friend knows she'd never give up. That she'll take a beating and still get back up if only out of spite. A girl from Twelve winning - what better way than that to slap the Capitol in its face? She can still make this work.

(She's prayed for an escape from Twelve. Prayed for the world to sweep her off her feet and set her on the path of adventure. Every night, every day, between stitches in fabric, she wished for it.)

(Now she wonders if she should've wished more quietly.)

"Listen," Cannen starts, and he reaches out for her hand. It's such a tender gesture. She'd scoff and tease him and shove it off her on a regular day, but this is no regular day. Even Mirabeau needs comfort, from time to time. No matter how much she doesn't want to admit it. "Listen, Mirabeau, you're a smart girl. Maybe you didn't get good grades at school, so what? That's not the kind of smart that I'm talking about here. You understand the way the world works, the way nature works. You can survive anywhere. And - and you're strong, and brave… maybe a little too brave, but fuck… you've got a chance. A big one, Mirabeau. I need you to remember that."

Mirabeau smiles weakly at him. "I do. I will." Of course she knows how well suited for the Games she is. A girl who spends her free time lurking in the woods, climbing trees and discovering wildlife patterns. Who would go sleeping in a forest without a tent or supplies just for the thrill of it. It's so stupidly ironic. All the time she's spent wishing she was somewhere else than her shop, all the time she's spent perfecting the art of survival. Of course fate would send her to the Games. Of course.

She knows she's not thinking straight. The adrenaline and the shock is clouding her judgement. But somewhere, deep inside herself, Mirabeau wonders if it's her fault that she's here. If she's destined herself to cursing herself because she wasn't careful about what she wished for.

Cannen nods, seemingly satisfied with his pep talk and her response. "Okay. Good. I really believe in you Mirabeau. I'm gonna see you again very soon, I promise."

Mirabeau feels her sight beginning to blur, and the familiar sting of tears start to line her eyes. She turns away, not wanting him to see her like this despite it all.

(Even when her father was buried in the earth, she couldn't allow herself to cry in front of someone. She's supposed to be stronger than that.)

She sniffles, loudly, pushing the snot back up her nose and collecting her composure alongside it. She turns back to look at Cannen.

"So… do you have any strategies already?" Cannen prompts.

Mirabeau hesitates. Upon seeing Kier, her mentor, the idea of the large group had flashed in her mind. After all, Twelve survived by knitting a sense of a community, building a society that would help their neighbors when they could. It's why Mirabeau could never allow herself to abandon her father's shop. She needs to help the people around her. They would've done the same thing for the St. James family, and if there's one thing Mirabeau hates, it's people who are too weak to return a favor. But, as she'd thought about it further, waiting for her singular visitor to enter, she remembered something essential.

The Games aren't Twelve.

In the Games, only one can survive. Only one person can live. In Twelve, the entirety of the community ensures each other's safety so that, in time, when the situations are reversed, everybody lives another day. Group survival is the opposite of the Hunger Games.

If Mirabeau wants to win, if she wants to live and finally build herself a new life, for her and Cannen, she needs to remain selfish. And Mirabeau may be loud, brash, sometimes even violent, she is never selfish.

If she wants to stay alive without losing her mind, without losing herself and her morals, she needs to stay alone. Becoming attached to someone, becoming allies with someone runs the risk of owing them something.

(And Mirabeau is too kind to abandon someone who cares about her. So few people have done so in the first place.)

She's going to be a loner, try to block out any names and faces during training and make her way out with as little attachment as possible. She can't burden herself with other people. She can taste the sweetness of friendship when she gets back and Cannen and her move to the Capitol.

"I'm gonna stay out of people's way, I think," Mirabeau begins cautiously. "Try to just… mind my own business. Stick to what I know best. Survival stuff."

The more she says it outloud, the more reasonable it sounds. Which is good. The simplest solution is often the best. Getting carried away with large alliances, each person being an unpredictable variable, would be certain death. She's better off alone.

"That's good!" Cannen says. His eyes brighten, just a bit, and Mirabeau can tell that he truly thinks she has a chance at this moment. It's a good plan. If Cannen thinks it's a good plan, that it's a good one. "There's only one, uh, thing…"

"What?"

"Well… if you're a loner, you won't get a lot of screen time interactions. You'll just be kind of… forgotten by the cameras. Especially if you don't do a lot of fighting - and trust me, I don't want you to be doing any of that either."

