"And the ones who speak the words

Always say it is the last

And no answer will be heard

To the question no one asks."

Enzo Rivers, 17, District Five (He/Him)

"It just doesn't add up."

Enzo stares into space, dissecting the world as if it will reveal all its secrets. Secrets he might never know. Secrets that plague him and push him to his breaking point.

Sera doesn't know the extent of it. He hides it well—or at least, so he hopes. The nights spent awake, tossing and turning the questions in his mind until they're too confused to even begin to solve.

And it hurts, to see a puzzle unresolved, more than he cares to let on. There are countless unsolved cases in the world, and the weight of that knowledge is enough to bear down even Enzo's level head.

"Earth to Enzo! Detective R, come in."

Sera's playful voice floats over his head, skirting his impenetrable walls. He cannot bring himself to focus on her, not when he's like this. Twirling the pen between his fingers, he focuses on its hypnotic rhythm.

Ironic, perhaps, that he's solved so many mysteries and still not managed to divine his own. Enzo Rivers: the biggest mystery of all, perhaps forever left cold.

"Enzo..."

(A baby in a basket, unknown and unwanted on the steps of an orphanage.

Young Enzo, eagerly inquiring about his parents. Who they might be. Why they had left.)

Sera's voice is miles away. "Can I do anything?"

(Those adults at the orphanage told him that his past was untraceable. That a mysterious man had left him unclaimed.)

He snaps back to reality, reeling in his ruminating mind. Trying to ignore the fact that not knowing who he is, where he came from, is eating him up inside.

Not because he longs for companionship. He doesn't need, nor trust, anyone but Sera.

But because there is a missing piece of the puzzle that is his past—it's almost gone entirely, no clues left. And no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, that absence of knowledge is agonizing.

"I was lost in thought," he says, forcing himself back to the clipboard placed between him and Sera.

"That happens a lot," Sera says gently, but he can hear the cautious prying in her tone.

"Does it matter?" He doesn't feel defensive or accusatory... he merely can't understand why his propensity toward introspection would ever cause a problem in their partnership, when the very contents of his musings are always rooted in mysteries. In the persistent questions that refuse to fade.

Sera smiles a little, long accustomed to his vacant tone. "It matters because I want to make sure you're alright."

He stares at her blankly. "I'm not sure if I can determine that." Truly, he doesn't know how to define "alright." The term itself is subjective, and altogether meaningless.

(But if 'all right' means that his mind is not plagued by perilous questions that threaten to unmake his careful logic, then he supposes he's not quite there.)

"I guess you're right." Sera's eyes gleam in her signature way, as if the question is yet another great adventure. Just as questions repel Enzo, so do they attract his best friend.

A well-balanced pair, indeed.

"Let's just get back to the case," he says flatly.

Sera scrutinizes him like a riddle for a few moments—he's grown accustomed to her assessing gaze—before straightening her shoulders and nodding. "Of course." She gestures to the clipboard—arguably old-fashioned, but Enzo prefers it over anything else. "What about it doesn't add up?"

"If the woman was selling cheap wares, why would the thief in question steal her poorly-made workmanship? Why wouldn't they instead go after a richer Capitolite?"

"People are desperate sometimes."

Even Enzo, who has never quite taken to socializing, sees the haunted glaze in Sera's eyes. After a moment of deliberation, he realizes that Sera must still be grieving her parents' murder.

He can't understand why, however. The case is closed, the killer caught. What possible room could she have for speculation? She should've been vindicated, as he was now that the needling question was gone from his mind.

Sera Velasco, yet another mystery unsolved. But somehow, he doesn't mind not knowing the machinery of her thought process. After all, Sera poses no harm to him... or at least, so he hopes.

"But why would a petty thief find their mark in the slums, of all places?" he persists.

"Maybe he wasn't as lofty," she says. "Maybe he wanted an easy find. I don't know that people have time for complicated motivations, not in Five." There's a hitch in her voice, as if her statement isn't completely factual.

