Arrivals.

"'Hope' is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -"
—Emily Dickinson, from "Hope"

The slight hum of the train gliding against the tracks is the only sound that keeps Odi tethered to reality as he stares out the window, his gaze fixed on the blur of passing scenery.

The world outside—rugged mountains, trees, and rivers—seems like nothing more than a smear of color to him. His mind is elsewhere, somewhere darker, swirling with the bitterness and anger that has defined him for years. He hasn't left his room since boarding yesterday, locked in a silent battle with himself.

He doesn't want to be here.

There's a knock at his door, the third in the last hour, but Odi ignores it just like he has the others. "Odi? Are you awake?"

The voice is young and innocent. It belongs to his district partner: Lykke.

The little girl currently standing outside his door stirred something in him when her name was called out at the reaping. But he hasn't looked at her since shaking her hand and being ushered into the Justice Building. Not on the ride over to the train station. Not in the dining cart before he made a beeline for his compartment. Not this morning. She reminds him too much of Mira.

The thought of her brings a sickening twist to his gut.

Lykke isn't supposed to be here. She's twelve. She shouldn't have been dragged into this mess, just like him. But Odi knows better than to let any of that show. She's his partner now—her life tied to his—and the weight of her helplessness makes him feel all the more angry.

But there's nothing he can do about it. Or rather, he will do nothing about it. Odi promised. He promised Mira that he'd prioritize himself. "Focus on yourself, just once," she had said, her hand resting on his. He had nodded, though he wasn't sure he could keep that promise, not after years of protecting them—of holding his family together when everything seemed to fall apart. Odi had always put their survival first, always tried to keep them alive. But now, with Mira's words echoing in his ears, he wonders if he can finally focus on keeping himself alive, too.

Another knock echoes through the room.

He clenches his fists around the worn leather that sits in his palms, focusing on the weight, shifting even further into the pillows on the bed. His gaze drifts across the room, landing on an elegant mirror that gleams softly in the dim light. In the reflection, Odi looks worn-down, his face etched with the weight of the past twenty-four hours, eyes sunken and tired. Burrowed between mountains of pillows, he looks like one of the racoons that sometimes stumble into their house, tangled in his own exhaustion, seeking shelter from the chaos outside.

Odi's fingers instinctively trace cotton laces, feeling the frayed fibers and the subtle roughness where they've been pulled tight countless times. As his fingers slide along tough ridges, the texture shifts—the leather is cracked in places, but still pliable, with small indentations from years of pressure and movement. The seams along the sides are slightly raised, their stitching thick and sturdy, yet softened from use.

Odi still remembers when his mother bought the pair of boots for his father. It was a happy day. One of the last few before she walked out on them. But now the boot in his hand is a reminder of everything he hates. It smells of alcohol and failure—his father's failure, his own.

His father had stumbled through the door during Odi's brief goodbyes with Mira and Erish, drunk like always, slurring promises he couldn't keep. The argument had been explosive. His father had promised that he would show up for the siblings, that he would try to be a man for once, to be something more than the man who let them all down.

While the older man begged for forgiveness, a mess of snot and ugly sobs, Odi screamed himself hoarse. "Why now? Why are you making this about you?" Odi had finally said. "I'm the one being damned and here you are groveling. Get the fuck up! You're pathetic."

Not even Erish or Mira cried as much as their father. Just goes to show who the real child is in the Belsvik clan. "Forgive me son, please!" Odi remembers hearing his father beg. "I should've done more. Been a better father. I was just so tired of this life, of being alone and miserable. It's your mother's fault I'm this way. I'm so sorry!"

"You really expect me to believe that? After all these years?" Odi replied, sneering with a face full of disgust. "If you're really that sorry, show me that you care. You know what? How about you send me off with a token of your love. When I'm getting carved up in the arena, maybe I'll hold on to it and finally believe that you actually loved us. Actions speak louder than words, daddy-o."

At that moment, Odi was being a gigantic asshole. He can admit that. But who could blame him for asking for such a small price for all the shit his father had pulled?

In the heat of it all, Odi had pushed his father onto his back and yanked his right boot off, one of the few things left that felt like it mattered. That's why he demanded something from his father. Not like his mother left anything for him before taking off.

He hadn't told anyone—hid the boot under his hand-me down jacket and avoided the annoying escort urging him along the corridor. Odi didn't need to. It was his reminder. His reason for wanting to make it out of this hellhole, for wanting to fight—to make sure that his siblings had a future. That they didn't end up like his father.

