Chaff:

As the boy hits the dirt, I enter an out-of-body state. It isn't euphoria. That implies happiness. Instead, the adrenaline and rage fuel my trip to an in-between world. Somewhere that I do not - cannot - feel pain. Oblivion is so freeing, but I can't stay there forever.

The descent always comes.

Mine begins with the sounds. A tinny, sustained ringing hovers over the muted cheers of the crowd. It must be louder. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning everything else out. I focus on the heaving rise and fall of my breath - ragged, uneven.

Then, the pain rushes back. My core burns. My legs ache. A dull, throbbing sting spreads through my closed left fist. My fighting hand. I flex my fingers, trying to ease the stiffness. It doesn't help. There's something wet on my face. Sweat? I touch it. No. Blood.

When my vision sharpens, I remember where I am. The Cockpit. The one place I never want to see, and the only place I can rely on.

The warehouse is small, dark, stinking of sweat and cigarettes. Smoke slithers through a crude hole in the ceiling, escaping into the thick District 11 night. Everything else is smothered in grime, shadow, or filth. The air is heavy, metallic - blood and rust. The smell is unbearable.

It wasn't always like this. They say they used to export persimmons from here, back before the Dark Days. Boxing them up, shipping them off to the Capitol. Now, the only thing leaving this place is broken bodies. The Peacekeepers make good money off it, letting kids from Zone B bash each other's skulls in for entertainment. Their own pathetic knockoff of the Games.

The worst part? Most of us do it willingly. If you're not brainy or well-connected enough to get a job in the labs or greenhouses, the payout is a hundred times better than the orchards. The patrons don't give a flying fig about us, the wranglers pay us a sliver of a commission from their winnings, on top of what we get for the rumble itself. One fight gets me what I'd make in a week. Sometimes a month, depending on who I'm fighting. And I'm good at it.

In two years, I've lost twice. And that was just down to beginner's bad luck.

The Cockpit has been going on since before I was born. It's always been underground, invitation only. That type of thing. You learn about it by word of mouth, or if you're scouted like I was. I suspect the higher authorities don't know, but if they do, I'd be surprised if they turn a blind eye. We're one of the biggest districts in Panem, so they like to keep us under control. I bet there's more Peacekeepers in Eleven at any given time, than there are being trained in Two.

And they like to remind you that they're there. Getting a lashing for being out past curfew, or refusing to work past your designated shift hours, is pretty common.

Still, if I was caught at the Cockpit, a few lashings would be the least of my worries.

As they drag off my opponent - a kid younger than me but two inches taller - I feel a hand clap my back. I flinch, muscles tensing, ready to swing. My brain knows the fight is over, but my body doesn't.

"Chaff, brother, you continue to astound me," laughs Dante, the Cockpit's head wrangler. His accent has that gruff, gravelly District 2 edge, though it's been softened by years in the Peacekeeper force. "I haven't seen a left-hook like that since Attilus. Almost makes me wish you'd been born Two."

Dante's as smooth as an apple skin, but I don't let it fool me. He's as vicious as any Career. Still, he's the man with the money, so I put up with him.

He tosses me a rag, which I grudgingly accept. The cloth is so stained with dried blood it barely makes a difference. Dante watches me, his picture-perfect smile turning wolfish. "I'm serious. You got something, Chaffy. I see many more victories in your future."

I shrug. "If it means spending more time with you, I hope not."

"Oh, you don't mean that," Dante says, his grin widening. "You need me. I pay your rent, boy."

The words hit like a hook to the ribs. I bristle, and my mouth moves before my brain can stop it. "And I line your pockets. But we can't all be leechin' Career dropouts, can we?"

For a moment, something flickers in Dante's expression. His eyes widen, an expression I can't quite place. Anger? Shame? I'm not sure. Then, like a match snuffed out, it's gone.

Instead, his lips curl in amusement, but his voice drips venom. "No, we can't. Some of us get the pleasure of looking after old women and simpletons instead."

My body reacts before I can think. My hand clamps around his collar, left fist raised, ready to smash that smarmy, purple face into pulp. His eyes dart, not in fear - he knows better - but in calculation.

Even now, on the brink of a beating, he knows he has the upper hand. Despite my size, my strength, I don't have the numbers. His comrades are here. If I hit him, I lose the Cockpit. And without the Cockpit, I lose everything.

I shove him away, sucking my teeth. "You're not worth it."

Dante smooths his shirt, and starts rubbing his throat. "Oh, I think you like me more than you admit."

I look away. "You're confusion' tolerance with me actually giving a damn."