Mirabeau frowns. "So what? Fuck the Capitol. If they think I'm a boring Victor they can fucking cope. It's not like I reaped myself, for fuck's sake."

"Mirabeau, Mirabeau, calm down," Cannen quickly says, and Mirabeau feels her stomach churn. She's let her temper get the best of her again. "I completely agree with you. I mean, it's not like I'm telling you to make the Capitol happy cause I want them to be happy. I'm just saying, if they find you boring, they can find ways to… get rid of you. So that the person who wins has a better… narrative arc. It's reality TV to them, you know that."

He's right. She hates to admit it, but he's right. The last thing she wants to do, though, is play into the Capitol's hands.

(She also doesn't want to leave Cannen alone to rot in Twelve.)

"Okay. So… what's your suggestion?" she asks.

"It's not much, but… I just think you should try to showcase your personality a little. I mean, you're funny as fuck. You're brave and a little reckless and a loudmouth but you're also really cool. Like, super cool."

God, the world must be ending if Cannen is complimenting her.

She snorts at the absurdity. "You in love with me or something dude?" she jokes, and he actually laughs this time - because they both know where they stand, because they both know it's a genuine joke.

"No, that'd be gay as hell," he jokes back with a slight smile.

"Oh, shut up!" she laughs, slapping him gently. It's a running gag between them that they're more a pair of male friends than anything else.

They both continue chuckling a little, and Mirabeau's shoulders feel already somewhat lighter.

(God, how is she going to make it through the arena without a friend?)

"Okay, um, anyway," Cannen continues, sobering up. "As I was trying to say, you've got a great personality. If you could just… showcase that as often as possible, it'd be useful. Like, imagine you in the arena and you're, like, climbing up trees for fun and shit. Being your regular old self. And during the interviews, too, you can talk like you usually do. It might make you more entertaining. Just, uh, something to keep in mind, I guess. I don't know. I'm not the one going in there, at the end of the day."

Yeah, he isn't, but Mirabeau can't think of a single situation that'd make his opinion irrelevant to her.

"Nah, I think you're right," she says. "I'll try to be myself."

Cannen's smile widens. "Good. You're winning, in that case."

Mirabeau opens her mouth to respond, but the Peacekeeper posted at the door knocks loudly - their time is up.

Cannen's smile immediately fades and oh how Mirabeau wishes it didn't, because being optimistic is so much easier when he is too. She squeezes his hand, a reminder that he's not losing her.

"See you soon," she says, and hopes that saying it outloud will make it true.

"See ya, Mirabeau," he replies, then begins making his way out of the room, casting glances behind him as if worried that Mirabeau will disappear if he looks away.

"I'll have your ass in the Capitol in no time," she continues, and he laughs.

Then, the door shuts behind him, and Mirabeau is alone once again.

Oren Achani. District Nine.

"What the fuck are we gonna do without you?"

It's the fifth time Forsyth's asked the question, but it never quite reaches Oren's brain.

It's like he's frozen in time, still standing on that stage, Eve by his side. She looked perfect, as always, their hair turned a gorgeous amber by the sunlight. Oren remembers when they first met her - their eyes had shone in the flicker of the candle's flame. She soaks up the light, a sunflower in a field of thorns.

Oren doesn't think he's ever met someone so perfect, so soulful and real. They reached out towards her, as if unsure that she was even real, and his fingertips brushed against their skin and then suddenly the Peacekeepers were dragging the both of them into the Justice Buildings and into dark rooms. She slipped right through his fingers once more.

"Earth to Oren?" Frazier cuts in, voice ever sharp. Oren finally looks up at his brothers. They'd almost forgotten their existence, too focused on the person sent to die alongside him. He should feel more guilty. He should be worried about the twins, he should be sick with it. After all, their entire life has revolved around keeping them safe, and with him gone, they'll be like two dogs unleashed and sent into the wild. He should be worried.

(They can't stop thinking about Eve.)

(Maybe, for once, he wants his life to revolve around someone else. A warmer presence, a kinder presence, one that appreciates them as a person and not a tool to be taken for granted.)

(Is that so bad?)

"Hi. Sorry. I'm… my head is all over the place right now," Oren apologizes, a little pathetically. The twins look at him, foreheads scrunched in united confusion. It's like they don't understand why they're a little out of orbit about being sentenced to death. It's like they don't understand why he's not already telling them how to make do without him, making plans to guarantee their safety.