"I think you might be asleep in there, but if you're not, Liselotte said that we're thirty minutes out." There's a pause, like Lykke is trying to give him the opportunity to accept her olive branch, but Odi refuses to look at the door. He thinks he hears a soft sigh before she continues. "Okay, well. I'll save a spot for you."

A moment passes before footsteps softly take his district partner down the hall.

Odi's fingers tighten, knuckles turning white, leather groaning. He doesn't know if it's pride or anger that keeps him from breaking down. He isn't going to let the Capitol freaks see him crack. He isn't going to let them see how terrified he really is. He isn't going to let anyone see how inevitable death feels, how the silence inside his head screams louder than anything.

He can feel the unease growing in his chest as the train nears the Capitol. The thought of reporters buzzing around him—chattering, filming, laughing, gawking—makes him feel sick. He hates them. The way they dress, the way they speak, the way they make everything a show. Odi doesn't care about their weird games. He doesn't care about their shiny, grotesque entertainment. They can watch him fight, watch him die if they want to. But he will do it on his terms.

He will fight, but not for them. Not for anyone. He will fight for himself, for his siblings. To make sure his father's promises don't ring empty. To make sure someone—someone—will be home to keep everything together.

Odi can't afford to get attached to anyone. He can't be distracted or lash out like he wants to. Not now. Not when the odds are stacked so high against him.

He'll make it out. There's no other option.

x

Nishant sits in the lounge car, staring out the window at the darkness of the tunnel ahead. Their eyes flicker briefly to Elek, who is fidgeting across from them in an ornate wooden chair, drumming his fingers along the table. His relentless energy—always bouncing, always asking, always talking—is an annoying, gnawing presence.

Nishant learned the art of silence long before coming here. Ignoring their district partner is as easy as breathing.

"Hey! Nishant, do you think the Capitol's really as crazy as people say? What do you think about the outfits they wear? I heard there's gonna be a big ceremony! I think it'll be awesome. Do you think we'll be in matching clothes? Oh man, I bet we'll get the best stuff!" The words burst out of him in rapid fire, one after another, without a single pause for air.

Nishant's gaze remains fixed on the window. They don't answer, don't even acknowledge the boy. It's easier that way. Let him chatter. Let him exhaust himself. They aren't here to make friends or build connections. They are here to survive.

It's been a long ride from District Five. But the journey is nothing compared to the reality ahead. Nishant volunteered to take someone else's place, someone weaker, someone with no chance. Their intention was never to save someone from heading to the Games, but rather, to save themself from the strings that puppeteered their life for so long.

But they'd don't plan on relying on anyone else in the next few days, even if their mentor had made the mistake of suggesting otherwise within the first ten minutes of their 'strategy' talk yesterday.

Solenne—what a joke. She has no clue how to handle Nishant. Ever since boarding the train, their mentor's approach has been a mix of confusion and frustration, offering up advice like she's trying to teach a child how to hold a knife.

What she doesn't know is that Nishant knows their way around a blade.

Find allies? Team up with others? Play to the cameras? All suggestions that would mean death.

Allies mean weakness. Allies mean distraction. It means giving up control. Control that Nishant has finally begun to claw back. They work best alone, always had. Back in District Five, they didn't need anyone to help with their assignments. Elias certainly didn't think so. Why should the Games be any different? They can handle it themselves.

Muffled by the thick shadows of the tunnel outside, Nishant sits still, and for a fleeting second, they almost forget where they're heading towards. Almost. But the pressure of it all hangs heavy in their chest.

The train lurches and there's a spark of electricity beyond the window, a sudden jolt that breaks the monotony of their thoughts. They don't flinch. Instead, they focus on the new light that begins to illuminate the walls of the tunnel ahead. Nishant doesn't need to look to know what's coming.

The Capitol.

They take in a slow breath, adjusting the bulk of their thoughts. District Five might have been a hellhole, but at least it had been familiar. Now, it feels like a world they are no longer a part of. They're stepping into the unknown.

An unknown Nishant willingly chose.

The sun slams into them the moment the train exits the mountain pass. The brightness stings but there's no change in the train's speed. The Capitol sprawls out beyond a picturesque lake, the gleaming cityscape almost too surreal to believe. It's a jagged contrast to the barren landscape of their home, but that's the point, isn't it?

The Capitol exists to remind them of their insignificance. It's a lesson Ms. Elwes taught them many years ago.

Nishant's fingers smooth over the fabric covering their thighs, a faint tremor of adrenaline coursing through their veins. The train slows as they come around a bend, the city growing closer with every passing second, and their gaze narrows. There will be no hesitation once they step off the train. They aren't afraid of the Capitol, nor of what awaits in the arena. They are prepared for this. They always have been.