Dante curls his body towards me, amused. "Ah, but tolerance is a funny thing, isn't it? It means you put up with me because you have to. Because without me, without this -" he gestures lazily to the ring behind him, where a new fight is already starting, "- you're just another hungry stray looking for scraps." His smile widens. "And listen, Chaffy, I'm a generous guy. I'm very happy to help feed the desperate."

His words slither under my skin, like a stalk worm. We both know he's telling the truth. I do need this, and that's what stings the most.

Dante steps closer, lowering his voice. His breath reeks of mint leaves and rot. "You think you've got choices? You don't. I own this place. I own the fights. And when you step into that ring, you're mine. My fighter, my investment, my product."

I meet his eyes, refusing to back down. "Then why keep tryin' to convince me, Dante? If I'm just another dog in your pit, you wouldn't need to remind me of the leash."

For a split second, something hard flashes behind his eyes - like a blade catching light. Like he's thought of something dangerous and ingenious. Then he laughs, clapping my cheek lightly, patronizing. "Oh, Chaffy, you're much sharper than you need to be. But sharp things break easy, you know. And broken things get swept away."

"Maybe I don't break so easy as you think," I growl.

Dante's slimy smirk widens. "Then maybe you're not the one that needs breaking."

I stare him down. The threat lingers between us like the smoke curling from the rafters.

"You're pathetic," I mutter, turning away from him.

Dante steps closer. "Don't be so grumpy, Chaff. You were born for this." He pinches my cheek. "Let's all stick to what we're good at, eh?"

A beast stirs in my stomach. Claws rake at me from the inside, scratching, desperate to break free.

"I need some air," I say, voice flat, as I shove my way towards the exit.

Dante calls after me. "Next match is in five! Try not to disappoint me, yeah?"

On the way out, I'm met with glares of bitterness, mostly from wranglers and betters that had stacks of cash against me in my last match. I recognise one or two of them; Peacekeepers that oversee the section of the orchard that I work in. They're the ones that wanted, needed, me to lose. Their wages now mostly line the pockets of fat cats like Dante. And me, a little. But I'm still the one they blame. I always am.

They're cowards, all of them. Take away their guns and tear gas and they're nothing. I decide to return their resentment with a challenging look of my own.

Call me out, it says. I dare you. You can start the fight, but I'll finish it.

When I get outside, the night clings to me. It's hot and damp, like a second skin. There's no breeze, and the air is thick with dust and the distant scent of ripe fruit. I lean against the corrugated wall, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I can't lose it. The next fight is only a mustard seed away, and I need the fire. The animal. It makes me feel alive in the worst way. I hate that I love it.

Far off, crickets sing, their song weaving through the faint whistling of the late-night orchardists signaling the end of their shift. If they're climbing down now, in harvest season, it must be extremely late - this next match will need to be my last. Otherwise everyone at home will start to get suspicious.

I swat away a tooth fly, tiny little things that nip and irritate. My knuckles are still throbbing, my temple pulsing. But it isn't the pain that bothers me.

I think of my family. Mamaw, old and frail, but sharp as a knife - when she's lucid. Clem, my older sister, strict and unflinching, always on guard. And our brother Cain, the best of us, sweet and good and simple. He's different, from birth he always was that way, and people haven't always been kind. It hasn't changed him. It makes me angry that the world is how it is. He deserves better. I mean, it should all be better. For him.

Nobody knows I do this. Not even Clem. They don't need the stress, so I feed them some cottonball story about unregistered hours and under-the-table cash. Cain didn't even question me. He trusts me too much.

It crushes me to lie to him, it does, but I have to. There's a hundred things we need, and that's before I take out tesserae. I can't justify the pride. I can't allow mistakes, not when there's britches to fix or shoes to fix. Mouths to feed and water. A roof to keep us all together and off the streets.

Still, while I act as if Dante, the punters, the Peacekeepers, are all the problem, I know my anger is misdirected. They're all just tiny, tedious cogs in the bigger machine. It's the Capitol I hate. For taking our bodies and our minds and using them, owning them, to satisfy their greed and cater to their every single whim. We break our backs and work ourselves into the ground, and even then it's not enough. I still have to break the law and risk whipping, or worse, to look after what I've got to.

It's so unfair.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel pulls me from my thoughts. The footfalls are heavy, deliberate - someone who walks like they own the ground beneath them. I don't need to look up to know who it is.

"You keep makin' that face, it's gonna stick," comes a familiar voice, low and rasping with amusement.

I glance over just as Hosta steps into the moonlight, her arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her split lip.

She's built like a stone house - broad-shouldered, thick-muscled, all power and no pretense. The kind of strength that comes from years of labor, not just a few fights in the Cockpit. A mess of dark curls falls past her jaw, some of it matted with sweat, some of it stuck to a fresh cut along her temple. She looks like she's just come out of a fight herself, and knowing her, she probably has.