(Can he blame them? It's all he's ever done for them. Like spoiled children, how can they expect any different?)

"What are we gonna do?" Forsyth repeats, and this time his voice cracks under the weight of genuine fear. Oren's heart clutches at the sound, because God, he still cares about the both of them, they really do.

"I don't know." Oren falls silent for a moment. They should know. They've always known how to keep the Achani family going. They've always known so why can't they fucking think now?

(It'd be like asking Icarus to tear his eyes away from the sun.)

"Of course he doesn't know," Frazier hisses with a roll of his eyes. He shoves Forsyth on the shoulder, as if trying to manually knock his point into his twin. "Dude, they've been dragging us around aimlessly for months. We're old enough to get on without them." He looks back at Oren. "Aren't we?"

It's a taunt. Frazier's always thought they could survive without Oren now, desperate to prove that he's all grown up and brave and smart. Oren knows why - Frazier's been neglected all his life by their parents, and coddled by their older brother. It makes sense he wants to grow out of his shell, kick and yell until someone respects him.

(Still, it's because of Frazier's tantrums that Oren could never see Eve again.)

(Do they forgive him?)

"No, you're not," Oren snaps despite themself. "I don't know if you remember, but it's because of you two that we had to flee the fucking town. You're lucky that Peacekeeper wasn't in a bad mood."

Frazier scoffs. "Are you still mad about that? You're the one who taught us how to steal to survive."

"I only stole what was necessary, small bits, small scraps that nobody would notice. I was careful, responsible." Something the twins never will be. "That's what I taught the both of you. It's not my fault that you always ignore everything I say."

He's going too far and he knows it. But this resentment is an ancient one, buried deep within his bones, practically fossilized. If he's going to die in a few days, he wants it to see the light of day.

(They don't want to die with hatred stuck inside them.)

"Oh, go ahead, climb up on your little pedestal like you do every time," Frazier seethes, because he's never known how to apologize. Just like his parents. "You're just mad we took you away from that little girlfriend of yours."

Fuck that. Fuck him. Frazier has no right to talk about Eve like she's something superficial, easily replaced. You can't replace the one good thing that has ever happened to you.

"Guys! Guys, stop it!" Forsyth begs, brown eyes wide as saucers. There's tears rolling down his cheeks and Oren's anger is blown off course at the sight. He doesn't want to hurt them. They never did, they just wished they could make his life easier, just once. Forsyth turns towards Frazier, desperate. "Oren just got reaped, man. Fucking reaped! Can't you be normal for once? In your fucking life?"

It's an age old song, the sound of them arguing like headless chickens. He's never had to see them arguing over how to respond to his upcoming death, though. It's such a surrealistic sight, Oren isn't sure they're processing it at all. Absurdly, they find themself about to laugh through the numbness filling their chest, but stops themself at the last second. They don't want the twins to remember him as crazy.

Frazier falls silent instead of spitting out yet another biting remark. He lowers his glowering eyes, the perennial scolded child that he is, and Oren knows that's his way of showing responsibility. It's as close to an apology as Oren's gonna get from him and they know it.

Forsyth turns back to Oren, sniffling, and asks, this time with finality: "what are we gonna do?"

Oren swallows, considering the question. "I… I'm gonna try to come back. I really will. Try to just… stay in the barn we're living in now, mind your business, go to school as much as possible. Keep to yourselves, stay out of trouble until I come back. Beg for money and food, steal as least as possible, just… anything to keep you safe."

The twins are silent. Oren hopes that means they're actually listening this time.

"And… if I come back, I'm obviously getting a Capitol house for the two of you and then you guys can figure out your lives." And Oren wouldn't have to live with them for every second of their life. "And… if I don't come back, then try to do good in school. Good enough to get a job, start working in that town, make friends and connections and just… try to be part of the community. A good part."

Forsyth nods, slowly. Frazier doesn't say anything, eyes still fixed on the floor, but Oren knows that's his way of showing approval.

"But… you're gonna try to come back, right?" Forsyth urges, and there's tremors in his hands. "You have a plan, right?"

Does he? They're not sure. Oren's been so fixated on seeing Eve again to think about the Games yet. They've never had to fight before, never had to be violent to ensure his survival, but maybe he has it in him. They'll definitely do it if Eve asks him to.

(They'll do anything if Eve asks him to.)