They don't know when it started—when they began to change. The first few cracks, Nishant didn't notice, or maybe they were too numb to care in the aftermath of losing their parents. Now, though, it's clear. Clear in the way they see the destruction, the wreckage they're leaving behind. Pieces of shattered lives—families Nishant's torn apart, people they've hurt, people who trusted them and never saw it coming.

The person they once were feels like someone else now, as distant as a memory from another lifetime.

Nishant looks in the mirror sometimes, just to remind themself of what's left. It's not much. There are the eyes, still the same, but with something else in them now—a darkness that wasn't there before Hyperion Solar.

The rest of Nishant feels like a stranger. Their hands, they tremble sometimes, like they can still feel the weight of everything they've done under Elias' orders. But Nishant has never asked for forgiveness and they don't plan on asking now.

Not when they're teetering over the edge of the tightrope that has been their life.

Nishant knows what they are. No, that's wrong. They know what they've become.

Certainly not a hero, not by a long shot, like some back in Five might think now. Heroes don't leave people broken in their wake, do they? They don't watch entire lives unravel and call it collateral damage. But somehow, here they are. Still breathing. Still awake when the world feels too heavy to bear, when Nishant can't sleep because the faces of the people they've hurt haunt their only escape from reality. But they're here. And that, in the end, is the only thing they have left.

Nishant doesn't wish for redemption—that would be foolish. They know they're beyond that. But every day that they make it through moving forward, no matter how awful it might feel, no matter how much Nishant will want to disappear, is a day they won't lose. And for now, that's enough. One more breath. One more heartbeat. That's all they can manage.

They'll survive. And surviving, in this world, feels like victory. Even if it's the only victory left that Nishant can claim.

The train screeches as it enters what Nishant assumes is a train station, and the sudden noise makes their grip on the armrest tighten. They don't look at Elek. Don't acknowledge their mentor. There is only the game ahead. The one they are going to win.

Making it out alive means doing it by themself.

The grandiose doors of the Capitol, the faceless people waiting to be entertained, welcomes them. Nishant watched the recaps last night: the commentators are all so sure that they're just another tribute, another piece to be manipulated into a show.

They have no idea who they truly are. No clue what Nishant's done—can't see the blood staining their hands.

Nishant exhales as they stand, steadying their posture, reminding themself that they volunteered for this. They chose this. The past, the manipulation, the control, the bodies they left behind back home...they're not here. They don't matter now.

All that matters is freedom.

Fingers curl into fists, and their eyes narrow. Nishant will show them. They'll show all of them. Not now, but when the spotlights turn off and darkness seeps into the arena. Nishant won't hesitate.

Not like back in Five.

And as the train slows to a halt, Nishant doesn't look away from the window, continues to stare past their partner jumping up and down in excitement, their escort waving as if she's the star of the show. Nishant doesn't flinch. They stand tall.

This is where it starts.

x

The train shudders to a halt, and the doors slide open with a hiss that sounds far too loud, far too final. The Capitol. It's all too much. It's everything and nothing at once. Marlowe's heard about it, seen it in the broadcasts, but nothing really prepares you for the truth of it. The flashing lights of cameras, the noise of a crowd that seems to come from every direction—it's like being thrust into the middle of a bullpen, where nothing is safe, and everything is overwhelming.

Marlowe tries to take a deep breath. Her shoes feel too tight, which is impossible considering her mother bought them specially new for this year's reaping. Heart racing in her chest, Marlowe stands to the side trying to avoid the crowd's attention.

Then she glances at him—Vakil. The boy Marlowe thought she knew. Back home, he was her neighbor, always with that easy smile, the one who'd wave when she passed his porch. He was the one who promised to help her. He said he'd take the letters to Summer, and Marlowe believed him. She believed in him. He was older and a bit rude to everyone else, but he seemed like the only one who understood, who wouldn't let Marlowe drown in her own nervous daydreams.

She trusted him.

Now, he's a shadow of the boy she once knew, just a horrible, mean stranger. He hasn't spoken to her since they boarded the train. Every time Marlowe tries, he shrugs her off, his eyes teasing and a bit scary, like he takes satisfaction in her hurt and confusion.

"Hey, Marlowe," he says, glancing at her with a smirk as they await the Peacekeepers to clear a walkway outside, his voice mocking. "Did Summer ever read those letters of yours? Or did you just write them to hear yourself think?"

Marlowe's stomach twists. She tries not to let it show on her face, but it's hard. The words feel like they're stabbing her—Did you ever give them to her? Did you ever tell her?