"Yeah?" I grumble. "What face is that?"

Hosta squints, tilting her head like she's studying a stubborn mule. Sizing up if it'll kick. "Dunno. Kinda looks like you swallowed something real sour, but you're too proud to spit it out."

Despite myself, I huff a laugh. "Maybe it's just this place I don't like the taste of."

Hosta barks out a short, sharp laugh and leans against the wall beside me, exhaling through her nose. "None of us like it. We just like the money more." She jerks her chin toward the knuckles on my left hand, now stiff and swollen. "How's the hand?"

"Fine."

"Liar," she says easily, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a grubby strip of cloth. She holds it out. "That's your famous hook hand. You need that." At the look on my face, she rolls her eyes. "Cut it out, everyone knows it. Now wrap it up before it gets worse."

I hesitate. Hosta and I don't really do soft gestures or careful concern, but she's already pressing the cloth into my palm. I take it without a word, and she nods, satisfied.

For a long moment, we just stand there, listening to the distant sounds of the Cockpit. More punches landing. More bodies falling. Another fight, another bet, another kid scrambling for a handful of coins. The machine keeps turning.

Finally, Hosta nudges me with her elbow. "You know, for someone who wins so much, you sure look like you just lost."

I shake my head. "I'm just tired."

Hosta snorts. "You're always tired."

She isn't wrong. The exhaustion clings to me, bone-deep, like the dirt under my fingernails that never quite scrubs clean.

I don't answer, just focus on wrapping my hand, tightening the cloth until it bites into my skin. The pain keeps me grounded, keeps my thoughts from spinning out. I'm good at pain, knowing how to handle it. Always have been. I don't seek it out, but when it finds me, I deal with it. I don't know where it comes from, but living here, it comes in handy.

Hosta shifts beside me. "It ain't just the fights, is it?"

I glance at her. "What ain't?"

She rolls her eyes. "The reason you're so wound up. You think I don't notice?"

I lower my head in frustration. "Not this again, Hos -"

"Yeah, this again." She pushes off the wall, facing me fully now, her arms still crossed. Dominant. "Look, you don't gotta tell me squat, but don't act like I'm stupid. You get that look in your eye, like -" She hesitates, searching for the words. "Like you're in the ring, already bracing for the next hit."

I look away, flexing my fingers, watching the knuckles shift beneath the cloth.

"I'm fine," I repeat.

Hosta sighs, long and slow. "You ever get tired of lyin'?"

"You ever get tired of pryin'?" I snap back.

She grins, quick and sharp. "Nah. It's a hobby."

I shake my head again, but there's no real heat behind it. Hosta's always been like this, ever since I met her here. Blunt as a hammer, persistent as blight. It's why we get along. She doesn't push too hard, doesn't try to make me spill my guts like some bleeding-heart sap. She just… notices things. Sees people as they are. It's a talent.

The silence stretches between us for long minutes. Eventually, Hosta nudges my foot with hers.

"Just say it," she mutters.

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you're stewin' on."

I exhale, running my tongue over my teeth. The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I manage to push them out. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Hosta doesn't react right away. She just watches me, unreadable. "You mean the fights?"

I nod. It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either.

She huffs. "So quit."

I scoff. "Right. And do what? Leave the district? Let my family starve?"

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue. We both know the answer. There is no other option.

She kicks at the dirt, then mutters, "I just don't wanna see you end up like Grover."

I don't question her. We both know. Grover is one of the ones we don't speak about. The ones who lose too many times… or who win too much. Make enemies. The ones who push until there's nothing left to push with.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Me neither."

Hosta studies me for a beat, then claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. It's the closest thing to comfort she'll allow.

"C'mon," she says, stepping back. "Let's get this over with."

I roll my shoulders. Exhale slowly. The fire's still there, smoldering low in my gut. And deep down, much deeper, the animal is growling, waiting to be let out. Maybe Dante is right, I think. Maybe this is who I am, whether I like it or not. But if it is, maybe I can use it. Not just for me or the wranglers. But for Cain and Mamaw and Clem. The ones who actually need me.

Just get it over with.

Hosta and I step back into the dark, gaping mouth of the Cockpit. Back into the belly of the beast. I hate it. More than that, I hate that I don't hate it enough. Fear that this is all I'll ever be.

That it might never stop.

As I enter the ring, the last thing I remember is the roar of the crowd.

Then I disappear, and the animal takes over.

A/N: I'm really excited to tell Chaff's (fanonical) story here - if you liked it, please leave a review (I know we're not supposed to write for them, but I'm a simple man) and let me know what you thought! I'm also working on a separate fic, Champion, a series of oneshots about Panem and all the Victors of the Games, so if you have the time, I would be super grateful if you could make the time to check that out, too!