"I… I've started thinking about that, yes," Oren says, and it's basically a lie, but Eve, her mind so sharp and quick, most likely has it all figured out already and all he'll have to do is follow her lead. That's basically a plan, right? "I'm going to ally with Evelyn. We can trust each other. We'll stay close to each other. Have each other's backs."

It sounds reasonable, when said like this, but he also knows that only one person can make it out. What will he do if Eve falls, what will he do without her? How can they rebuild their life without them in it?

"Are you sure?" Forsyth asks, so softly, like he knows he shouldn't be asking this. "Are you sure you can trust her? You only knew her for, uh, one night. And… well, she probably wants to win, too."

"I know her," Oren replies immediately. They've been certain about so few things in life, but Eve's goodness is so evident to him. The way she told stories about the orphanage and her bartending, the way she laughed like joy itself was a melody… Evelyn would never hurt him. Never. "I know her more than you two think. I'm not gonna sit here and try to explain it to you but I just hope you believe me. She's trustworthy. We're gonna stick with each other and then… well, there's no use in planning so far ahead, isn't there?"

Even Frazier doesn't snort this time. The gravity of the situation has finally reached him.

Oren can only hope that they'll cling to their scraps of maturity while he's away. If he's to return, with the love of his life gone, the last thing he needs is to lose them too.

"Okay," Forsyth nods. "Okay. So this isn't a goodbye?"

"I hope not," Oren whispers, but he's not sure if he means it.

Snaedis Lukic. District Eight.

It's way too crowded in this room.

At first, Snaedis was okay when it was just her parents. The Lukic elders were quick to wrap her in a hug, weeping into her shoulders and wetting the hems of her sweater. She's pretty sure they'd wailed once or twice, about how unfair it all was that their gentle, perfect daughter was taken so soon. Why do the good die young? They'd asked, eyes turned towards the sky as if it'd offer an answer.

She wondered what they'd think about her if they knew the truth.

She wondered, briefly, if her being reaped was some cosmic revenge for what she'd done to Loomer. That, in return for making a boy disappear into the void, she too would have to die. But she quickly rid herself of such notions. What she'd done was good, beneficial to the entire community. There's no reason for any higher being to punish her. In fact, they might be rewarding her - an opportunity to become even richer, to be able to give even more to those in need. That made more sense to her.

After her parents had finished their part, a flow of people had flooded the room, all sullen faces and some crying, giving cookies and candles and any other vigil offerings to her parents. She was confused, at first, at what all these people were doing here, until they all started thanking her for everything she's done in the neighborhood. About her charity helping children survive a cold winter, or a starvation, or an illness. These people were grateful for her. They were terrified to see her leave.

It's true, Snaedis is a bit worried, too. What will Eight do without her? She's sure that there are other kind souls like her out there, but none that have the same platform and resources as her. She was the glue holding the community together. She's scared to see it fall apart in her absence.

(And what about monsters? What about ghastly boys and bullies, will they grow like weed in the absence of gardeners? Will they celebrate her departure, that she can't reach them now? Will the darkness grow without her there?)

If she wins, Snaedis might be able to bring it back from a state of chaos. If she dies, though, she's really not sure what she'll leave in her wake.

"Oh, Tilly, I'm so so sorry," one of her neighbors is saying to her mother, a kind hand placed in her lap. "It's so unfair. So unfair to the both of you, to the whole District too. Snae's probably one of the best people we've ever had emerge from this shithole and - and now… I mean… Christ, it's so unfair."

Snaedis frowns. She, of course, appreciated all the compliments and the offerings and the sympathy. Snaedis is the furthest possible from ungrateful. But something about the way people have been talking about her, about her fate… it's rubbing her the wrong way. It's like they assume she'll die, guaranteed cannon fodder, like they're already planning her funeral and comforting grieving parents.

She understands that they might have a hard time imagining her killing anybody - she does too, it's the last thing she wants to do - but it's possible for her to win without doing so. She's sure she can do it, if she surrounds herself with allies and stays sharp, witty, clever. And maybe with a couple good luck charms on her side, too, but that's not considered cheating, is it?

Her mother nods, still shaking from all the crying she's been doing. It hurts Snaedis to see her this way, so weak and frail. She wants to reach out and hug her mother like she does to the starving orphan children in the streets, offer her a cookie and brighten up her day, but she knows that that wouldn't be enough to cure her sadness. All she can do to make her parents - no, her entire District feel better is win.