"I just don't understand," he says softly. "Perhaps the thief was using this as a distraction, all while other members of his operation went for the bigger prize."

"Maybe," she says. "But if that's the case, their trick won't fly under our radar. We're not as stupid as Peacekeepers."

His spirits are almost lifted at that. It's nice to feel as if the question is in the realm of answering. "As much as I'd like this to be an open-and-shut case," he continues, "the woman gave us no description of the thief's appearance. We'd have to visit the crime scene, or ask around. Maybe the thief chose to wear a mask, though if he was lazy enough to steal from a public market stall, I doubt it."

A wry smile twists Sera's lips. "Not this again. This isn't Six, Enzo."

He blinks. "Whatever are you referring to?"

"I just know you're thinking about Blade right now." She's still grinning, a little teasingly. "You only bring him up every other minute."

"Actually, I've only mentioned Blade's name three times in the last seventy days."

She sighs. "I guess I can't argue with that."

Prior to last year's Games, news of the Masked Killer had spread even outside Six's borders, and Enzo couldn't help but be enamored by the vigilante's secret methods. He was quick to solve the case—long before the Capitol, of course—and though he wouldn't readily admit to being a fan of Blade, he couldn't deny it either.

"Are you suggesting we hold the case until we can visit the crime scene tomorrow?" Sera says.

"I suppose."

Enzo immediately feels the loss of that thrill he always feels when he's solving a mystery. Without the diversion, he's alone with his thoughts.

"Or we could leave now," says Sera, reading a tell in his expression he didn't know he had. Others have told him he comes off as emotionless, but Sera somehow reads him effortlessly. "Nothing's stopping us."

Solving cases with Sera always reminds him of his earliest days, alone in the orphanage and taking refuge in logic games. He never had a single friend, not until Headmaster Zepherus had taken notice of Enzo's intelligence and taken him away to a private orphanage for gifted children. Zepherus gave them the skills and resources necessary to become detectives, and Enzo soon encountered Sera in his quest to solve a case that just wasn't adding up—the murder of a couple in Five, one that the Peacekeepers had ignored. At first, she'd merely been a nuisance. They'd gotten in each other's way, unable to collaborate.

But eventually, Enzo realized Sera's strengths; that she was smart and confident, loyal and willing to ask questions. She was everything he wasn't, but at the same time unbelievably similar. They became friends and, eventually, private investigating partners. They trained in martial arts and got a nice apartment.

Now they walk through the dreary night where the monsters of Five prowl, hoping to find answers. Enzo shouldn't be thinking about anything other than the case at hand... but tonight, his thoughts refuse to follow logic. He can't stop thinking about the gaping hole in place of his family tree, can't stop wondering why his parents would do such a thing, what could possibly lead up to an orphaned baby on a doorstep. Enzo's calculated and re-sketched the odds; being the renowned detective that he is, he should've solved his past by now.

But he hasn't. And for once, his emotion is overtaking his need to solve the case. He is haunted, consumed, by his own cryptic beginnings.

And he promises himself that he will find out who he is, if only to make the questions stop. If only for life to make sense again.

...

Zean Deveraux, 18, District Two (He/Him)

As a child surrounded by war and its aftermath, Zean isn't necessarily surprised to see a fight break out in the scant stretch of pavement behind the school. But he can't say the sight gratifies him—to call it a fight is generous. Truly, it's more of a pointless display of power, one that hardly matters in the end. He doesn't know who the bigger boys think they're fooling, pummeling Tam while he folds in on himself, cowering against the pavement. Their careless displays of superiority don't even mean anything. Zean can respect a show of power, but only in the right context, and this certainly isn't it.

(Besides, Tam comes from a highly respectable family, good Capitol lineage. The type of family who does honest work and fights for what matters. The riffraff who call themselves men are simply taking out their anger on an innocent boy, and Panem knows they could change their situation if they wanted. They just aren't working hard enough.)