"You—" she starts, voice breaking before Marlowe can finish the sentence. "You said you'd...you'd deliver them...the letters." Her throat tightens as realization begins to settle in. He never did. He never gave them to her. Why would he lie?

Vakil's grin widens, and there's a cruel edge to it now. "Letters? Oh, I meant to," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I was a little busy, y'know? No time for that nonsense."

Marlowe stares at him, her vision blurry now. She feels like she's going to be sick. Her fingers clench the edges of her skirt, trying to anchor herself to something, anything. Why would you say something like that?

There's a new roar outside and Marlowe peeks out the doorway to see the Peacekeepers are motioning for their entourage to make their way down the steps. The Capitol station looms ahead, magnificent and grand, a far cry from the dust and dirt of Ten.

It's like something right out of her dreams.

Before Marlowe can find any more words to say to Vakil, he offers a mocking frown before turning to the mess of color and flashing cameras, throwing his arms wide and beginning his descent. Her heart pounds.

Marlowe wants to run. She wants to hide. But she can't. She couldn't at the reaping and she certainly can't now. Her legs feel like they're made of stone, too heavy to move. And then there's a gentle hand on her back, urging her forward.

"Marlowe, it's time," Luxandra says, but their escort's voice seems far away. "You have to go now."

Blinking rapidly, trying to clear her head, Marlowe steps into the daylight. But all she can think about are those letters—those precious letters she thought were her only chance to tell Summer the truth.

Marlowe forces herself to step down from the train, her feet moving without her brain telling them to. The cameras snap, the voices of the reporters blurring together. Her heart is pounding so loudly she can barely hear anything over it.

The people in the crowd...they look at Marlowe like she's a prize. A thing to gawk at and judge. It's like they're at one of the auction houses her father used to drag her to so he could scout livestock. She can imagine her parents watching from home, their expectations weighing heavily—perform, smile, be strong, act like William.

But all Marlowe can think about are those letters. Why didn't you give them to her, Vakil?

Marlowe can't stop the tears. She can't stop them from rushing down her face. It's like reaping all over again. She feels weak. Like a fool. And yet...she's so angry too. Angry at Vakil. Angry at herself for believing him. For trusting him when he never deserved it.

Wilder, her mentor, tries to hide her from the crowd, but there's not much that can be done to hide her sniveling self. Marlowe tries to duck her face, pressing hands to wet cheeks as if she can wipe away the shame.

Through the arch of the station's exit, a car waits by the curb, sleek with tinted windows. But the questions whirl in her mind, faster than she can catch them.

The car doors open, and Marlowe slips inside, breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Marlowe," Wilder starts, but she can't focus on his words. All she can hear is the steady thrum of her heartbeat and the unanswered question swirling in her chest: Why lie?

It feels like the answer is right there, just out of reach, but she can't grasp it. Not yet. Not when Vakil lounges back in his seat, all too pleased with himself. Not when the car wastes no time pulling onto the roadway even though Marlowe feels like she left her brain back on the train.

It wasn't just that Summer had said she didn't know about the letters. It was the way she said it. Like it was an afterthought. Like those carefully written words, folded and sealed with so much hope, had never existed at all.

Marlowe had kept track—twenty-four letters over the past two years. One given to Vakil on the fifteenth of each month. She'd written them when the silence between them stretched too long, when she couldn't stand the idea of Summer forgetting her. She didn't expect much, maybe just a word here and there, a small acknowledgment that someone cared enough to reach out.

But to hear Summer, her Summer, say she had never seen any of them—well, it hit Marlowe like a brick. She had poured so much into those letters, each one a little more desperate than the last, each one a quiet confession. But there was no recognition in Summer's eyes when they spoke at the reaping yesterday, no trace of familiarity. It was like Marlowe's words had never been sent at all.

And her final letter? The letter that was supposed to change everything, bring some kind of clarity, sits heavy in her pocket.

Maybe she had imagined it all—those years of friendship, the moments they shared when they crossed paths in town, the way her heart seemed to speed up every time Summer smiled at her.

Was it real? Or was she just fooling herself?

She had wanted to be brave, to take that final step and lay everything out for Summer to see, but now, Marlowe isn't sure what she was even walking toward anymore.

Maybe there will be a time to talk to Summer about everything, a time to explain, if she makes it out of the arena. But right now, it feels like those letters were just a dream, slipping further and further away, lost somewhere between the past and the future.

Welcome to pre-games!

It feels good to be back. Allegedly, I missed writing these freaks.