(And all she's ever wanted is to make people happy. No one can accuse her of selfish motives, then, if she uses a few underhand tactics to make it out. It's for the greater good. Her entire existence is for the greater good, so why cut it short?)

"I just…," her father starts, desperate and confused and unable to form a coherent sentence since her Reaping. "I love Snaedis, and I believe in her." He turns to look at Snaedis, which is nice, because everybody's been talking like she's already in a coffin so far. "I believe in you, Snae. I do. I just… I know you have such a big heart, and… and you're going to try so hard to save everybody and… well, that's the last thing you want to be doing in the arena. You're just too kind, Snaedis, it… it scares me. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say."

Snaedis glances around the room, trying to see how her neighbors will react to her father's words. She waits for someone to say that it's okay if she becomes a little selfish, just this once, in the arena. That they won't judge her if she isn't her saintly self in there, that they won't look at her differently. That she's allowed to think of herself, just this once.

But no one does. They all nod, eyes downturned, at her father's words, murmuring in agreement. 'It's such a shame, isn't it, that our poor Snaedis will be kind until the end… it really is too bad,' they seem to be saying.

A flash of anger flares in her chest. It's not fair. Just because she's been so kind all her life doesn't mean she has to continue being so. It's not fair that they prefer to think of her as a martyr, that they want her to cling onto her goodness until it kills her, rather than entertain the idea of her slightly stained but alive.

They prefer her as a concept. They don't actually care about her making it home. They prefer to grieve her as something pure, taken too early, than accept any form of change.

(Would they hate her? If they knew that she'd taken a life already? Would they turn their eyes in disgust, make her into a pariah, muttering about how she's dirtied her legacy?)

Would they be incapable of seeing that an act of violence she commits is a necessary evil, one done for them?

Are they that ungrateful?

"I'm… gonna try to make it back, you know," she says, but no one seems to hear her. She's always loved her soft, mousy voice - it was reassuring, a calming presence for scared children. It made it easy for her to read bedtime stories. But now, she realizes how much it prevents her from being heard. "Guys?" she insists, raising her voice but not yelling, because she's too young to yell.

They finally notice her, turning towards her. "What is it, Snae?" her mother asks, so gentle. It's like she's expecting Snaedis to give them her dying wish.

(She feels like she's on death row. She feels like she's already dead to all of them.)

"I just… I want you guys to know that I'm still going to try, you know that, right?" she repeats.

Everyone glances at each other, like they know something she doesn't. It's the first time Snaedis has ever wished she was older, less innocent.

"We know, Snae," her father assures her. "We know you're going to do your best. But we just want you to know that there's no need for you to try to hurt anyone. We know your heart is pure, Snae, and that you're not going to put yourself first. We'll forgive you if you don't come back. We know that's what you'd want us to do."

She opens her mouth, and she doesn't know what she wants to say but there's a thousand words pressing into her throat. None of them make it out. She just squeaks a little at them all. A gaping fish out of water.

"We'll forgive you, Snae," her mom repeats.

(They'll forgive her for her kindness. They'll forgive her if she dies. But will they forgive her if she lives, if she returns soaked in blood, if she lets some evil slip into her?)

They won't. They won't love her anymore, and she knows it.

Snaedis doesn't want to hurt her District. Doesn't want to hurt her neighbors, or her family. All she's ever done was for them, to see them smile and thrive and bloom. If she loses herself in that arena, she'd be betraying them all. She'd be robbing them of thousands of good memories. Her parents want to keep those sights of her taking care of children, reading to them fairy tales, close to their chests. She can't rewrite those by killing defenseless people. She can't ruin it.

She's become a symbol of hope for so many people, might even become an inspiration, a role model that parents tell their children about. She'll be more useful to them all dead and innocent.

She'll do far more good when dead.

That was her excuse, wasn't it, for killing Loomer? That his death was for the greater good, that his purpose is best served away from everybody? That some people simply need to be taken for the rest to thrive?

If Snaedis' purpose is the same, she'd be a hypocrite to not accept it. She'd be a terrible person - a murderer instead of a miracle worker. She'd be a terrible person if she didn't die.

Snaedis just wants to make them happy.

(She doesn't want to prove that Loomer's death was a selfish thing. She's bigger than that, greater than that. She would never sink to his level.)

She smiles at them.

"Thank you. I'm so sorry if I don't make it back. Please don't blame the victor for my death. They'll deserve comfort, too."

Everybody does, after all.