He chances a glance back and forth. School has long let out, and he really shouldn't be here. Now that the Games are out in the open, his training has moved from the clandestine hours of the night into the lighter, yet still more obscure, late-afternoon. He really should be going soon... but Zean is long-accustomed to secrets, and something about the boy's whimpers and bloody lip is making his own hands shake with anger.

What's the harm? It's not as if the Capitol itself is watching. Or, at least... he doesn't think so. And they'd approve of him defending someone, wouldn't they? Even if the boy is younger and smaller, such displays of emotion might not befit someone of Zean's status, and certainly not for what he's preparing for...

He shakes his head and hurries forward before he can change his mind. "Well, if I'd known there would be cheap entertainment here, I'd have brought snacks," he drawls. "If you can even call this entertainment. I'd say more like cruel punishment for a non-existent crime, but that's technicality."

He strolls forward, cool and conversational, unable to help relishing the stares of all three boys. The two larger ones, scrappier and rougher around the edges, stand with bloody knuckles over Tam, who gazes up at him with eyes already beginning to swell and bruise. The boy on the left cracks his knuckles, as if such pithy assertion of dominance could ever impress Zean.

They have no idea.

"What's it to you?" Thug Number One growls.

"Oh, nothing," Zean says. "Just that I've never been an idle audience member. I might like to participate, and I think you know whose side I'd be on..." He lays a hand casually on his waistband, as if to check for a stowed weapon. That he would have a knife—or merely a sharp rock—somewhere on his person is highly plausible, given the rumors spreading like hairline fissures through the District.

Word is that there's a group who train specifically for the Hunger Games. The forbidden fruit, the shroud of mystery that Zean has always longed to unveil... word is that Zean is one of the head competitors. Some even say that he could Volunteer... and win, salvaging Two's reputation after the wayward son that was Tremor Atilius.

Zean's not one to put much stock in rumors, but he'd bet good money on this one.

Thug Number Two stands up straighter. "You wouldn't dare."

Zean doesn't like the wild look in the other boy's eyes. Quick as a viper, his fist cracks across Thug Number Two's jaw. The other boy reels back, and the only sound in the deserted schoolyard is the resounding snap.

"You were saying?" says Zean, a hint of true heat entering his voice.

Without a word, the boys turn to go, casting hateful looks over their shoulders. They're no longer looking at him like he's the greatest surprise since the Games, but Tam is. He's managed to sit up, and his gaze is locked on Zean's. "You... you just..."

Zean winces a little. It's not that he doesn't enjoy Tam's appreciation—or at least, that's what he reads in his round eyes and slack jaw. It's only that...

"Maybe we could keep this between us." He gently takes the other boy's shoulders, helping him to his feet. "Wouldn't want any more trouble."

Tam blinks, wide-eyed and wordless. Finally, he nods once.

"Good man." He squeezes his shoulder before stepping back.

He considers walking him home, but that feels like a stretch. After all, he's going to be killing children just as doe-eyed and defenseless as this boy... and sympathy will only get in the way. It's for the best. Isn't it?

He shakes off the image of Tam's bloodied features like an old coat, turning away and setting off down the street.

He hopes the boy doesn't spill his story the moment he's out of sight. It feels a bit silly, maybe, to swear Tam to secrecy. But then, he must keep some things close to his chest in Two. Otherwise, they're out of his reach. And what would become of him then?

His life is kept in perfect segments; the hours spent training, the time he dedicates to helping his neighbors and family on occasion, and the facade he adopts at school. It's only recently that they've begun to overlap, and Zean can't decide how he feels about it.

It's difficult, sometimes, to reckon with the fact that his parents don't know he's training, preparing to Volunteer. But he can't imagine what they'd say if they found out. It's unspoken knowledge in the Deveraux home that Zean's parents were not necessarily on the Capitol's side during the war. They stood with the rebellion, offering them medical supplies and who knows what else...

Zean can't fathom why they would do such a thing. Now he has a chance to win, to salvage their family in the eyes of the Capitol. If he can just win, he knows that the Capitol will reward him handsomely. The District will no longer be seen as disgraceful and strange and flighty in their eyes.

