TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of sexual assault, lynching, general abuse of power.

A peacekeeper stops Bay as he makes his way down the road.

"Where are you headed? The games start in less than an hour."

"I'm off to see Miss Hackett," Bay says, unthreatened by the peacekeeper– one of the slacker ones if he recalls his voice correctly. "To watch it with her. I think she'll need the company, don't you?"

He can't gauge the peacekeeper's reaction until he steps aside, his grip on his gun slackening ever so slightly. "Get where you're going then, no detours."

"She's just down the road, sir, you can watch me walk there if you so insist."

Bay hears a frown in his voice when he says, "Before I change my mind."

Bay nods, suppressing a frustrated sigh as he continues on his way. He can see the Hackett residence silhouetted by the morning sun, and the giant sky only seems to make the rickety shack look smaller. He knocks quietly on the door, softly enough that it wouldn't scare the woman inside. When he gets no answer, he hopes she's asleep.

He knows that Chrysanta hasn't slept a wink since her daughter departed. After he's met with a minute of silence, he notices the soft drone of a television. He pushes the door open, poking his head in to be met with the clean smell of herbal tea. Chrysanta, sitting at the table, is staring catatonically at the projector the Capitol had provided her to watch the games. Over the hearth is a pot, almost boiling over. Wordlessly, Bay goes to snuff out the fire, seeing the pot is full of water and leaves.

When the boiling stops, Chrysanta seems to snap out of her trance, looking to Bay with wide eyes, like she hadn't noticed him enter.

"Oh, goodness," she mumbles, standing up and frantically making her way to the dusty old alcove. "That was supposed to be for you- I've only gone and oversteeped it."

Bay catches her hand when she reaches for the pot. She looks up at him, and Bay can see the streaks of tears that look as though they've carved a space into her brown cheeks over the past week.

"I didn't come for your tea, good as it is. I'm feeling okay today."

As promised, Bay had come by after the reaping. Though he hadn't intended for his back to be treated, Chrysanta had done so anyway, insisting it might clear her head. It hadn't, but she had continued to treat him each time he came by, which was every day now.

He was better, not perfect, but Chrysanta's magic hands had worked wonders when otherwise he might've suffered permanent damage. By no means was it his first whipping, but he wasn't as young as he used to be.

"Are you certain?" Chrysanta asks, clearing her throat when the words come out croaky.

"I'm certain. I'm here for you today." He was here to fulfil his promise to Embelia. A promise that he knew he was capable of keeping.

He thinks of the promise Embelia made to him, and looks at the projector screen. They're running a recap on the entire lead up, parades, interviews, scores. Every so often, he sees Embelia. He knows he's tasked her with the impossible, but he still believes in her.

"Oh, Bay," she says, leading him to sit down. "I appreciate it, I do. But won't you get in trouble?"

"Long as I'm watching, they won't mind. Got express permission from a peacekeeper to be here."

She looks worried at the very idea. Though, she has every right to. Chrysanta's distrust of peacekeepers is born of so much more than the fear of death or whipping that Bay's is.

Bay and Chrysanta grew up in the same neighbourhood, around the same age. Chrysanta was a few years younger, but he recalls her well. They were acquaintances at best, strangers at worst. Though, everyone knew Chrysanta. She was always the prettiest girl in town.

Bay recalls that in their early 20s she had a boyfriend– perhaps a fiance, that much is fuzzy. He's not sure if Embelia even knows that. They seemed happy, very in love. Everyone was jealous of the man. Hell, even Bay had envied him once or twice.

However, he remembers clearly that once, in the very middle of a sweltering summer, a peacekeeper was found in the strawberry fields. Beaten black and blue, and swinging from an oak tree. Rumours flew, but the one that resounded most was that Chrysanta's boyfriend and his friends had done it, an act of justice.

Everyone knew that the peacekeepers in 11 were twisted, to put it lightly. They doled out punishments like sweets to a spoiled child, but there were a few – more than a few – who found their pleasures in unwilling women and girls of the district. They took what they pleased, never ever facing consequences. So when a peacekeeper known for his tastes was hanged above the fields, people were quick to connect the dots.

It was only a week before Chrysanta's boyfriend and his friends took the peacekeepers place under the oak tree. Not at the gallows, but beneath a tree. A clear retaliation, a clear message. The punishment was served, and though some small justice had been served all the same, it wasn't enough to dull the blow of young Chrysanta's pain.

Nine months later, Embelia arrived, sharing a certain lynched peacekeeper's steely grey eyed gaze.

Everyone knows. Nobody says a word.

Bay doesn't know how much Embelia truly knows, but what he does know is that he's likely the sole reason Embelia hasn't fallen prey to a similar fate, to the wandering hands of entitled peacekeepers. He's strong, he's tall, and he's large for a man with such little sustenance. Peacekeepers can't push him around quite as easily if he so chooses to fight. He'd take a thousand lashings before he let a thing happen to the girl who fills the hole that his son left in his heart.

"You shouldn't be alone in this, Chrysanta," Bay says, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'll be right by your side each and every day."

Chrysanta looks ready to cry. "You've done so much for my Embelia," she says. And Bay knows just what she really means. "How can I possibly thank you for all this?"

There's nothing he'd ever accept from her. Without Embelia's tesserae, he knows she'll starve. And he swore to Embelia that he'd make sure that doesn't happen. What he earns isn't much, but he's willing to go without for Chrysanta's sake.

"You don't have to. Now, let me make you some tea, how does peppermint sound?" He knows she can spare it– mint grows like a weed all over town.

She nods, offering him a smile, but her exhaustion is palpable. He stands, and gets to work on the tea. By the time he's setting the steaming metal cup before her, the launch is approaching. He sits, and anxiously anticipates the horror to come.

The screen pans over the arena, a sprawling green jungle the likes of which Bay has never seen. The tributes raise up onto their podiums, and Bay holds his breath. There's a shot of all 24 children positioned in a circle around the shining cornucopia. They wear something of a jumpsuit, a strange, thick fabric Bay has never seen before, sturdy looking black boots, and a utility belt around the hips.

There's a lingering shot on the golden horn, overflowing with weapons, backpacks of supplies, medicine. But no food.

The cameras cycle through the tributes. For a few seconds the camera lingers on Embelia. Her hair is in two braids, as tight and uniform as Chrysanta's. The woman beside him makes a choked noise.

As the seconds go down, the tributes ready themselves.

Three.

Two.

One.

The gong sounds. The tributes spring into action.

Bay says a prayer to whoever might listen.