His family will be safe.

And the prestige doesn't sound bad either. Zean can't lie—at least, not about that. Even though he lies to himself about so many other things.

He saunters home beneath the slate-gray sky, through the silvery mist of night in Two, and tries to savor the thought of recognition. But in its wake are the ghosts of sensations—the sting of his fist where it met the lower-class boy's face. The tightness in his chest as he saw Tam's desperate breaths. And the sickening pit in his stomach that still lingers from months ago, when he told his best friend Aria his plan.

He'd expected joy—or at least intrigue. But her expression had hardened into contempt... contempt and horror.

She'd called him twisted. Sadistic. Foolish for buying into the Capitol's false promises. It was only right that he cut her out of his life, destroying her reputation as a socialite with what sway he had.

Now that the Games are out in the open, training has become more official. His previous advisor, furtive and excellent at dodging the Capitol's grasp, was taken away for questioning and never returned. He... he thinks of all these things now, as he nears his home, where his siblings and parents are preparing for dinner.

It's only natural that he serves the Capitol. Any unease he feels is merely a flaw in his own character.

He must not waver. He will continue this path, regardless of the occasional lapse in his judgment, because his family has earned it.

He has earned it.

And for those who fall to the Capitol's wrath... certainly it can only be what they deserve.

...

Nylon Singh, 17, District Eight (He/Him)

He's heard that some children are raised knowing that they can be anything, obtain any dream, pursue whatever their heart desires. Once, he might've wished to become like them, instilled with the knowledge that the world was his for the taking.

Now he understands that his life will only ever resemble the factory he feeds his hours into: cyclical, dull and industrial. He, too, must adapt to the whirring industry of the Capitol, becoming a pair of hands toiling toward someone else's goal. It's easier this way, to know that his life will never become more than the jobs he works away at, that what he earns is fleeting and never quite worth it.

Except... except it is, a little. He's not entirely succumbed to the passionless mechanism that is Eight's factories—there's something that tethers him to life, something which keeps him from slipping entirely into apathy.

And perhaps he can't even call it that, not when he still manages to work for hours a day in the factory, making sequined clothes for rich children who have their pick at life's fineries. If he were completely purposeless, he would've vanished into the faceless surge of desperation in Eight. But he's still clinging—foolishly, desperately—to what little life he has.

He glances down at the line of stitches as the machine's needle creeps slowly over the fabric, careful to make them crooked and grotesque, just as the Capitol has always been. He knots the ends into the machine and watches the once beautiful shirt become something else entirely. To the pampered Capitol materialists, it is unsalvageable. But to him... well, it's the one way he knows how to rebel.

With everything else, he doesn't dare. He's seen what rebelling does to people. His father was executed for his involvement in the battles, and the enforcers only spared Nylon's mother because she was pregnant with him and thus had a plausible cover story. Still, rebellion has set him on a course of no return, a slow but steady decline toward deprivation.

(But no... all can't be lost, not when his mother depends on him. Not when she's the only reason he still lives and breathes on this miserable earth. He can't watch her break, not more than she already has.)

He makes a show of gasping, pulling the ruined shirt from the hungry machine, careful not to lose his fingers as so many have before him. The Capitol's industry is ruthless, uncaring of the lives it takes.

He slumps to the ground, allowing himself a moment's reprieve as the foreman storms toward him, his steel-toed boots echoing above the din. "What is this, useless brat? Why aren't you working?"

Nylon looks up despondently, not even bothering to apologize. He bears the stream of curses that follow, along with the barrage of insults. This, at least, is worth it.

He watches as the foreman wears himself out, then throws the shirt into a conveniently placed scrap pile. Nylon isn't sure why the man hasn't learned yet—he would worry that the amount of times he could pull this trick were limited, but he doubts the foreman will catch on anytime soon.

The world has lost faith in Nylon—everyone but his mother, for some inexplicable reason. On most counts, they're right to forsake him. But he's clever enough to salvage what clothing he can. Every stitch of fabric does wonders, especially when resources are stretched so thin.

The work day winds down, finally, and Nylon lets himself become invisible in the crowd, carefully snatching his handiwork from the refuse pile. He makes his way home, choking on the smell of city smog and misery. Still, seeing his mother's tired smile as he opens the door is like a ray of sunshine in its own right.

He runs to her, and they embrace for a long moment. He lets himself smile, finally. This is the one place where he can drop the thousand walls holding him together. Here, he is a boy again, taking refuge in his mother's arms, and he can almost believe nothing will happen to them if they just stay together...

But even here, he can't allow such optimism. At least, not for extended periods.

"How was work?" he asks gently, slicing an onion for their nightly broth.

"I got a raise!" She smiles, but Nylon can see the fatigue creeping in around the corners. The world has not been kind to him, but that doesn't hurt nearly as much as that struggling smile on his mom's face.

She deserves so much more than what he could be. Still, he tries for her. In some ways, she is all that keeps him together.

"That's great," Nylon says, helping her with her coat, which does little to stave off the chill of the factories.

She nods. "It's not much, but it'll help us through the winter. What about you?" She ruffles his hair, and he pretends to cringe but can't help but grin. "Anything new and exciting?"

He chuckles. "The day something new happens at the factory is the day I become President."

"You never know." She smiles down at him as he ladles broth into bowls, trying not to think about how scant their stores are. "I think you'd be capable, if only you got the chance. My hardworking boy..." She trails off, staring sadly into the distance.

"Mom?" He reaches out, concerned.

She takes his hand. "Someday you'll make it out of here, Nylon."

He wouldn't believe that for a minute, but he lets himself dream, just for a moment... "Not without you. Wherever I go, you'd come with."

"I don't think anything could separate me from you." She smiles, and somewhere in the distance, Nylon thinks he can hear the universe laughing at him, biding its time.

But that's bleak, even for him. His mother can make him believe the impossible, even though he knows he'll never be anything more than a poor boy working himself to the bone.

It's true that other children have privilege and prospects. He can't deny that he spends every day knowing nothing will ever change.

But sitting beside his mother, letting all the aches of the day's work fade away, he feels as if he could almost be content. If only the war hadn't taken so much, if only he could stand against the Capitol's wrath...

But he doesn't stand a chance. It's the coldest, realest truth there is. Any type of revolt would be quickly stamped out, and the consequences would be devastating. He couldn't do that to his mother.

Tomorrow, he'll wake and the process will begin again, a meaningless task performed so many times that the lines between sunrise and sunset begin to blur.

It's so easy to forget why he even bothers, why he doesn't just sink into the streets... but then he sees his mother, fussing over the lamps and looking at him like he's worth something amid the drudgery...

And he remembers all over again. Life isn't entirely featureless.

Somehow, Nylon continues toward the light, struggling on and keeping his head down and trying so vainly not to lose himself.

Because he knows that his mother would come looking. And she might become lost, too. So he chases after sleep, every joint of his body aching, and hopes that someday he might earn that gentle, proud look on his mother's face.

...

If It's True- Hadestown

Hadestown is just the Miriverse anthem. I don't make the rules!

For real though, it's so lovely to be able to post another chapter, and I'm so sorry that it's been a minute! What with the school show, college essays and homework, I've been a bit of a busy bee! I hope you all have been doing well! This chapter, we said hello to Enzo, Zean and Nylon, three very angsty bois lol, I hope you enjoyed meeting them just as much as I loved writing them! Thanks to their submitters, Jay, Son of Arryn and Lance! Hopefully I did your kids justice :)

November is Nano, so I'll try to stockpile and still post a chapter or two, but chances are you might not see me because I'll be working on another project, but I'll be sure to keep in touch and update my profile! Thank you so, so much for your kind thoughts and reviews thus far, they've meant so much! I really appreciate your continued reading despite my slowness lol. Wishing you the spookiest of Haloweens!

Miri